Damaged In-Law Read online

  By Colleen Masters

  Copyright © 2015 Hearts Collective

  All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.

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  DEDICATION

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  DAMAGED IN-LAW

  by Colleen Masters

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Present Day

  Hudson Valley, NY

  “Sonofabitch,” I choke, as a coffee mug goes crashing to the floor, splintering in the wake of my frantic flight. I’ve been racing around my tiny apartment all morning, crashing into things left and right as baffled tears blur my vision. With quaking hands, I pluck up the thick shards of glass as gingerly as I can and dump them in the kitchen sink. The last thing I need right now is to slice my finger open and bleed all over the heap of clothes I’m attempting to cram into my too-small backpack.

  “Well. It’s not like the stain would show anyway,” I mutter to myself. All the garments I’m packing are a solid, funereal black. This swift, startling moment of gallows humor snaps me out of my crazed frenzy. After hours of refusing to think about what’s happening, of attempting to scare off the situation at hand with frenetic activity, I’m too exhausted to keep running away from reality any longer. Sinking down onto my narrow, unmade bed, I let the truth settle on my shoulders like a suit of chain mail.

  “My sister is dead,” I whisper into the silence of my apartment. The words taste strange on my tongue, I can’t quite make the muscles of my mouth form the phrase. “My sister is dead,” I try again, louder this time. That unfamiliar taste identifies itself, like a mysterious spice in a dish you’re tasting for the first time. It’s the lingering, bitter taste of words unspoken, of conflicts unresolved. This must be what real regret tastes like.

  The tears come hard and fast as powerful sobs wrack my shoulders. I collapse in on myself as the events of this morning play on an endless loop in my mind. It’s times like these when I most wish I had someone by my side—someone to bring in a box of tissues, or brush the tear-soaked hair off my forehead. Someone to hold me as I weep. But of course, it’s just me here. Alone in my eclectic little apartment. I’ve cut everyone else away. That fact was driven home pretty distinctly as I first got wind of the news a few hours ago.

  I’d rolled out of bed just before eight o’clock in the morning, padded across my chilly hardwood floor, and made myself a cup of good, strong French Roast. With my long dirty blonde hair tucked into a hasty braid and my gold-flecked brown eyes still bleary with sleep, I settled down at my scuffed kitchen table in front of my laptop, just like I do every morning.

  Since wrapping up my master’s degree in creative writing, I’ve been paying the bills for my tiny but beloved Hudson Valley apartment by taking on a slew of freelance writing jobs. I’ve written copy, technical manuals, SEO articles, and even the occasional one-handed read. Every morning, it’s the same routine: wake up, make coffee, troll through all the available writing gigs online, and pray that one comes through.

  This morning, after I sent out about a dozen bids on various freelance gigs, I settled down to while away the next hour scrolling through my favorite blogs, catching up with the rest of the world outside my small, artsy town. Nursing my rich cup of coffee, I pulled up my go-to news and entertainment blog, expecting to come across some juicy speculation about Beyoncé’s next album, or which Kardashian is now the reigning Kardashian. But instead, I found myself staring at a very familiar face on the blog’s front page.

  My face.

  Well, not my face exactly—the nose is a tiny bit narrower, the eyes a millimeter further apart, the hair dyed platinum—but pretty damn close. I was looking at the face of my identical twin sister, Avery. I’ve been getting more and more accustomed to accidentally coming across Avery’s image these past few years. She’s been living in LA, getting some commercial acting and print modeling work, a hosting gig or two. But no matter how many times I’ve spotted that face, so like my own, in magazines, on TV, or on TMZ for that matter, it’s never failed to take me by surprise.

  Only, this morning’s surprise was anything but welcome.

  “Soon-To-Be Starlet Avery Benson Dead at 25,” the blunt headline over my sister’s photograph read.

  I stared at the words, uncomprehending, as my coffee grew cold in its mug. Numbness crept into my fingers and toes as my heart all but refused to budge and take in this information. Trembling, I pulled up website after website, each one confirming the news that had already found its way to my doorstep. Avery. My sister. Gone.

  In a daze, I scrambled across the apartment for my cell phone and punched in a number I hadn’t dialed in years: that of my childhood home. My parents’ home. The call picked up on the very first ring, and my mother’s crisp voice was suddenly in my ear. She’d sounded older. More tired. But just as polished as ever.

  “Benson residence, this is Sylvia speaking,” she intoned crisply.

  “Mom?” I gasped, my voice ragged with barely contained tears, “Mom, have you heard what’s happened—?”

  “Of course I’ve heard,” she cut me off coldly, “I’m much more surprised to hear that you have, Calista.”

