Catherine
Catherine?” Mrs. Mason called from outside my door. A soft knock followed.
I sat up and rubbed my eyes, confused for a moment.
“Um . . . yes?”
“It’s the first day of Christmas break, so I made waffles.”
“Waffles?” I sat up, inhaling the aroma of flour, yeast, and warm maple syrup mixed with the new odors of paint and carpet and the old smells wafting from my clothes in the closet.
I stumbled from the bed and opened the door, wearing a ratty white T-shirt and gray sweatpants.
Becca was standing on the other side wearing black-framed glasses, a powder-blue robe, pink pajamas, and fluffy slippers. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun, brunette strands sticking out.
“Waffles,” she said with a bright smile, holding up a spatula. “C’mon!”
We hurried to the kitchen, where she turned a silver contraption, twisted a latch, and then opened the lid, revealing a perfectly golden waffle.
“Butter or peanut butter?” she asked, dropping it onto a plate.
My nose wrinkled. “Peanut butter?”
“Oh my God, you’ve never tried it?”
“We don’t have a waffle maker. It broke last year. But no, I’ve never even heard of peanut butter on waffles.”
She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “You’re not allergic, are you?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Here,” she said, slathering one half with regular butter, the other with creamy peanut butter. Then she turned the syrup bottle upside down and drenched my breakfast with sugar. “Let me know which one you like best.”
She handed me the plate, a fork, and a knife and then stirred the batter, pouring it into the waffle maker. Even when we had one, it didn’t look like that. Mrs. Mason gave it a turn and then escorted me to the table.
Orange juice had already been poured and was waiting for me. I sat, then carved into the peanut butter side, shoveling a square into my mouth. My hand instantly covered my lips as I worked to chew the sticky, sugary, creamy goodness. “Oh, wow.”
Mrs. Mason grinned, resting her elbows on the table and leaning forward. “Amazing, huh?”
“It’s so good,” I said, my words garbled.
She clapped and then stood, pointing at me as she returned to the kitchen. “You’ll never eat them the old way again.”
She yawned as she stood at her post, waiting for hers to cook. The sun was pouring in from every window, making the warm hues inside glow. As inviting as the Masons’ house was at night, it was downright cheerful during the day. I couldn’t imagine them fighting here, certainly not enough to separate.
“Did you sleep okay?” I asked between bites.
“Pretty good,” she said, nodding once. The contraption beeped, and Mrs. Mason twisted it, unlocking the latch and smiling as her waffle plopped onto her plate. Peanut butter and a cup of syrup later, she was sitting across from me.
She hummed as she took the first bite, seeming to savor it. “It’s nice to have an excuse to make these again. It was Milo who introduced me to peanut butter waffles in college.”
“You’ve dated since college?” I asked.
“High school.” She cut into her waffle with the side of her fork. “Fell in love right here in Oak Creek.” She got somber. “Fell out of love here, too.”
“It’s hard here, I think. There’s not enough to distract adults from work and real life. We don’t have the beach or the mountains, just hot wind blowing at us like a heater in the summer and the freezing wind stinging our faces in the winter.”
She chuckled. “You forget about the sunsets. And the lakes. And football.”
“I’ve never been to the lake,” I said, taking another bite.
“Milo has a boat. We will rectify that when it gets warm enough.”
I shrugged one shoulder. “I’m not sure where I’ll be.”
“You’ll be here. Until you leave for college. You haven’t said much about the applications.”
“I can’t afford college right now.”
“What about a Pell Grant? Scholarships? You’re an A student, Catherine. You missed salutatorian by only two points.”
I breathed out a laugh and looked down at my nearly empty plate.
“What?” Mrs. Mason asked.
“It just feels so strange to be sitting in this house with you, being served breakfast and talking about normal things when everything is so . . . not normal.”
“It will take a while to adjust.”
“I don’t think I should adjust.”
“Why is that?”
“It doesn’t feel right to get used to it—to being without Mama.”
“You don’t have to be without her. It’s okay to create healthy boundaries and to live out the rest of your senior year in a stable, safe environment.” She frowned, touching her index finger to the center of her forehead. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound so clinical.”
“No, it’s fine. I understand what you’re trying to say, but I accept that she needs me. My status as a caregiver won’t change after graduation, which is why college is a moot point.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s not ideal . . .”
“It’s not a life.”
“It’s not her fault.”
Mrs. Mason sighed. “It bothers me that you’ve given up. Your whole life is ahead of you. Being born shouldn’t be a prison sentence.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“Are you happy there? Is that a life you would choose?”
“Of course not, but . . . does anyone choose? Is this what you chose?”
Mrs. Mason nearly spit out her orange juice.
