Chapter 18

Kennedy

 

Violet and I lie on the bank near the pond, under the giant willow tree. Fall reveals its first signs here each year, and again I recognize them. The water is starting to get cooler; the leaves on the willow are starting to dry, creating a chiming sound in the breeze. It makes thoughts of autumn seem less appealing as summer begins to slowly slip away, leaving me with no choice but to allow it.

“I don’t know how you ever left,” Violet says. “That diner we had breakfast at was the best food I’ve ever eaten. I want to know why we don’t have country potatoes up in Boston. And Cajun seasoning in the hollandaise sauce? That was like a drug. I was about to order a side of it in one of those giant coffee mugs.”

I chuckle, thinking of how her eyes continuously grew to the size of saucers as she tried each thing on her plate and then mine.

“Everyone’s so nice! They’d spent all day yesterday without power and most of the morning, and they were still happy! It was almost surreal. Can you imagine what would happen in Boston? We’d start a riot.” She laughs. “I’m beginning to understand how much of this town is you.”

I roll over to face her, chuckling because she’s delirious, and I know how quickly her city-loving self would get bored here after she ran out of first-time experiences. “What do you mean this town is me?”

“You’re like a walking version of Haven Point.” Violet sits up. “You’re super kind to everyone. You’re quiet. You’re dependable. You don’t like change. And you’re always calm—which I’m pretty sure are all reflections of you having grown up here.” She ticks off her points on her fingers and stares at me like she’s realized something revolutionary. “What if I moved here, too?”

“Too? I never said I was moving back.”

“You love this place. You love being home with Grace and your mom. And while it’s been a day and a half, and you still haven’t told me a single detail of your night after running away and leaving me with Jackson, I’m pretty sure there’s another reason, and it starts with a J and ends with an oey.”

“I do love being here, but I couldn’t find a job in Boston. How am I ever going to find something here in Haven Point?”

Violet sighs deeply—dramatically. “Anyone else would have taken that cue and started talking about the guy being brought up. I just gave you the perfect excuse to spill your guts.”

“There’s nothing to spill.” I brush my hand over the short carpet of grass beneath us.

“You like him. I know you! I know that look when you talk about him.”

“It doesn’t matter if I like him. I don’t want to like him for a dozen different reasons.”

“You need a pro–con list.”

I drop my head back and lift my knees. “I don’t want a pro–con list.” My tone is nothing short of a whine.

“We’ll use these rocks.” Violet ignores me and gathers a small handful of pebbles. “Okay, pro: you like him.” She grabs a twig and creates a divide before placing one of the stones on a side. “What are your favorite traits of his?”

“I barely know him.”

“Your mom said he’s handsome,” she continues, dropping another pebble on the pro side. “He has a job.”

“I don’t have a job. That needs to be our focus.”

“Hello? Gorgeous man with a job who can take care of you!”

“I graduated at the top of my class! I don’t need to be supported by a gorgeous man. Or any man, for that matter.”

Violet’s lips press together with sympathy, understanding how difficult it has been for me to work so hard and have things go so awry. “Have you ever considered going back to school? Or working in a different field?”

“I’m twenty-seven, and I know that’s young, but if I go back to school and get another degree, it would add even more debt to my already-huge loans—and I’d be over thirty by the time I was done. I’d be competing for entry-level positions with people who were a decade younger than me.”

“Kennedy, life doesn’t end at thirty.”

“I feel like I’m twenty-seven and my life hasn’t even begun. When I was little, I thought I’d have two point five kids, a husband, a home, and a successful career by this point, and I don’t have any of that. I don’t even have a boyfriend. I don’t even have an apartment. I’m back living in my parents’ house, sleeping in the same bed I did when I was a teenager!”

“Just because life hasn’t turned out how you expected it to, it doesn’t mean you’ve failed. You could easily have found someone to marry and be in a loveless relationship with your two point five children right now. You could have likely found a career that you would have been very successful in, too. But you know what? You’ve worked hard to keep your standards high, and that’s something to be proud of. Your heart knows what you’re supposed to be doing, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. You had ways and excuses to stay in Boston, but you knew coming back was the right decision for you. You’ve been so good about blocking out all the noise and listening to your heart for so long—don’t stop now.”

