CHAPTER 9
CASSIE
Freshman year of college, I was plagued by a recurring anxiety dream. The damn thing tortured my sleeping brain at least once a week and it always went the same way. I’m staring at a small suitcase; behind it, there’s an entire wall with stacks and stacks of test answer booklets. Those thin, lined notebooks the profs hand out when you write exams. My task? I need to put the notebooks in the suitcase. All of them. I must make them all fit, no matter what. It is imperative they fit.
And somehow, by some miracle, I manage to jam all the booklets into the suitcase. The anxiety would then lift, my subconscious breathing a sigh of relief, and I’d think, Thank God, I’ve done it.
All good, right?
No. I then cart the suitcase into my English Lit lecture hall, where I need to give a presentation on a Brontë book. Not one written by Charlotte or Emily, but Anne. The lesser-known Brontë. I haven’t read the book—and yet that’s not what I’m stressed about? Go figure. Despite that, I nail the presentation.
All good, right?
No. Now I’m supposed to hand the suitcase to my professor. I pick it up and carry it toward him, and just as I reach the center of the room, the overstuffed case bursts open and its contents spill out. Except, for some inexplicable reason, all the notebooks are gone.
They’ve been replaced with naked pictures of me.
Now the entire floor of the lecture hall is covered in eight-by-ten photographs of my bare boobs and ass and lady bits. A sea of nudes.
And then I wake up.
I don’t know what that says about my psyche—or what I was watching on TV the first time I dreamed it—but that nightmare became imbedded in my subconsciousness like a rusty nail. I could expect it every week like clockwork, and I’d wake up every time feeling the burn of humiliation and a potent rush of insecurity.
I can honestly say that what I felt last night was a hundred times worse.
I have never propositioned a guy in my life.
And I never intend to do it again.
Because rejection is a bitch. It’s soul-sucking. Confidence-crushing. I cannot erase from my mind that uneasy look on Tate’s face. The flicker of panic in his eyes when I suggested a fling. The way he fidgeted when he told me he just wants to be friends.
Brutal.
Fucking brutal.
If I’d had a shovel on me, I would’ve dug a huge hole in the ground, gotten into it, and buried myself alive. Knowing my luck, though, the afterlife would end up being that nightmare lecture hall full of my nudes.
Now, I’m forced to repeat the whole story to Peyton, whose voice blares out of the car speakers as I drive over to my dad’s house for dinner.
“There’s no way it was the kiss,” Peyton insists.
She’s responding to the suspicion I’d just voiced: that Tate had kissed me, almost threw up in his mouth, and promptly decided he could never do it again.
“What other explanation is there?” I counter. “One minute we’re making out. Then he leaves for a few minutes and when he comes back, he tells me he wants to be platonic. That absolutely means he hated the kiss.”
“Not necessarily.” She pauses. “But if we were to play that theory out … were there any signs he didn’t like it? Did he try to pull away at any point?”
“No,” I groan. “If anything, he just came closer! And I swear he was hard. I felt him against my leg.”
“Hmmm. Okay?” She mulls it over. “Maybe he was drunker than you thought?”
“Gee, thanks, Peyton. So what you’re saying is, a man needs to be completely wasted to kiss me?”
“That’s not what I’m saying! But. Maybe he was drunk when he kissed you, and we both know people do impulsive things when they’re drinking, right? So hooking up could’ve seemed like a good idea to him in the moment, but then he sobered up a bit and everything he said afterward wasn’t some elaborate excuse. He really does want to do his own thing this summer and not hook up with anyone. And he really does think you’re awesome, is attracted to you, but doesn’t want to do anything to jeopardize the friendship. All of those things can be true at once.”
She’s right. But the bottom line remains the same: I propositioned Tate Bartlett and he said no.
“Honestly, it’s probably for the better. Remember my silver lining? Don’t spoil all subsequent prospects by flinging with a guy that’s too attractive. I shouldn’t have let myself forget that.” I purse my lips. “What I need to do is find myself, like, a seven. Maybe a six.”
