Desperate Chances (31 page)

Garrett raised an eyebrow and regarded me levelly. “He hasn’t said, but we’re all in a state of flux right now. So we’ll see where his path takes him.” He got up and carried his coffee cup to the sink and rinsed it out. “So you want to tell my why you’re really here? I know it’s not to shoot the shit.”

“Maybe I just wanted a visit,” I replied obstinately.

“It’s okay to admit, you know,” Garrett said, turning back around and leaning against the counter, folding his arms across his lean chest.

“What’s okay?” I asked. I was being purposefully obtuse. He knew. I knew it.

“That you came over here to see Mitchie boy.”

My cheeks flushed and I had to look away from my friend. “I wasn’t really—” I prepared to lie but Garrett interrupted me before I could finish.

“Yes you are. I saw that wild look on your face when you got here. Something happened while I was in Boston.” I couldn’t deny it.

Garrett frowned, looking thoughtful. “I had hoped that you guys would work everything out. I think the two of you are making a mistake by being so pigheaded.” He ran his hand over his mouth and chuckled. “Though I know how hard it is to get someone to see what’s right in front of them. Particularly when they’re stubborn as hell.”

“I don’t think I’m being stubborn. But our lives are in different places. He’s with someone else. I realized things too late. We missed our chance. I thought we could be friends.” I sighed. It was a sad, mournful sound. “But I don’t think that’s really possible. Because with Mitch and me, there’s always something…”

“More?” Garrett filled in.

I nodded. “Yeah. Something more. I hurt him badly, Garrett. I’m sure you know what happened.”

“Mitch told me some of it. I also know he made a knee jerk reaction when he got with Sophie. He shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t right to her. To him. Or to you. A rebound is the worst thing you can do when your heart is hurting.”

“But he seems happy.” As I said it, I knew it wasn’t true. Mitch didn’t seem happy. He seemed…
resigned.
And that was
not
the same thing.

“We both know that’s bullshit.” Garrett picked up his bag. “I’ve got to go put this stuff away. You can hang out or whatever but I don’t know when Mitch will be back.”

“Okay,” I said quietly, standing up.

Garrett paused before exiting the kitchen. He turned back to me. “Don’t give up on what you guys have. Because it’s something special, G, and you both deserve that. Don’t lie to yourself by saying he’s better off without you. Because
that,
my friend, is a load a crap and we both know it.” With a wave, he headed up stairs and I was left alone.

I pulled out my phone and looked at the time. I needed to get to work.

I grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled a quick note on it. It was time to go old school to make my point.

I took the stairs two at a time and stopped just outside of Mitch’s bedroom door. I hesitated before opening it. It felt strange to go inside when he wasn’t there. Like I was violating his privacy.

I gripped the note in my hand and walked in anyway.

Screw privacy. There were important things at stake.

Like getting us back to where we needed to be.

The smell of him hit me as soon as I walked inside. It brought with it a thousand memories. A thousand happy days and never ending smiles. It also brought with it a lot of heartache.

The place was a mess. The bed was unmade and there were clothes on the floor. Mitch Abrams was an unabashed slob.

I snorted at the sight of his overflowing hamper and three days worth of dishes piled up on the desk in the corner. His room, like his vehicle, could be labeled a toxic dump.

Though it hadn’t bothered me too much when I used to come over. I was able to overlook his grimy tendencies so easily. That should have been an obvious sign of my feelings for him. Nothing says
I love you
like not bitching about dirt and clutter.

I went to leave the note on the dresser when something caught my eye.

In the middle of discarded Twizzler wrappers and piles of change was a collection of hair ties. Blue, red, pink, purple. They were twisted into a knot and placed on top of a small wooden box.

Small hair ties. Stretched out hair ties. All mine. Some of them I had left by accident. Others I had purposefully kept in his room so that I had one should I need it.

And they were still there. A year since the last time I had entered his room.

I picked up the bundle of hair ties, gripping them in my hand. I rested my hand on the lid of the box debating whether to open it.

Don’t, Gracie. You’ve already rudely entered his room without being invited, don’t make it worse.

They say curiosity killed the cat. My curiosity almost broke my heart.

I opened the box with shaking hands and reached inside. My fingers closed around a stack of photographs, which I promptly lifted out.

I shouldn’t be looking at these. I need to put them back, leave the note, and get the hell out of his room. It wasn’t right to snoop around like this.

Whatever. Of course I was going to look. Who wouldn’t?

So I started going through them. One at a time.

I didn’t realize that I was crying until tears fell on the glossy prints.

They were photographs of me. Each and every one of them.

Some were of Mitch and me together. Others were of me with our friends. Some, I was by myself. They were candid and honest. They captured a Gracie that was natural and uninhibited. I hadn’t even known I was being photographed.

Some people would have been weirded out by that. I wasn’t. Not at all. These pictures revealed a woman I had almost forgotten about.

A woman that was happy.

Wiping away tears, I started to put them back when something caught my eye. It was a picture towards the back that I had almost overlooked. The longer I stared at it, the harder my tears fell.