“You know . . . you know his wife left him because he was sleeping with Emily Stoddard, right?”
Mrs. Mason wiped the orange specks from her chin. “I’d heard.”
“She graduated two years ago. She would never admit it to her parents or the administration, but she told all her friends.”
“Milo said as much.”
I sat back in my chair with a smirk on my face. “You didn’t believe him. Just like you don’t believe me now.”
“Actually, I was pretty sure Brad was sleeping with Presley before she disappeared.”
“You . . . what?”
“I saw texts from her on his phone. Pretty graphic texts. I stopped seeing him after that.”
My eyes grew wide. “You don’t think that’s something you should’ve mentioned to the police?”
“I . . .”
“They’ve been looking at Elliott and me, and you’ve had reason to believe the football coach was having an inappropriate relationship with a missing student?”
“He . . .”
“Why wouldn’t you report it?” I said, my voice louder than I’d meant for it to be.
“Catherine . . .”
“Elliott could be arrested any minute if Owen’s parents press charges, and you—”
“Catherine, I did. I did tell the police. Brad was interviewed and polygraphed. He has an alibi. He was here until morning.”
“What? But you said—”
“That I stopped seeing him after I saw the texts. And I did. He was here trying to get me back, and when he realized it wasn’t going to work, he pleaded with me not to go to Dr. Augustine. He’d been drinking. I let him pass out on my couch. It was pathetic.”
I covered my face with my hands. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“Hey.” Her hand touched my arm, and I looked up at her. She was reaching across the table, smiling. “It’s okay. This is a horrible, emotional, stressful situation.” She sat upright at the sound of knocking on the door and then stood, walking over and peering out.
“You’re up early,” she said, opening the door.
Mr. Mason entered, holding the handles of a large paper sack. “Are Noah and Simone coming over to open presents tonight?”
“They do every year.”
He held up the sack. “I brought a few more.”
“Milo, you . . . didn’t have to do that,” Mrs. Mason said.
Mr. Mason looked hurt. “They’re my nephew and niece, too.”
“I know. I just meant that . . .” She sighed. “I don’t know what I meant.”
He carried the sack to the Christmas tree and knelt beside it, unloading the presents. They weren’t wrapped nearly as elegantly as the others, and he’d used twice as much tape, but by the expression on his wife’s face, he’d won major points. “I brought a few for Catherine, too.”
“Oh, Milo,” Mrs. Mason said, holding her hand to her chest.
He took care to bring the purple present forward, keeping it front and center, and then stood, his gaze meeting Mrs. Mason’s.
“Do you have any plans?” she asked.
“I . . .” He reached for her, but she pulled away. As soon as it happened, she seemed to regret it, but it was too late. Mr. Mason’s eyes darkened. “Probably not a good idea. Don’t want to confuse the kids.”
“I don’t want you to be alone,” she said, fidgeting.
He peered over his shoulder but didn’t speak. Instead, he yanked the door open and walked through it.
Mrs. Mason stood motionless, looking down at the purple present, and then sat on her haunches, covering her mouth and nose with both hands. Her eyes glossed over, and then she wiped away her tears as they fell. “I’m so sorry you had to see that, Catherine.”
“Why? It was beautiful.”
“Pain is beautiful?” she asked, straightening the present.
“Pain . . . love. Can’t really have one without the other.”
She breathed out a silent laugh. “You always surprise me.”
“Who does the purple present belong to?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s . . . that’s Violet’s. She’s our daughter. Milo’s and mine. She was a Christmas baby.”
“You had a baby?” I asked, stunned. “I don’t remember you being pregnant.”
“I was barely seven months along when Violet was born. She lived only a few hours. She would have been five this year.”
“So before I was in high school.”
“Correct,” Mrs. Mason said, standing. “Christmas is hard for Milo. He’s never gotten over it.”
“But you did?” I asked, watching her walk back to the table.
She sat across from me, looking tired. “I chose to heal. Milo felt alone in his grief, even though I’d lived there with him for four years. He replaced the sadness with resentment, and then it was over.”
“And you’re happy now?”
“I’ve loved Milo since I was a girl. He use to look at me the way Elliott looks at you. I wish we could’ve gotten through it together. But, yes. Telling him it was over was like taking off an oversize fur coat in August. I was finally free to heal, and so I did. It’s still hard to watch him hurt.”
“You still love him?”
The corners of her mouth turned up. “I’ll always love him. You never get over your first love.”
I smiled. “Elliott said that to me once.”
“You were his first love?” she asked, resting her chin on the heel of her hand.
“That’s what he said.”
“I believe it.”
I felt my cheeks flush. “He wants me to follow him to college. If we, you know, survive this year without being arrested.”
