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She added a few lip curls and pelvis twitches that made me laugh even harder. This time she joined me.
Once we recovered, I said, “I don’t love Declan anymore, but I don’t want to hurt him, either. I just want him to get help and leave me alone. As far as not telling Jonas, I don’t want him to be with me out of pity.”
Mary nodded. From her expression, I could tell she didn’t agree with me, but I also knew she would respect it. She did this by not saying another word, both of us diving into her sociology coursework instead.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
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Over the lastfew days I had found myself on a crash course through Mary’s sociology master’s degree program. I had forgotten how much researching went into the mere selection of a quote for a paper. Her jam-packed schedule made the days full and occupied my mind. I needed the distraction since I still hadn’t heard from Jonas after my love grenade.
“You’re up already?” Mary asked.
This was quickly becoming our morning routine, though I had only been at her place for three days. I would get up at dawn to go run, and she would grouch about it. Her apartment was in a renovated Victorian house and her small section on the bottom front was cozy. Any movements on the creaky wooden floorboards blared like a foghorn—at least to Mary. Not to mention the fact that she was a light sleeper, something that had irritated me as her college roommate. Waking her up had always required an explanation, even if it was something as mundane as “my feet were cold so I opened my dresser to get socks. Go back to sleep.” Her drowsily turning over after said offerings was the only reward.
I loved Mary, but I couldn’t wait to return home this afternoon. I missed being in my own space. I missed New York.
Mary alternated between concerns and disappointed looks, while we worked on her papers. She’d ask on a loop, “Why did you stay with Declan?” Of course, none of my reasons were ever good enough. This scrutiny was exactly why I had hidden what he did to me from her and my parents. How many ways could I say I gave him chances because I loved him and believed he loved me? My reasons gave her only more room for debate, as she drilled home how wrong I had been and what I should have done. The only break I found from her inquiry into my psyche was running.
“I’ll be back in half an hour or so,” I announced.
I crept around the room, changing out of my Conan O’Doyle T-shirt into a pair of borrowed jogging sweatpants and a winter fleece jacket. I made a quick, messy piled bun of my hair, and did a few stretches. I grabbed my phone and made it out the door before Mary had a second wind grumble.
The freezing chill of the air hit me in the face as I ran down Beacon Street. Boston was under an arctic nor’easter. A few feet of snow lined my path along the streets. My insides warmed as I ran up Kirkland and then on to Francis Avenue toward Harvard Yard. The redbrick and stone buildings, perfectly situated trees, and awing specialty shops along the square made everything in Cambridge picturesque. I missed Massachusetts, my home.
My mind raced along with my pace, as I thought about my parents and their deaths. When my mind caught up, I realized I had auto-piloted to the MTA subway at the Square. I needed to see something. I purchased a pass and took the Redline train to Quincy Center. I knew I wasn’t going to Hancock Cemetery, where my parents were buried, or the elementary school where my mother had taught, though, I would need to speak with Ms. Parker about the Salomé Legacy program soon. No. Right now, I was heading home.
Or what had been my home, I thought somberly, as I exited the subway and headed above ground to Quincy. A mile run had me rounding Franklin in no time. Steadying my pace, I slowed down and stopped before the two-story yellow brick colonial house on Franklin Street. The stonework was still the same, as were the large windows with black plantation shutters. Even the rose bushes planted by my mother were there, though now made barren by winter. The house looked inviting, but empty. Just like me.
A memory drifted before me as I stood there, as if it was imprinted in the house. It was a memory I would have stopped if I could.
I’m standing on the last step of our polished mahogany staircase in our small foyer. I’m staring at my mother, her long, black wavy hair foaming around her face and brushing her shoulders. She’s wearing my father’s favorite sky blue V-neck blouse, the one that enhances her curves. In her hands is a floral Hermes’s scarf to cover up. I laugh, knowing my dad would likely hide that. Her wide blue eyes were filled, threatening to spill over.
“Don’t cry, Mom. It’s only dinner. I’ll be here the rest of the weekend,” I say, wiping the smudged mascara under our shared large, silvery eyes.
“But you’re always working now. You don’t come up here enough,” she replies.
I glance over her shoulder and saw my father, looking impeccable in a dark grey wool suit. His short grey hair perfectly parted. His mustache groomed and trimmed, He’s handsome and flawless.
He juts his chin at me as his dark eyes scan me from head to toe. “Ever the vagabond.” He tugs my messy ponytail. “What are we going to do with you, Tiger Lily?”
I lower my gaze and pull my hair down. “I’m going to the salon on Monday.”
“That’s Monday. How about doing something about it today?” He tucks my hair behind my ears. “Your mother is right. We barely see you anymore.”
I sigh. “I was here two weeks ago.”
“But that was for the Stevenson’s fundraiser,” My mother says.
I bit my lip.” I can’t come up every week.”
“This isn’t like you, Lily. Is this because of him? You can bring him up here. What was his excuse for not coming this time?” He smirks. My mother groans.
“His name is Declan, Dad. He has his business to run. I told you. He was too busy to come….”
My father snorts. “But he can drive from New York to pick you up from here?” He turns his head toward my mother. “Now he has her making up excuses for him.”
“Leave her alone, Randall,” She scolds.