  Even hearing that name, “Calista” was a surreal shock. Nobody has called me that since I was eighteen years old, since I ran away from my parents’ home—my parents’ world—and never looked back. I’m Callie, these days. Callie Benson, freelance writer, sometimes teacher, and DIY junkie. This “Calista” person is a total stranger to me. But then, that makes sense. After all, Callie is a total stranger to my parents, and my sister, and everyone I’d known as a child. And make no mistake, I want it that way.

  “So it’s true,” I breathed. Part of me had been hoping that the news had it wrong. Maybe it was just some sort of horrible hoax. But that last, dim hope was fading with my mother’s every passing word.

  “It’s true,” she informed me, “They’re telling us it was an overdose. Though I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread that around. We’d prefer people to think she passed away from natura
l causes.”

  “Nothing natural could have caused a perfectly healthy twenty-five-year-old woman to...to...” I stammered, unable to finish my own sentence.

  “Your sister was anything but healthy,” my mother replied. “You’d know that if you ever spoke to any of us—”

  “Mom, don’t,” I interrupt her, shoving a hand through my dark blonde hair. I don’t want to hear about what a disappointment I’ve been right now. I don’t want to think about the long, tortured saga that is my relationship with my family. I just want to know what’s going on.

  “We’ll be having the service at St. Gregory’s, two days from now,” my mother droned on, “Reception to follow at the house. I assume you won’t be joining us, so feel free to send your flowers right to the funeral home. You know the one.”

  “Mom. Of course I’m coming to the...service,” I replied, hurt but not surprised by her callous words, “Avery is my sister...Was. My sister.”

  “How interesting,” my mom shot back, “That family suddenly means something to you, now that she’s gone.”

  After a few more perfunctory exchanges, our call ended, and I set to packing. I gathered up the only article of black clothing in my possession, shattered the mug that had held my perfectly routine cup of morning coffee, and finally folded under the unbearable weight of Avery’s death. The shock of it. For years, I’d been promising myself that I’d never go back home again. But then, I never could have anticipated the reason I’d finally have to.

  It’s afternoon by the time dull melancholy replaces sharp shock, enabling me to get a move on. I shower and dress as quickly as I can, sling on my backpack, and go to close my laptop. The internet browser is still open on an article about Avery. Some diligent entertainment blogger has put together a slideshow of pictures featuring my sister. I can’t help but click wistfully through the collection. It’s not a very long slideshow—after all, she’d only been working in LA for a few years, only just begun to be recognizable. A few months back, she actually secured her first movie role—a small supporting part, but still. And it’s no secret why her star had finally started to rise, either.

  A small gasp escapes my lips as I click through to the next picture. It’s a red carpet shot from some swanky LA party. Avery’s svelte form, like my own but far more strenuously toned, is wrapped in a shimmering bodycon dress. Her California-tanned arm is wrapped snuggly around the tapered, cut torso of her date for the evening, the up-and-coming film actor who’d been cast as the star of her first film, and more recently become her fiancé. He’s tall, built, and utterly gorgeous. Sort of in a Chris Pratt meets Charlie James Dean kind of way. I’d recognize him anywhere, and not just because he too has spent the last few years rising to stardom.

  At six foot four, he towers over my twin sister, even in her three inch heels. His body is strong and broad, boasting the sort of build you’d imagine a rugged cowboy possesses, despite the fact that he grew up down the street from us in Westchester County, New York—a far cry from cowboy country. His muscles are built but not manicured, earned from an athletic lifestyle, rather than hours spent slaving away at the gym. His hair is a rich brown, and cut short—offset by a dash of scruffy stubble on his jaw. The lopsided grin he wears is knowingly rakish, and his dark blue eyes glint as if he’s always just discovered your sexiest secret. His face is full but sculpted—a square, defined jaw, broad cheekbones, and gleaming eyes. He looks like the all-American boy turned movie star...because that’s exactly what he is.

  His name is Jackson Cole. Jack, for short. I’ve known him my entire life, though I haven’t seen him in years. Not since I bailed on the stuffy, conservative life my parents tried to corral me into as a kid. His Dad was a business associate of mine and Avery’s. Jack and I were pals all through childhood. To be honest, he was more than a pal to me—I was madly in love with him from kindergarten onward. But as we got older, things became a bit more complicated. Well. A lot more complicated.

  Avery ended up being the Benson twin Jack was more drawn to, in the end, and the two of them stayed close all through high school and college. Avery even joined Jack out in LA a few years back, just as his career as an actor was really starting to take off. He fared much better than she did, and it wasn’t much of a surprise. Jack had been the charismatic star of all our school plays in high school. And you know something? He was damned good, too. And not just for a high schooler. For anyone. As someone who was nursing her own dreams of being an actress as a brooding, artsy teenager, he’d been an inspiration to me.

  But, hey, I guess you can never tell how things are going to play out. Now, Jack is out in California, living his dream. I’m holed up in a tiny town on the Hudson River, working up to a case of SEO-induced carpal tunnel. And Avery...