“You are not flinging with a six.” She is utterly aghast. “Over my dead body. I’m willing to compromise and settle halfway between a six and a ten—Tate’s a ten, right?”
“Oh yeah,” I say miserably.
“Fine, then we’re aiming for an eight. Go out with Joy tomorrow to try to meet someone else and send pics so I can verify his eight-ness.”
“We’ll see. I might need to nurse this rejection for a little while first.” I turn onto Sycamore Way and slow down. “Anyway, just got to my dad’s. I’ll text you later.”
“All right. Love you, babe,” she chirps before disconnecting.
It’s so strange returning to my childhood home when I don’t even have my own bedroom there anymore. The twins usurped it because it’s larger than the other option, which Dad and Nia use as a guest room now. That’s where I sleep when I come to visit, ensuring my old house never quite feels like home anymore. Also, Nia redecorated the entire place not long after she moved in. Where my mom’s design eye lends itself to grays, creams, and whites and modern furnishings, Nia is all about bright colors. She loves mismatched furniture, pieces that offer a cozy rather than museum-like feel. I can’t deny I like Nia’s décor better.
I also can’t deny it stings that Dad’s new daughters sleep in my room.
Excited shrieks greet me in the front hall. Two dark-haired tornadoes spiral toward me, and then two sets of arms curl around my legs like greedy tentacles.
“Cassie!”
They’re both screaming my name as if they didn’t just see me in the spring. Honestly, it’s great for my ego. I give them an enthusiastic bear hug, but Monique is hopping around, so excited to see me, that she loses her footing and ends up teetering out of the three-way hug, falling to the floor onto her butt. Her sister Roxanne starts hooting with laughter.
I tug Mo to her feet. “Hey, squirts,” I say. “How’s life?”
“Life. Is. Awful,” announces Roxy, the ringleader of the two. Both my sisters possess sweet, lovable temperaments, but Roxanne is definitely bossier, always speaking in a more authoritative tone. She’s the elder by two minutes and takes that role very seriously. Even if she didn’t have that tiny birthmark on her left cheekbone that allows me to tell them apart, I’d know Roxy just based on her tone of voice.
“And why is it awful?” I ask, fighting a smile.
“You tell her,” Mo says, as if Roxy wasn’t going to do it anyway.
“Mama won’t get us a turtle.”
I stare at them. “A turtle?”
“Yes!” Roxy huffs loudly. “They promised we could have a turtle when we turned six and now we’re turning six and there’s no turtle.”
“There’s no turtle!” Monique echoes.
They’re wearing identical looks of outrage, and since their features are identical to begin with, their thunderous expressions give off some serious redrum vibes, a la The Shining.
“Like, a pet turtle?” I’m still perplexed. “Wait a second. You guys are campaigning for a pet and you chose a turtle? Man, I would’ve killed for a dog growing up.”
“We don’t care for dogs,” Roxy says, sniffing. “They’re waaay too much work.”
“And we’d have to pick up poo,” Mo adds. “That is so gross.”
“So gross.” Roxy peers up at me, her brown eyes twinkling impishly. “Did you know the French word for poo is merde?”
I smother a laugh. I’m pretty sure the correct translation is shit. Either way there’s something hilarious about hearing the word merde exit the mouth of a six-year-old.
The most delicious smells float out of the kitchen, so I wander toward it with the twins scampering at my heels. Neither Dad nor Nia is anywhere to be found, but I notice there’s something baking in the oven, and several pots and pans simmering on the stove.
The big, airy kitchen was the first room Nia renovated when she moved in, changing the tiled floor to hardwood, painting the white cabinets a bright eggshell blue. She replaced the marble island for a cedar one, claiming she didn’t like the way marble feels beneath her hands. She told Dad the counters were cold and unfeeling and made her sad. I didn’t know counters could have that much of an impact on a person, but I suppose she’s not wrong. Mom’s aesthetic did lean toward cold and unfeeling.