“The idea of moving back here terrifies me,” I admit. “I feel like it’s failing and starting all over again. Or that returning means I’m allowing fear to win, and I’m retreating back to my safety zone and what I know.”

“Are these fears yours or the perceptions you think others will have about you?”

I sigh. “Both.”

“Who cares what other people think? And in this case, everyone seems so excited to have you home that I can’t see how this would be a negative thing.”

“Everyone except for my dad.”

“What do you mean?”

“He just ignores me.”

Violet reaches forward and places her hand on my knee. “Your dad seems like one of those guys who’s really bad at talking about their emotions and . . . well, really anything aside from tools.” She smiles. “You and your dad have a bond, though. I know it gets stretched thin at times, but even watching you work together yesterday to clear those driveways and build that giant bonfire downtown, it’s clear you guys have a special relationship—it just seems fragile right now.

“And your mom can’t stop telling me how helpful you are at the house and store.”

“Yeah, but all I’m doing is helping with the cash register, stocking stuff, and doing dishes. I literally feel like I’m a teenager again. My mom even changed my sheets!”

“So clearly there are indicators that living here in Haven Point should not include living with your parents . . .”

I flop back, watching the branches roll in a steady breeze.

“I feel like you’re trying to fight this because you don’t want to believe you belong here. You’re searching for every reason for this to fail.”

I raise both hands in the air. “I don’t have a job, a place to stay aside from my parents’, or a plan. I’m not looking for a reason for this to fail—I’m telling you why it will fail.”

“You have a job. You have a place to stay. You have everything you need at this time until you make the decision for what to do next. And I have a feeling Joey is probably another reason you’re looking for excuses to leave, because you’re terrified you might find another reason that will make you want to stay.”

“I just got out of a relationship. It’s only been a month.”

Vi sits up. “You haven’t been in a relationship in two years. What you and Kevin had was meaningless sex a couple of nights a week.”

I flinch. “You make me sound like a hooker.”

“He was an asshole. You lived, you learned, now you have Joey.”

My hands fall to my sides. “He’s not staying. He lives in DC.”

“I thought . . .”

I shake my head. “His brother lives here with his family.”

“Still, though. DC is a quick drive.”

“You of all people know how hard long-distance relationships are.”

“Yeah, but my ex lived in Arizona. We were on different time zones and opposite ends of the country. You guys would be an hour’s drive.”

“He’s successful.”

“So are you! You don’t have a six-figure salary, but remember, you graduated at the top of your class!” She shoves my legs, mocking me. “Success isn’t measured by finances.”

“He’s a detective and handles sexual assault cases. Can you imagine how Grace would take that news?”

“Grace just wants you happy, and learning that he protects people against monsters who hurt others would make her like him even more.”

I’ve never introduced a man to my sister. For so long, it was because she lived in another state and none of my relationships lasted long enough. Then it became about her unease around men and then my desire to shield and protect her so people wouldn’t misjudge her.

“What else do you have for me? I’m ready,” Violet tells me. “Do his feet stink? Is he really boring? A closet smoker? What other excuses do you have?”

I shake my head. “He loves his family. He jumped in the pond to try and save Grace. He knows how to build a house. He’s great with kids.”

“What about the details that matter?”

I laugh and sit up again to see the large pile of pebbles she’s made. “What are the details that matter?”

Violet’s dark eyes round as she stares at me, imploring me to figure it out before she cries out with frustration. “How was your kiss? Have you had sex? Was it good? Was his breath terrible? Did he fumble and go too fast? Was he selfish?”

My cheeks color, and though I try to fight it, I smile, my nose crinkling with all the terrible things we’ve discussed about previous partners. “I’d forgotten how good it feels to kiss someone when they really know how to kiss,” I admit.

“Oh Lordy! I need details!” Violet leans forward, impatiently patting my thighs to a rapid beat.

“He’s just . . . really good at it.”

“That is not a detail, that’s a summary! What happened? Where were you? I need a play-by-play!”

“The first time, here.”

“Here at the pond?” Her voice rises with excitement as she scans the surrounding area, as if she’s choosing where would be best for this kiss to have happened.

