CHAPTER 32
CASSIE
Me: You okay?
Me: Tonight was brutal.
Me: I don’t even know what to say.
I stop texting after the trifecta, because no matter how upset I am, I refuse to become a person who texts in one-liners.
My heart jumps when I see Tate typing back. I’ve been dying to talk to him since I got home, but he had his own shit to deal with. His own parental confrontations. I would’ve killed to be a fly on the wall when Tate spoke to his parents, especially his dad. I need to know Gavin’s side of the sordid story, because I don’t trust a damn word my mother says.
As I wait for Tate’s message to appear, I stare up at the ceiling, wishing he were here with me. It’s eleven o’clock and I doubt I’ll be getting so much as a wink of sleep. My brain keeps running over every word that was uttered tonight. Every horrible, horrible word. I could use the distraction. But Tate is home with his parents, and I assume he’ll be spending the night there.
Tate: Yeah, that was rough. How are you doing?
He was typing for so long, I expected more. But I guess it’s better than nothing.
Me: I don’t even know. Is your mom okay?
Tate: Not really. She hasn’t said much since we got home. Just been quiet. We’re about to take the dogs for a walk.
Me: This late?
Tate: She doesn’t feel like going to bed yet.
There’s a beat. Then another message.
Tate: Dad’s crashing on a friend’s couch.
Fuck. Guilt lodges in my throat like a wad of gum. I know that I, personally, didn’t do this to his family, but I feel responsible, complicit in my mother’s actions.
Gavin cheated too …
Right. I have to acknowledge that too. Not all the blame can be placed on my mother; Tate’s father was equally responsible. And I doubt I’ll ever know the real story about who initiated the affair, because cheaters tend to twist the truth to portray themselves in the best possible light. I’m not sure I envision Gavin as the seductive rogue who wooed my mother into his bed. But I can’t entirely picture her seducing him either. Mom might be charming, but she’s never been a flirt or a, well, bimbo.
I suspect as with most situations the truth is somewhere in the middle.
Either way, tonight left hurricane-scale damage on both our families. Grandma and I sat together in the kitchen for more than an hour after we got home. She was candid with me, admitting how disappointed she’d always been in her youngest daughter. Mom hadn’t experienced any traumatic events in her childhood that made her this way—she was just spoiled. She was the baby, the youngest of four. Grandma didn’t explicitly blame Grandpa Wally—she would never speak an ill word about him—but after our talk tonight, I get the sense he was the one who did most of the spoiling.
But spoiling your kid isn’t a reason for someone to become as callous and entitled as my mother, not reason alone anyway. Some people are just born assholes, I guess.
Grandma said we’d talk about it more tomorrow, but really, what is left to say? I want nothing to do with my mother. For the time being, and possibly longer. The way she was smirking over her champagne tonight as she destroyed another woman’s marriage was despicable. One of the cruelest things I’ve ever witnessed.
Tate: I wish I was in bed with you right now.
Me: Me too. Will I see you tomorrow?
Tate: Yeah. Gil and Shirley return on Sunday so I gotta head back and clean the house from top to bottom.
I can’t believe the summer’s over. I leave for Boston on Monday. And my relationship with Tate still hangs in the balance, unresolved. Except, now I realize there might never be a resolution. Whether we keep seeing each other or not, our families are now intrinsically intertwined. Forever.
But we’re not our parents, I remind myself. We’re not. I would never judge Tate for his father’s actions, and I know he wouldn’t judge me for what my mother’s done. I’m hoping this doesn’t change us. If it does, I can’t be certain my heart will survive.
Tate: I’ll call you in the morning. Night, Cass.
Me: Night.
I set the phone on the nightstand and crawl under the covers, but sleep eludes me. It simply won’t come. My thoughts are running and running around in my head in an unceasing loop.
Mom got pregnant by Tate’s dad.
And my father knew it wasn’t his baby, which raises so many more questions. Did Dad know it was Gavin Bartlett’s or think it was some anonymous man? And does it matter? Either way, Dad knew she was having an affair. He knew what kind of shitty person she was. And he still let me go live with her. He let me be alone with her from the age of ten to eighteen. Eight years of her attention solely focused on me. Her verbal punching bag. How could he do that?
I’m suddenly hit by a gust of anger. Sleep is all but forgotten. It all spills out, all the things I want to say to him, all the questions plaguing my mind, and it pushes me out of bed, because you know what? I’m done. I’m done bottling it up. Done not voicing my feelings. Vocalizing my needs, as Tate likes to say. I’m fucking done.