Beyond the kitchen is the sunroom, which also doubles as the dining room, its entire wall of windows overlooking the spacious backyard. I peer into it, but it’s empty.
“Where are the folks?” I ask, just as footsteps thud behind us.
“There’s my girl!” Dad appears in the kitchen doorway, wearing khakis and a flannel shirt. “All my girls!” he adds, noticing the twins who are still bouncing around me. “C’mere, Cass. Give your old man a hug.”
I go over and let him envelop me with his arms. Dad’s not a tall man, but he’s stocky and has some bulk, so his hugs always make you feel safe and warm.
His eyes shine behind his wire-rimmed glasses when he releases me. “Sorry I didn’t get to see you this week. Just been busy around here.”
“No worries. You know I love spending time with Grandma.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here tonight. And I know you’re excited to spend the summer with Lydia, but we were hoping you’d come stay here too.”
“Yes!” Roxy says happily, throwing her arms around my legs again. “Then you can tell us bedtime stories every night.”
“Every single night!” Mo gives an enthusiastic nod.
“I want one now,” Roxy begs. “I wanna know what happens to Kit!”
“Me too!”
The request makes me smile. It’s become sort of a tradition that I read the girls a bedtime story whenever I’m here, but these last couple years I’ve been entertaining them with an ongoing original tale. I pulled it out of my ass one time when we couldn’t pick a book they both agreed on, and before I knew it I’d created an entire imaginary world for them, in which a little girl named McKenna finds a dragon egg in her backyard and proceeds to raise a pet dragon she names Kit, without anyone in her family catching on.
“What do you say?” Dad presses. “Can you swing a longer visit this summer? Stay for a week? Or maybe a weekend here and there?” he trails off, a bit uncertain.
“Definitely,” I assure him. “Nia’s okay with that?”
“Of course she is. She loves having you here.”
Doubtful. But I never voice my suspicions about Nia’s level of enthusiasm toward me, especially not to Dad. Peyton’s psychiatrist mother would call it a coping mechanism, and I suppose it is. Whether I’m talking to my mom or my dad, I always put on that bright, sunny show. It’s not just because I hate conflict—I’ve been burned too many times in the past with Dad shutting down. The brunt of it happened right after the divorce, whenever I tried talking to him about my feelings. He didn’t even fight for joint custody of me, for Pete’s sake. He let Mom have it all. And I never got answers for that, only uncomfortable silences and stilted smiles as he changed the subject.
As the memories surface before I can stop them, I swallow the lump clogging my throat and then take a breath, firmly banishing the resentment to that place inside of me where all the dark thoughts go.
My father is a good guy, he truly is. I know he loves me. But sometimes it feels like he wanted to wash his hands of everything after the divorce. He wanted zero reminders of my mother, and, unfortunately, I was the biggest reminder of all. Hence, I became collateral damage.
And to Nia, I’m a reminder of her husband’s bitchy ex-wife, which is why her smile seems forced and her hug lacks warmth when she greets me a few minutes later.
“Cassandra,” she says, her dark eyes guarded. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Good to see you too. Can I help with dinner?”
“Non, non.” She still has a noticeable French accent despite all her years living in the US. “Why don’t you go sit at the table and catch up with your father and sisters? I have it handled.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
She’s practically shoving me out of the kitchen. Not exactly the actions of a woman who’s desperate to spend time with her stepdaughter.
In the sunroom, Dad and I settle at the dining table while the twins wander around us, running their little fingers over the backs of all the chairs. Those two can’t sit still to save their lives.
“We told Cassie about the turtle,” Roxy informs Dad.
He’s clearly fighting a smile. “Oh, did you now? Why am I not surprised?” He glances at me. “The girls have alerted every single human they’ve encountered this past month to their desperate need for a turtle.”
“Because we need a turtle!” Roxy complains.
“And it’s not fair,” Mo chimes in.
I arch a brow at Dad. “Just out of curiosity, why are we anti-turtle?”
“We’re not,” he answers, shrugging. “But pets are a lot of work. We’re not convinced the girls are grown up enough to handle all the responsibility that comes with it.”