  I snap the computer closed before a fresh wave of tears can blind me, forcing all thoughts of my sister and Jackson Cole out of my mind. At least for now. I stagger out into the biting cold February morning, shivering on the second story landing that leads down from the private entrance of my apartment. My home is on the top floor of a hundred-year-old building owned by a sweet, batty broad named Bernadette. She has a thing for tiny dogs, Janis Joplin, and juicy neighborhood gossip.

  I hurry down the steps and around the corner to my car, not at all in the right frame of mind to be intercepted by Bernadette and her coterie of corgis. Chucking my backpack onto the passenger’s seat, I sink down behind the wheel of my ancient Toyota. I can see my breath billowing out in front of me, steaming up the windshield as I crank the radio as high as it will go. I don’t want to listen to my own careening thoughts as I peel out onto Main Street and set off on the route I never thought I’d be traversing again—the way back to my old hometown.

  It isn’t until the radio announcer rattles off today’s date that it hits me: tomorrow is February 13th. My twenty-sixth birthday. The first birthday that won’t also be my sister’s. As kids, Avery and I used to hate the fact that we didn’t get our own birthdays to celebrate. But now, I’d give anything to be able to share mine again.

  Chapter Two

  Ten years earlier

  Westchester, NY

  The Benson home

  I swallow down huge gulps of fresh winter air as I slip out onto the balcony that leads off my bedroom. The atmosphere inside is a stifling cocktail of heady perfume, boozy breath, and stilted laughter. It’s the same overpowering combination that fills my parents’ house every time they throw one of these decadent soirees. And even though tonight’s party is ostensibly in celebration of my and Avery’s sixteenth birthday, the whole arrangement is anything but sweet. I know I should feel grateful that my parents, Howard and Sylvia Benson, are marking the event at all...but the fact there are only about five party guests under the age of forty inside is pretty telling. I wonder how long I can linger out here before anyone even realizes I’m gone?

  Wrapping my unwieldy winter coat around my bare shoulders, I gaze out across the neatly manicured grounds of my parents’ house. Though this place has been in the Benson family for some crazy number of generations, it’s always felt less like my home than The Family Estate. It’s hard to feel all warm and fuzzy about a place that boasts a servants’ entrance and honest-to-god gargoyles. But in two short years, I’ll be off to college, I remind myself for the umpteenth time. I’ll be free and clear of this house, this town, this whole WASPY scene.

  “Waiting for that punk-ass Romeo to show up, or what?” asks an amused voice from over my shoulder.

  I whip around, accidentally casting off the heavy parka in my surprise. A tall, familiar form is backlit in the balcony doorway. I didn’t even hear him slip out after me. But then again, he’s always been pretty light on his feet—whether on the football field, the high school stage, or booking it away from the house party that’s just been busted up by the cops. That’s Jackson Cole, alright. The guy you want by your side in any situation...or maybe that’s just me.

  “Well?” Jack grins, taking a loping step out onto the balc
ony.

  “Well...what?” I ask, tucking a loose curl back into my elaborate up-do. I’d begged my mom not to doll me up for the party tonight, to no avail. With my glamour shot makeup and starchy hairdo, I don’t feel anywhere near cool enough to be within ten feet of Jackson Cole.

  “Has Romeo made his entrance or what?” Jack asks, leaning up against the railing beside me. “You’re on a balcony, aren’t you? I figured it was just an automatic thing.”

  I steal a quick once-over of Jack, trying not to let my mind linger on how good he looks in his navy blue suit. Romeo certainly has made his entrance, I think longingly. I’d tell him so if I could work up the courage. But I’m not exactly the Juliet type. Nope. No Romeo and Juliet-style balcony confessions of love for me, no matter how good of an opening I may have.

  “I’m afraid that Mr. Montague had other plans tonight,” I reply to Jack, tearing my eyes away from his perfectly-balanced form. It’s not any guy who could look that good and keep up with my preferred brand of literature-based banter. But then again, Jack’s not just any guy.

  “Bummer,” Jack grumbles, reaching into his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes, “Though I have to say, I can’t blame the guy. This party kinda blows.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “Come on,” Jack laughs, tucking a cigarette between his perfectly full lips, “You can’t tell me this isn’t a total bust.”

  “It’s my sweet sixteen, technically,” I remind him, “I’m trying not to utterly despise it.”

  “Yeah. Good luck with that,” Jack replies, lighting up his smoke.

  The tiny burst of red light illuminates his face, casting his gorgeous features in sharp relief. I can’t pinpoint the moment when my affection for Jack went from little kid best friendship to pure, uncut desire. Probably it was the precise moment when I realized that I did, indeed, like boys, and one boy most of all. The only trouble is, just about every other girl who attends our insular private high school feels the same way. And as a skinny, artsy, sometimes too-sarcastic-for-my-own-good misfit, I doubt I’d be anyone’s first choice—least of all Jack’s.