Mrs. Mason hesitated before she said her next words. “If you had to guess, what do you think happened to her? There was no sign of struggle. No break-in. Not even any fingerprints other than Presley’s.”
“I hope she ran away, and I hope she comes back.”
“Me too,” Mrs. Mason said. “Okay, I’ve got to run a few errands today. Pick up some things for Christmas Eve dinner. Do you have any preferences?”
“Me? I thought I’d go home tonight. Check on Mama.”
“Catherine, you can’t. I’m sorry.”
“I can’t check on her?”
“I can have Officer Culpepper check on her if you’d like. I just don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go home just yet. What if she won’t let you leave? It’s just not a good idea. I’m sorry.”
“Oh.”
“I know it’s hard. Especially with the holidays, but I promise it’s better this way.”
The doorbell chimed, and Mrs. Mason raised her eyebrows. “We’re popular today.” She opened the door and then walked away smiling. “Your turn.”
Elliott walked in, and he slipped his camera strap over his head, holding out the other hand. I hugged him tight, melting into his arms as he wrapped them around me. He was wearing his black football hoodie, the cotton worn and soft against my cheek.
“What’s that?” Mrs. Mason asked, pointing to his camera.
“A hobby,” Elliott said.
“It’s more than a hobby. He’s pretty amazing,” I said. “You should have him show you some of his stuff.”
“I’d love to see it,” Mrs. Mason said.
“Really?” Elliott looked down at me, surprised.
I touched his chest with both hands. “Really.”
“How long have you been doing that?” Mrs. Mason asked, watching him put his things on the table.
“Since I was a kid. Catherine was my first muse. My only muse.”
Mrs. Mason busied herself with the breakfast dishes, waving me away when I offered to help.
“Why don’t you give him the tour?” Mrs. Mason asked.
I led him by the hand to the purple bedroom, wrinkling my nose when the door blew the smells of the Juniper into my face. “Ugh. Why didn’t you tell me I smelled like that?” I asked, gathering my clothes from the closet and drawers and putting them in a woven basket near the door.
“Smelled like what? What are you doing?”
“Laundry.” I picked up the handles and walked down the hall. There was a door next to the guest powder room that I guessed was the utility room, and I was right. I set the basket down and searched the cabinets for detergent.
“Everything all right?” Mrs. Mason asked from the hallway.
“She’s looking for laundry soap, I think,” Elliott said.
“Oh.” She squeezed past Elliott and opened the cabinet above the washer. “It’s a pod. They’re front-loading machines, so you just pop the pod into the drum with the clothes and close the door. Set it to regular for everything but delicates, and you’re good to go. That’s what I do anyway. The dryer sheets are in the cabinet above the dryer.”
“Makes sense,” I said, piling my jeans and dark clothing in the washer. I closed the door and did as Mrs. Mason instructed. The water began to pour into the turning drum, and the clothes began to roll. “Easy enough.”
Mrs. Mason looked down at the basket. “Are those all clean?”
“I thought so,” I said. “They smell like the Juniper.”
“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t notice. Let me know if you need anything while I’m out.”
Elliott waited until the front door closed before he spoke again. He shoved his hands into his jeans pocket. “Want some help?”
“Almost finished.” I stood, breathing hard, placing my hands on my hips and blowing a stray hair from my face.
He smiled. “You’re beautiful.”
I pressed my lips into a hard line, trying not to look as flattered as I felt. “You’re silly.”
“Aunt Leigh wants to know if you’ll come over for lunch.”
“Oh. Mrs. Mason has plans for us, I think.”
“Okay,” he said, unable to hide his disappointment.
“Her sister’s family is coming . . . I’m sure she won’t miss me.”
“Really?” He looked up.
“Want to see the room?”
I grabbed his hand, feeling his large fingers between mine. “Not technically.”
We walked down the hall, and I pushed open the door. It was so much lighter than my bedroom door at the Juniper. Everything in the Masons’ house was lighter.
“Wow. Nice,” Elliott said, snapping a few pictures of me before sitting on the bed. He bounced a few times and then pushed down on the mattress. “How’d you sleep last night?” He pointed his camera around the room, taking pictures of things that seemed mundane to me but that he would somehow make interesting and beautiful.
“Okay.”
One side of his mouth turned up. “I was hoping you’d say that. It would really suck if you slept better without me.”
“Well, I don’t,” I said, sitting next to him. I rubbed my hands together.
“You cold?” he asked. Elliott pulled his hoodie over his head. His T-shirt came up a bit with it, exposing the bronze skin beneath.
The sweater swallowed me, but he stared at me like he looked at his favorite photographs. He lifted the camera, and I looked down, letting my hair fall in front of my face. He swept back the tawny curtain with one hand.