“Yes, we are!” they both shriek, and stomp their feet, basically proving the point he’s trying to make.
Dad and I wince. “Indoor voices,” he chides. “And we’re going to table this turtle discussion for now, all right? Your mama and I said no turtle. We can revisit it next year.”
Their faces collapse.
Knowing that tears are imminent, Dad snaps into action. He glances around the table with an exaggerated look of dismay and proceeds to do that thing I’ve seen him do a thousand times before, where he pretends there’s a critical task that needs undertaking. Usually it’s a pretty impressive trick, but tonight he’s reaching.
“Oh no!” he exclaims. “We only put out the red napkins. We also need the white ones!”
“Oh, do we?” I say innocently.
He shoots me a look. “Yes, Cassandra. You know this. We must always dine with both red and white,” he says poetically, laying it on thick. “To go with the wine.”
I choke down a laugh. “Right. How could I forget that.”
“We’ll get them!” Roxy offers, just as Dad had intended for her to do. The girls are in that phase where they must be involved in all household matters.
“I’ll help!” Mo chimes in.
“Oh wonderful. Thanks, girls.” His tone oozes gratitude, as if he didn’t just con them into doing his bidding.
The moment the sliding door closes, I stare at my father. “One: That was really smooth.”
“Thank you.”
“Two: You realize next to a goldfish, a turtle is the easiest pet you can have, right? And those things never die, so there’s no risk of you flushing it down the toilet and replacing it with a thousand other goldfish like you did with mine.”
Dad chortles. “Man, you were a clueless kid, Cass. I think we were on Rocky Fifteen before you figured it out?”
“Why would my child brain ever immediately go to my fish died, so my parents drowned his corpse and keep replacing him with impostors?” I glare in accusation. “Parents who do that are sociopaths.”
“Sure, come talk to me when you have kids and your hamster accidentally gets eaten by a red-tailed hawk. Would you rather your child live in ignorance and love an impostor hamster, or do you plan on sharing all the gory details? And I’m talking gory.”
“Oh my God, Dad, did that happen to you? Did a hawk eat your hamster?”
“Yes.” He sounds glum. “And Grandpa Lou sat me down and gave me a play-by-play of his death. I’m sure if he’d taken pictures of the carnage, he would’ve showed them to me.”
I bust out laughing. Oh man. Dad’s father was the greatest. It honestly sucks that I lost both my grandfathers within a couple years of each other. But at least my grandmothers are still alive and kicking.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Dad says. His gaze flicks toward the kitchen. “I wouldn’t mind getting a turtle. I think they’re cool. But Nia isn’t having it. She insists they’re a lot more work than we think.”
“Maybe there’s a certain breed that’s easier to own than others,” I point out. “Did you even research it?”
“No.”
“Did Nia?”
“I don’t think so. She just shot down the idea point-blank. Told the girls we’ll talk about it next year.” Dad purses his lips for a moment. Mulling. “You think I should get them one?”
“Not necessarily. But I don’t think it hurts researching the pros and cons.” Crap. This isn’t going to endear me in Nia’s eyes. She already doesn’t like me. But I feel like I owe it to my sisters to advocate for their dreams of turtle ownership. “I mean, it can’t hurt, right? The least you can do is go to a pet store and talk to someone about it.”
“Yeah. I suppose we could do that.” One corner of his mouth quirks up, and then his eyes start twinkling. “Whatcha doing tomorrow morning?”
“Um.” I offer a pointed look. “Potential turtle shopping?”
“Damn right.”
We both snicker, exchanging secretive smiles when Nia and the twins return and we all settle around the table for dinner. It makes me feel like a little kid again, sharing a secret with my father. It’s rare to have these bonding opportunities with him, where we’re truly connecting without the heavy pall of my mother or Nia hanging over us. Those rare times when it’s just us, me and him. The way it used to be when I was a child and he was my dad. When he didn’t have two other kids, or two different wives who both can’t stand to be around me.
I cling to those moments, because they’re so few and far between.