I nod and point toward the shore with the gradual incline I’d been read to storm out on. “I don’t even know how exactly we got there. I was frustrated with him and was planning on leaving, and then he . . .” I scrape my nails against my forehead, trying to recall the details that led up to the moments I can’t stop thinking about. “We were arguing, and he was trying to convince me that we were attracted to each other . . . or maybe he was just accusing me of being attracted to him . . .” I pause, realizing he had and how I need to get some kind of payback for it. “Then he started, like, asking my permission to kiss me—”

Violet laughs, and it’s loud and bubbly and just as comforting as it was the first time I heard it back in college, when I knew she was going to become my best friend. “He asked your permission? That’s so weird.”

“It was.” I nod, giggling. “But it was also kind of sweet, and strangely romantic. Then he kissed me, and his hand was on my back, and his lips were so soft and firm, and he, like, nipped at my bottom lip. Vi, it was so simple and innocent, but I swear, it felt so kinky and hot—it had me forgetting my own name.”

“Please tell me he did something wrong. Anything.”

“That first time we kissed, he held me really gently. Almost like he was afraid to touch me.”

“That’s the worst of it?”

“That’s the worst.”

“You slept together Friday night, didn’t you?”

I clamp my teeth together.

Violet shakes her head. “No, no, no! You aren’t regretting it. You’re recapping it! No power, a huge storm, a sexy man—this was written to be one of those old novels I’d find tucked under my mom’s mattress! What happened?”

“Just for the record, I did not go over there with the intention of sleeping with him,” I say, raising a finger in the air. “I went over there to make sure they would be okay and to help just in case they needed it.”

“Because you were worried about him. Because you care about him. Because you like him.”

“I don’t want to move here because of a guy.”

“You wouldn’t be. You’d be moving here because it’s where you feel at home. Joey would just be icing on the cake.”

“Maybe I should distance myself from him. Make sure I’m thinking clearly about this before I truly consider it.”

Violet cocks her head to the side. “If you aren’t sneaking out the back door tonight to go meet him and have wildly passionate sexy times with him, I’m going to have to seriously consider our friendship. Because my best friend is a fearless bitch who works her ass off and goes for what she wants.”

Her words silence me. Violet always has been quick to compliment me, but so often I brush them off or ignore them completely, assuming she’s only telling me nice things out of obligation. I don’t know why it takes her brown eyes staring at me with a semi-genuine threat to realize she really does believe in me.

I’m ashamed to admit I forgot to believe in myself.

“Do you think if I moved here, I could really open a bakery?”

“Yes!” she yells.

“I mean, a successful one.”

“Yes!” she yells even louder. “I’ve been telling you this for years!”

Images flit through my mind: The walls would be painted a muted gray with high wainscoting. There would be fuchsia and gold touches to warm the space. Large glass cases would be filled with pastries, breads, muffins, and cakes. People of Haven Point lining up to get in. An apartment above the store. My store.

We spend the afternoon wandering through our small downtown. Shockingly, the damage done was minimal. Yesterday we had gathered as a town, like we have done on numerous occasions for numerous events, and we worked together to clear the debris.

Vi and I create pro-and-con lists for where my perfect bakery would fit and stop at the ice cream shop, which is only open during the summer months while the owners, Harriet and George, are in town. When they leave in the fall to go south, it closes like clockwork.

The longer we roam and I share stories with her about the town, the more of it I recognize. Details, people, routines—there are many new things here, but the skeleton of the town has remained the same.

 

“Did you guys have a nice day?” Mom asks as I set the table. Violet fills glasses with ice and sweet tea, a smile on her face.

“I’m not ready to leave,” she admits.

“Well, you’ll just have to come back,” Mom says.

Violet’s smile broadens. “I’d really like that.”

Mom nods, likely already planning her next visit. Grace and Dad enter the house off the kitchen, both looking somber.

“You guys need to wash up. Dinner’s about ready.” Mom seems oblivious to their moods, which has me taking a step back and staring at each of them, first independently and then collectively.

“You forgot the napkins,” Mom says, noticing I’ve stopped moving.

“I was just . . .”

Mom’s attention moves back to the stove, where her famous chili is cooking. She’s won a dozen awards for this recipe, and though it’s too hot out to eat it comfortably, she’s preparing for Founder’s Day, a festival held in town each year. Every year for the past two decades, Mom and Judy, the owner of Sunny Side Up—the small diner in town—take turns taking home the blue ribbon for the chili cook-off.