“Please?”
It took me a long time to answer. “Wait until I stop blushing.”
“I can edit that. But I’ll wait.”
As the heat began to subside from my face, I nodded, tensing when Elliott lifted the camera to his eye and turned the focus. After the first few clicks, it became easier, and I began to look into the lens as if I were looking at my boyfriend.
He stood, shooting me from different angles and sometimes taking shots of random items in the room. He bent over and stood close to my music box, snapping a picture, and then turned and captured me watching him with a smile on my face.
“Wow,” he said, peering into the display. “That’s the one.” He walked over to me, turning the camera.
“When did you get a digital camera?”
“It’s a graduation present from my mom. She’ll be back tonight.”
“Oh,” I said.
He sat next to me, chuckling. “She’s not that bad.”
“It’s just that I’m pretty sure she hates me. And now that you’re in all this trouble . . .”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Does she know that?”
“I’m sure Aunt Leigh has explained more than once.” The washing machine buzzed, and Elliott popped up. “I’ll get it.”
He disappeared for just a few minutes. “Darks drying. Lights in the wash.”
“You’re very nice,” I said.
He winked at me. “I finally get to hang out with you at home. I want to make sure you invite me back.”
My lips parted as I realized that what he said was true, and I covered my mouth.
He gently pulled my hand away and leaned down to kiss me, pressing the soft, plush lips I’d grown to love against mine.
Something about the way Elliott held me made me want him to hold me tighter, so I dug my fingers into his back. He reacted, cupping my face. He was tall and, yes, the size of an NFL football player, but his large hands were gentle. Elliott couldn’t have hurt Presley with them.
His tongue slipped inside my mouth, caressing mine, wet and warm. I hummed in satisfaction, lying on my back and bringing him with me.
His hands and the way his mouth moved were different. His pelvis settled between my thighs, and he moved against me, his jeans feeling rough and somehow erotic against my skin.
Elliott jerked as he kicked off his shoes, and then he reached over his head, pulling off his T-shirt. The skin of his back was soft and smooth, and I couldn’t help but run my hands from his shoulders to the two dimples at the small of his back.
His hand moved beneath the hoodie he let me borrow, touching my bare skin just above my hip, his thumb dipping just past the elastic band of my panties.
We kissed so much and for so long that my lips began to feel raw, but still, Elliott waited for me to let him know where I wanted to go and how far.
His jeans rubbed against me again as he touched his forehead to mine. “I have . . . you know,” he said, seeming out of breath.
The thought of condoms led me to realize he was talking about safe sex, pulling me out of the moment. I leaned away from him, looking down at his lips. “Oh.”
“That’s not why I came over, though. I’ve had it since the last we . . . you said we should have, and we should. So I got some. Just in case. But we don’t have to.”
It was painful to watch him stumble over the words, his mouth clumsy when seconds before his hands had been so sure.
I touched my index finger to his lips, leaning up to kiss him. His shoulders sagged. He already knew what I was going to say.
“Thank you for doing that. But not yet.”
He nodded, sitting up. “That’s fine. I don’t want you to feel rushed.”
“Good,” I said, pulling down the hoodie. “Because it can’t happen here.”
He kissed my forehead. “I’ll wait on the couch while you get dressed. Lunch is in an hour.” He padded across the room.
I stood. “I saw Mrs. Mason put the remote in the drawer of the end table,” I said before he closed the door.
“Thanks, babe.”
I crossed my arms over my middle, hugging myself and grinning from ear to ear. He’d never called me that before, and I didn’t know I was the kind of girl who would like that—actually, I was definitely not the kind of girl who would enjoy such things. But the sound of Elliott so casually loving me filled my entire body with an indescribable joy. I was giddy. Those two simple words made me feel euphoric.
I froze. All my clothes were in the laundry room. “Crap,” I hissed, reaching for the door.
Elliott knocked. “Catherine? Your clothes are dry.” He slipped a clothes basket into the small opening he’d made. “You can still wear my hoodie. It looks good on you.”
“Thanks, babe,” I said, feeling brave enough to try it out since he had. I took the basket, and he left an arm in, reaching for me. I took his hand, and he pulled my hand through the small opening and kissed it.
“I love you, Catherine Calhoun. No matter what happens, know that.”
His words felt like a sunrise, a sunset, a beautiful dream, waking from a nightmare. It was every wonderful moment balled into one. “I love you, too.”
“I know. That’s how I know everything is going to be all right.”
“I’ll get dressed, leave Mrs. Mason a note, and then we can go,” I said through the door. I slipped his hoodie on over my shirt that now smelled like Mrs. Mason’s bright house instead of the dark, dank Juniper.
“I’ll be here when you’re ready.”