I don’t bother changing, just head downstairs in my plaid shorts and gray T-shirt. As quietly as I can, I walk to the front hall and stick my feet in a pair of Grandma’s gardening Crocs. Then I grab her keys and go out to the car.
It’s 12:10 when I pull into the driveway of my childhood home. I stare at it through the Rover’s windshield, my throat closing up. I love this house. I grew up here. My dad was here. And although I know the affair wasn’t the sole reason for the divorce—they were already discussing separation by then—my mother was still the cause. The way she treated people, the way she treated him, that’s what ended their marriage. But it didn’t have to end my relationship with him. He didn’t have to passively stand by and let her take me.
He could have fought for me.
I fling open the car door and jump out, heart pounding as I march toward the porch and then—
And then nothing. I halt, suddenly furious again. At myself. Because what the hell am I doing? There are two sleeping six-year-olds in there. It’s midnight. If I storm in and start making demands on my dad right now, I’m no better than my mother causing a scene at the Beacon Hotel’s grand reopening. Making it all about herself.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I slowly turn and walk back to the Rover. I’ll come back in the morning. It’s what I should have done in the first place.
When I reach the car, I hear a soft voice say my name.
“Cassandra?”
It’s Nia.
My stomach drops. Fucking hell. No. Not her. I can’t do this right now. I just can’t.
But she’s already striding toward me, wearing white slippers and a red robe, the sash tied haphazardly around her midsection. Her tight curls are loose around her face, and there’s no mistaking the concern that fills her dark eyes when she notices my tear-streaked face.
“Are you all right?” Nia frets, and for some reason the question unleashes a fresh onslaught of tears.
“No,” I moan and then I throw myself into her arms.
They weren’t outstretched, weren’t inviting me in, but the moment I’m there she wraps them around me, hugging me without hesitation. I shudder in her arms, crying uncontrollably. Gasping for air and feeling like my entire world has just crumbled around me, like I’m ten years old again and my parents are getting divorced and Daddy is telling me I can’t live with him anymore but don’t worry I’ll see you all the time, Cass.
“He lied,” I choke out, as the tears continue to fall. “He didn’t see me all the time.”
“What?” Nia says in confusion.
“He let her have me. After the divorce. He promised nothing would change and everything changed.” If I had the ability to think coherent thoughts right now, I know I would be mortified. But I’m too distraught, sobbing in her arms as we stand there in the driveway. As Nia, the stepmother who doesn’t even like me, provides me with the comfort that neither of my parents have been capable of giving me my entire life.
“I had to live with that woman, and he knows what it was like living with her. But he got rid of her, he got to leave. I didn’t have that luxury, did I? I had to keep living with her, keep listening to all the ways I wasn’t fucking good enough. And meanwhile he gets to stay here in my house,” I spit out. It’s a half growl, half sob. “With his new kids and their mother. Their perfect fucking mother.”
I bury my face against her bosom and shake from my tears. She holds me tighter and runs her hand over my back, strokes my hair, and that only makes it worse because it’s what a mother is supposed to do. And that makes me cry harder.
Somehow, I manage to lift my head even though it feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.
“I wish you were my mom,” I tell her, my voice barely above a whisper.
And then it finally happens—the mortification kicks in, in the form of a panic attack that knocks me off my feet. It all bubbles over and I can’t breathe. I’ve never had a panic attack before, the kind where you’re hyperventilating. Suddenly I’m on the ground, the gravel biting into my bare knees. I gulp for air, crying and panting and avoiding Nia’s worried eyes because I can’t believe I just said that to her.
She’s kneeling beside me now. “Breathe,” she orders. “Breathe, Cassandra. Look at me.”
I look at her.
“Do what I’m doing. Take a very deep breath. Inhale. Ready?”
I inhale.
“Good. Now exhale.”
I exhale.
For the next couple of minutes, she helps me remember how to breathe. In and out, in and out, until my heartbeat has regulated and my hands are no longer numb.
“I’m so sorry,” I croak. I glance toward the house, realizing the porch light is on. I catch a glimpse of movement in the living room window. Was that my father? “Did I wake up the whole house?”
“Non, non, you didn’t.”
“How did you know I was outside?”
“The doorbell camera sends an alert to my phone. It woke me up, but your father was still asleep.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to barge in. Something just happened tonight, and…” I trail off.
“Is everything all right? Your grandmother?”
“It’s fine. She’s fine.” I inhale again. “We were at the grand reopening of our family hotel, and…” I shake my head, a bitter laugh sliding out. “Well, long story short, my mother decided to announce to the entire ballroom that she had an affair with my boyfriend’s father when I was ten.”
Nia’s eyes widen. “Oh.”
“According to her, Dad knew about the affair.” I study my stepmother’s face. “Did he tell you about it?”
