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Refusing to waste the chance at escaping, I spin on my heel to hustle towards the door. Just as I complete my turn, I look up to see a man, one that I’ve never seen before, standing face to face with me, but it’s too late. My feet are already in motion and my body doesn’t stop until it collides into his. On impact, I spill part of my iced latte down the front of his plaid button-down shirt. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” I exclaim, stepping back to survey the damage.
“Dammit. Watch where you’re going.” He growls through gritted teeth, with anger flashing in his eyes.
I swallow hard and turn towards the counter to gather napkins and help cleanup the mess I created. Just as I secure a handful, I turn and watch him storm out the front door. His face reddens as he makes his way down the sidewalk and disappears out of sight.
I watch, flabbergasted, as he makes his dramatic exit, unsure of how a little bit of spilled coffee could create such a problem.
Ladies and gentlemen, I believe I’ve just met the asshole of Fawn Creek.
Chapter 2
I park my car at the end of the driveway in front of my childhood home, still in a strange haze from whatever just took place in the coffee shop. I wish I had the slightest clue what made that guy storm off and disappear the way he did. When I walked out the front door of the shop, I looked for any possible sign of him to make another attempt at my apology, but he was long gone. What a weird interaction over a little bit of spilled coffee.
Rather than going directly inside and putting myself into yet another uncomfortable situation, I decide to sit and savor my coffee for a few moments longer. I’m already going to be in hot water for taking so long to get here, so there’s really no point in rushing now. I certainly can’t take my coffee inside with me. That will just give my mother further ammunition to use against me. Through the windshield, I study my childhood home. Not much has changed since I lived here. In fact, not much has changed here since the day I was born. The humble two-bedroom house sits in the middle of a quiet neighborhood, just a few blocks from downtown Fawn Creek. Like most of the houses on the block, the craftsman style bungalow is covered in white vinyl siding that appears to have been recently pressure washed. (One of my dad’s favorite hobbies.) The rest of the exterior is pretty plain, but neat. The original metal windows are still in place, flanked by gray vinyl shutters. Flowerbeds run the entire face of the home filled with lush green shrubbery. I recall, my mother bought those plants on clearance at the hardware store one summer when I was a kid. I never imagined they would have stayed alive all these years, but here they are, with the fresh red mulch that my dad replaces every spring like clockwork.
I make my way up the brick sidewalk and pull open the screen door, pausing for a second to take a deep breath. It’s no secret that my mother and I have never had a great relationship. I’ve had a long life of walking on eggshells whenever I’m around her, and I don’t see that changing after all these years. While it has gotten better since I moved out, it’s nowhere near perfect. This is precisely why I moved away immediately following my high school graduation. By creating some distance between my parents and myself, I fully believe I did the best possible thing for our relationship. As soon as I cross the threshold into their living room, I confirm I was correct to feel anxious about today’s reunion.
“Really, Tyler?” My mother stands from her spot on the couch, crossing her arms over her chest with a scowl as I enter the room.
Immediately, my heart picks up speed, as I rack my brain trying to figure out what I did wrong this time. Honestly, this could be something that happened today, or something that happened when I was seven. You really never know how far Lisa is searching back in her Rolodex. I have to hand it to her. No matter how old she gets, her memory is still quite astounding.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she huffs. “Like you don’t know exactly what I’m talking about.” Her face lands in a hard glare as she narrows her eyes at me.
Shit. Did someone call and tell her I was at the coffee shop when I was supposed to come straight here?
I stammer nervously, “I… I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Her face reddens with anger. “I can’t believe you stood at the graveside of my mother’s funeral and did not shed a single tear. You just stood there the entire time with your head in the clouds like a teenage girl daydreaming about boys and shopping.” She grumbles, pointing at me across the living room. “You looked like it bored you out of your mind and you wanted to be anywhere but there. As if it’s not enough that I have to make excuses for your boyfriend not showing up. Now, I have to make excuses for your lack of feeling surrounding your grandmother’s death? It was insulting and so embarrassing, especially considering how much Hazel loved you.”
“Woah.” I put my hand up as if to stop her unwarranted verbal attack. “That is not fair. Mom, you know damn well that I loved Grandma Hazel more than anything on this earth. You know that, Dad knows that, everyone that means anything to me knows that.” I spit out, crossing my arms across my chest. “That’s all that matters. Who cares what anyone else thinks?” Unfortunately, I’m used to this song and dance when it comes to her. My mother has a bad habit of worrying too much about how others perceive her and our family.
“You could have at least pretended.” She debates as though she has a leg to stand on.
“You’re kidding right?” I yell, throwing my arms in the air. “You’re mad because I didn’t fake cry at my grandmother’s funeral so that people wouldn’t think poorly of me? You are unbelievable.” I huff and plop down on the couch with a scowl.
Just then, a ringing doorbell interrupts our argument. Mom’s face loses all of its color once she realizes her screaming was likely overheard by a person on the other side of the door.
“I hope whoever that is didn’t hear your little outburst.” She threatens behind gritted teeth, as though I’m the only one to blame. Swiftly, she moves across the room towards the door. She takes a deep breath and then smooths her skirt before opening the door. “Pauline, hello!” She says, wearing her best fake smile.
I roll my eyes at the complete personality change that took place right before my eyes. Not that this is the first time I’ve witnessed such a thing. After a polite exchange with Pauline, Mom steps back into the room with a casserole dish in her hands, shutting the door behind her. She doesn’t take her eyes off me as she makes her way across the room to deposit the casserole into the kitchen, almost like a silent warning that she isn’t done with me yet. Naturally, I take this as an opportunity to seek refuge in my father’s den.
I poke my head around the doorway, confirming that this is indeed where he’s hiding, before slipping into the room. He’s facing the wall, bent over a folding table, and tinkering with a gun, per usual, when I interrupt him. He turns to acknowledge my arrival and I giggle out loud at the headlamp that’s strapped to his forehead.
“Hey sweetheart.” He says, while the light blinds me. “What’s so funny?” he teases, as I dramatically shield my eyes.
Boy, what a difference it is when you change rooms in this house. While my mother is more rigid and stern, my father is more lighthearted.
“I just wasn’t quite expecting the headgear.” I say, plopping down in a nearby recliner, feeling my body sink into the worn leather like it has done so many times over the past 28 years.
“Well, you know. Ever since my only flashlight holder moved away, I have had to come up with some new methods.” He chuckles, his belly jiggles, and adds to the joke more than he intended it to, I’m sure.
“I can’t believe Mom let you keep this chair.” I change the subject, fingering a piece of duct tape on one armrest. My favorite photo of the two of us was taken in this chair. I was seven years old, and I had just finished filling my dad’s hair with pink and purple butterfly clips. Next, I climbed into his lap and demanded that he read “Where the Wild Things Are” to me over and over until I fell asleep. Mom snapped the perfect photo of me with my legs crossed, reclining on dad’s chest while he sported his new fancy hairdo. That photo currently resides on my mantle at home and is one of my most prized possessions.
He scoffs. “Let me? I’m going to be buried in that chair.”
I raise a brow, knowing better.
“And I can keep it until I die as long as it stays in my den where no one but me will ever see it.”