There’s something odd about the moment. Something eerie in the way none of them will look at me or at each other. I turn to Vi to see if she notices it, but she’s mopping up a spill on the table, unaware.

I swallow and turn to the silverware drawer, where our napkins are kept tucked away. My heart throbs in my neck, reminding me I might be creating this mess in my head. Perhaps there is nothing different or out of the norm. Then I begin to think of the days when Grace was working to get back on her medications and would scream about how nothing was real. How I wasn’t real, food wasn’t real, the room wasn’t real. She believed everything was a hallucination, a figment of her imagination.

It has me thinking of what Joey recently said about how some psychologists have backed this theory, believing everything is a hallucination. My thoughts spiral into how easy this entire weekend went, even with having no electricity yesterday. How simple moving was planned. How seamless the transition would feel.

I set the napkins down and move to the sink to splash cold water on my face because it suddenly fells like it’s a thousand degrees. Water pools in my cupped hands as I stare at a knife, its silver blade nearly invisible against the stainless-steel basin. Slowly, the water runs between my fingers, and I reach for it, my hand trembling with both fear and hope as I press a finger against the tip and feel the sharp edge before it cuts into my flesh. I pull it back just as slowly, watching as blood bubbles on the surface and down my finger into my palm.

It’s both a relief and a horrifying reality that I just inflicted this pain on myself because I needed to prove that this moment was real. That I’m not crazy.

Does that make me crazy?

“Kennedy!” Mom cries. She grabs the dishtowel hanging over the oven and quickly wraps it around my hand. “I knew I shouldn’t have left that knife in there. I’m sorry!” she says, applying pressure to my finger. Her grip is firm and far more comforting than the cut had been.

“It’s okay, Mom. It’s my fault. You should be able to leave knives in the sink and not worry about it,” I tell her. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“You’re such a klutz.” Grace snickers, coming up to my other side to inspect the damage. “Only you could manage to do something like that.”

I think of the times my sister inflicted pain upon herself in an attempt to remind herself that things were in fact real, and a lump forms in my throat.

By trying to prove to myself I’m not crazy, I’ve just proven I am.

“Do you need me to get a Band-Aid or something?” Vi asks from where she’s placing the napkins I set down at each place setting.

“It’s fine,” I assure them. “I’m sure it’s already done.” I pull free from my mom and feel Grace’s stare as I reach for a paper towel to wrap around the small wound.

“How was your day around town?” Grace asks, maintaining her heavy stare.

I nod. “Good. We managed to get into the ice cream shop before they were out of the chocolate hazelnut or mint-chocolate chip.”

“I can’t believe you mix those flavors.” Grace groans.

Violet laughs. “That’s exactly what I said.”

“She’s always mixed the worst flavors. When we were kids, she’d get strawberry and bubblegum.” Grace shivers. “It was so gross.”

“Just because your flavor palette is limited doesn’t mean mine is bad.”

Grace looks at me and smirks. “She used to make really strange flavors when she baked, too. She still will get a random desire to make something completely out there.”

“Sometimes they turn out pretty good, though,” Vi says. “She made a strawberry-and-basil cake that had me a little afraid, but it was amazing!”

“She does like to experiment.” Mom laughs. “When she was little, she tried adding different things to the eggs. Each time she made them she added a new spice so she could see what each one tasted like.”

Grace’s face puckers. “Those were all awful.”

“You liked some of them!” I cry.

Grace’s blue eyes flare with memories and humor. “After you made it through the baking spices and realized cinnamon doesn’t belong in eggs, they got a little better.”

Dad chuckles. “Those were bad.”

“It’s how you learned what different spices tasted like.” Mom is matter-of-fact about the situation. She has always encouraged my love of baking and cooking and prompted me to try new and different things.

“Well,” Vi begins. “I can’t say I regret not sampling some of your earlier creations, but I’m glad you did it if that’s how you learned to bake.”

“Now we just need to find a way for her to use those degrees she has,” Dad says, washing his hands.

Violet makes eye contact with me, her mouth open, ready to defend me. I shake my head to silence her. Although the bakery idea is alive and thriving in our imaginations, Dad isn’t ready to hear it yet—and likely won’t ever be—and the last thing I want her to endure is Dad and his many theories on how it will fail.