In the photo, Mitch and I were standing by a raging bonfire behind Garrett’s house. I didn’t know who had taken it, but whoever it was had captured something honest. Something completely real.

Mitch had his arm slung around my shoulders. I was looking up at him, my eyes intense and hungry. We were both smiling. Only inches apart. Mitch’s hand was frozen just as he was about to touch my face.

It was a beautiful picture. The fire and the smoke created an artistic haze over our figures.

But that wasn’t what left me reeling.

It was the look on our faces.

We looked in love.

No one could see it and think anything else.

I flipped it over and saw a date in Mitch’s chicken scratch handwriting.

July 4
th,
2013.

2013.

The photograph was from two years ago.

Two years.

Even then my heart had known that I loved him. My brain may have been in denial, but I
knew.

I clutched the photograph to my chest and felt almost sick about all the lost time. The missed chances.

I had been such a fool.

Carefully I put the pictures back, closed the lid, and replaced the hair ties. My hair ties. The ones Mitch kept.

With trembling fingers I left the note for him propped against the box and wiped the lingering tears from my face.

It was time to leave.

I shut the door on our memories, hoping that we weren’t too late to make new ones.

R
ows of family photographs lined the walls of my parents’ living room. Mom had turned on the gas fireplace and the house was toasty and warm. It had started to snow late in the day and there was a fine dusting already on the ground. I hoped the roads stayed clear enough for me to get home.

Because hell if I was spending the night.

Anyone looking at the framed pictures would think we had lived a perfect life. Posed photo ops of Christmases and birthdays. First days of school and gymnastics meets.

I was obviously the center of my parents’ world. Oh the fun of being an only child. I was the entire focus of their pride. And more often than not, their disappointment.

My parents were good-looking people. My dad was tall and rugged. Mom was beautiful and refined. And I was the cherry on top of the perfect genetic cake. A lovely combination of my mother’s blonde hair and my dad’s blue eyes.

They loved me. I knew they did. But their love came with a price. Absolute and total obedience. It was expected and required if I wanted to exist in harmony with them.

“There you are! I didn’t even hear you come in,” my mother said¸ breezing in from the kitchen wearing a lacy apron straight out of a Leave it to Beaver episode.

“I just got here,” I replied, air kissing her cheeks so as to not smudge her make-up.

“You father just called and there’s a pile up on 64, so he’ll be another thirty minutes.” She pulled back the curtains and looked outside at the falling snow. “It looks treacherous out there. You should plan to spend the night in your new room.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. Because in my mom’s mind there was no room for argument.

“I can’t, Mom. I’m supposed to go to Vivian and Cole’s new apartment after dinner.”

Mom waved away my comment. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Then she frowned as she registered what I said. “Vivian has a new apartment? When did this happen?”

Crap.
Way to step in it, Gracie!
“She’s not moving for a few weeks,” I explained.

Mom smiled triumphantly and I knew what was coming. I braced myself for it.

“Well, that makes your decision to move back home much easier. If Vivian’s moving out, there’s no reason for you to stay in that cramped shoe box you call an apartment.”

“I like my apartment, Mom. And with my new job I can easily afford the rent on my own,” I said tiredly. I was already exhausted and I had just gotten there. It wasn’t a good indication of how the evening was going to pan out.

“Why waste your money on your own place when you have a beautiful room just upstairs. You wouldn’t have to pay for anything,” Mom protested. She took me by the elbow and steered me towards the stairs. “Go up and have a look at what my decorator did with the space. I’ll be up in a minute. I just need to check on the casserole.”

Ugh. Casserole. My mother loved making them and I hated eating them. They tasted like bitterness and resentment.

But I did as she asked.

I climbed the stairs opened the door to the room I had grown up in. As I had suspected, all remnants of my childhood were gone. Gone. Except for the small brown teddy bear I had slept with as an infant. Mr. Itchy—strange name, I know—sat in the middle of my queen sized bed that was no longer covered in pink and black checks, but now sported a very classy green and white stripped duvet.

The walls had been painted cream and the large picture window was dressed in heavy green damask. My mother had even gone so far as to replace my old vanity with an antique table and cushioned bench. A brand new laptop sat on top.

I sighed heavily, walking further into the room. Mom’s decorator had done a great job. If it had been a hotel. Because it felt sterile. Cold.

Sort of like my relationship with my parents.

There was nothing in the space that screamed
Gracie Cook
. But I knew that my mother would expect me to be pleased with the transformation. She loved it, so of course I should too.

“What do you think?” My mom stood in the doorway and inspected her handy work. She pointed at the window. “The material for the curtains was very expensive. But I think it turned on wonderfully.”

“Where are my books? My posters?” I asked.

My mother didn’t answer me. “The layout is more appropriate for a woman of your age. More mature. Don’t you love the art?” My mom pointed to a large print above the bed. It was done in soft pastels that resembled trees blowing in the wind. “That one was very pricey, but when I saw it at the art auction, I thought it would look perfect in here. It’s called The Storm and it’s signed by the artist.”