After a beat, she nods. “He told me, yes. But I don’t believe he knew who the other man was.”
“I don’t think he knew. Tate’s mom didn’t know about my mom.” God. This is such a twisted mess. “It was so embarrassing, you have no idea. I was looking at Mom and she was this total stranger to me. Getting enjoyment out of it. My whole life, I’ve just wanted a mom. And tonight I realized that’s never going to happen. Not with her.” I give Nia a sad smile. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not your kid. You don’t need to be sitting out here in the middle of the night comforting me.”
Nia’s tone becomes stern. “I may not have birthed you, Cassandra, but I certainly view you as a daughter.”
“Bullshit.” Then I wince. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to swear.”
She laughs quietly. “Don’t worry, every day the word merde gets spoken in this house more times than I can count. And it’s not bullshit. I admit, I’ve kept my distance over the years. Not because I didn’t consider you a part of the family or didn’t love you.” She hesitates. “Your mother is … difficult.”
“No, really?”
We both laugh.
“I figured that’s what it was,” I admit. “That you kept your distance because of her. But I’m not her. And I’m not like her. At all.”
“You’re not,” Nia confirms. “But there is much you don’t know, chérie. When your father and I became lovers—”
I choke on another laugh. “Please don’t say it like that.”
“What should I say then?”
“Say … got together.”
Her eyes sparkle. “When your father and I got together, your mother was very unhappy. She didn’t have nice things to say to me, or about me, at the beginning. There were many warnings, including what would happen if I tried to take her daughter from her or speak badly of her when you were around. There was a meeting with the judge—”
Shock slams into me.
“She was threatening to take away your father’s visitation.” Nia sighs. “You were twelve when Clayton and I got together, and she told the judge she didn’t want her ex-husband’s bimbo—I had to look up that word in the dictionary—she didn’t want me brainwashing her daughter into hating her. There was a mediation session, and for the first year I wasn’t even allowed to be alone with you.”
I gasp. What in the actual fuck? “I had no idea.”
“I know. We didn’t tell you. And keeping a distance became a habit for me, I suppose. But I’ve been watching you grow up all these years, and I think you are a wonderful young woman. So creative, with your stories, and your humor. I’m very proud of you.”
“Then why don’t you want me around my sisters?” The wounded question slips out before I can stop it.
She looks alarmed. “Why do you say that?”
“You’ve always been so protective of them when I’m around. Like you don’t trust me to be around them. Last month, after Monique fell, you looked so furious and—”
“I was very furious,” Nia interrupts. “With Monique!” She’s flustered now. “That girl knows better than to climb on furniture! I told you before we left that night how much it was upsetting me.”
She did tell me. But, I suddenly realize, when you think someone doesn’t like you, everything they say becomes warped. Every look becomes distorted. Her eyes might transmit aggravation with Monique’s disobedience, but my eyes see condemnation. Her tone might convey concern, but I hear accusation. I made it all about myself, and I’m ashamed when I realize that’s something my mother would do.
“I thought you didn’t want me around. Dad too.”
“Your father? Never. Your father loves you, Cassandra. You’re all he ever talks about.”
A lump forms in my throat. “Really?”
“There isn’t a day that goes by in this house where your name isn’t spoken,” Nia says. “He loves you very much.”
“He never tells me that.”
“Do you ever tell him how you feel?”
“No, but is it just my responsibility?”
“No,” she agrees. “And this is why we will go inside now, so you can speak to him.”
“You said he was asleep.”
“When I got up, yes. But he’s awake now.” She nods toward the kitchen window. “I signaled for him to give us a minute when he came outside.”
“He came outside?”
“Yes. When you were … being sad.”
Being sad. Understatement of the year.
“I suspect he’s preparing the tea you like. And I would like you to say to him all the things you just said to me. Why don’t we go inside and do that?”
I hesitate.
She brushes driveway gravel off her knees and gets to her feet. “Cassandra?” She extends her hand.
I take it and let her help me up. But the doubts are returning, the old insecurities whipping up and making me bite my lip. “If you like me, why do you always call me Cassandra?”
“That’s your name, oui?”
“Oui—I mean, yes. But … everyone else calls me Cassie or Cass and you never do. I thought it meant something. Like maybe you were being intentionally formal because you didn’t like me.”
Her lips curve with humor. “Not at all. I just think it’s a beautiful name. Cas-san-dra. I enjoy the way it rolls off my tongue.”
I swallow my laughter. Of course she does.
The human brain is so ridiculous sometimes. It creates these elaborate intentions for people, attributes motives, when at the end of the day, she just likes how my name rolls off her tongue.