After dinner, Grace helps Mom with the dishes, and Vi reaches in an exaggerated stretch before making the excuse that we should go to bed early because we’ve had such a long day.

I eye her, trying to gauge her mood.

Is she going to reprimand me for not sticking up to my dad?

Does she want to further discuss this sprouting idea of me opening a bakery?

Is she really tired?

I follow her to my bedroom, where she closes the door and swivels around. “I expect details in the morning!”

I shake my head. “Details about what?”

Brown eyes roll as she sighs and shakes her head. “Joey!” She draws out the two syllables but says his name quietly, once again making me feel like a teenager.

“I can’t believe we’re back here whispering about boys.”

“We’re not,” she says. “We’re back here whispering about a man. A man who you need to go see before it gets dark. I know you claim it’s okay to go traipsing through the woods at night, but I would bet there are some wild animals out there, and I’d feel much better if you went now while it’s still light so I don’t have to—”

I raise my hands to stop her. “It’s your last night. You just got here. I’m not going to spend the night with him.”

She cocks her head to the side, her eyes intense and challenging. “Yes. You are.”

“Vi, you’re leaving in the morning.”

“After I hear all the details.”

“You’re going to be hours away again.”

“I’m always going to be your best friend. Time, men, distance, none of that will ever change our relationship. But he makes you happy, and this is the beginning of your relationship with him. It’s fragile and fun, and you need to be getting it on.”

I laugh as I flop on my bed. “Everything about this relationship is so unorthodox.”

She tilts her head, a smirk teasing her lips.

“Don’t laugh at me! I’m serious!”

“I know, which is why I’m laughing!”

I pick up a pillow and heave it at her.

“Come on!” She walks to my window and opens the bottom half.

“What are you doing?”

“I want to meet him. You know how good I am at reading people. In twenty seconds flat I’ll be able to tell you if he’s a creep, a loser, or deeply in love with you.”

“He could be a loser and still think I’m awesome.”

Vi laughs and places both palms on the screen, pressing the fabric taut.

“You have no idea how to get that out, do you?” I ask.

She presses harder. “My mom always told me not to lean on screens ’cause I’d fall out the window, but this thing is tighter than a chastity belt! What the hell?”

I laugh. “Why are we going out the window?”

“So. We. Can. Meet. Joey.” She punctuates each word.

“Let’s just go out the front door.”

“But this seemed like such a great idea in my head.”

“At one time adding cinnamon to scrambled eggs seemed brilliant to me,” I tell her.

Violet scrunches her nose with disgust. “Okay, okay. Let’s go.”

I fight myself to make up an excuse to my family for us leaving, and simply call out, “We’re going out for a while!”

“Have fun!” Mom calls.

Vi doesn’t question my intention until I climb into my car.

“I thought we were going to cut through the woods,” she says.

“We’re going to the bar until you either realize this is a dumb idea or I am convinced it’s a good one.”

“We created a pro-and-con list!” she wails. “The pros far outweighed the cons, remember?”

“I remember this is your last night, and I’ve only been in a local bar here once. You said you want to experience Haven Point, right?”

She shakes her head, but I see the objections being outweighed by her own curiosity. “But then you’re going to see him!” she demands.

“I’m worried that I’m feeling too much for this guy,” I confess. “It’s terrifying to realize that I’ve given someone the power to potentially hurt me, especially when I never intended to.”

She squeals.

“That wasn’t the reaction I was looking for.”

“You’re going over there tonight, and tomorrow you’re going to tell me every juicy detail!”

I make no promises as we make the short drive over to Callahan’s, a small Irish pub that’s been in Haven Point since the town was established. The walls by the front entrance are lined with framed pictures of Haven Point with dirt roads and horses and buggies. There are pictures of the post office and the original school with all twelve of its students. I pass by them, realizing how much Haven Point has likely changed for my parents and the older residents in town.

“Pool tables!” Vi cries, tugging me forward by the hand.

I stop two feet in, knocking Violet off balance in the process. She swings around and looks at me accusingly as my heart thrums in my chest. I try to not look past her and keep my gaze steady and remain calm. “Why don’t we get a drink first?”

Violet’s eyes grow wide. “Is he here?”