Damaged In-Law Read online

  “I can’t think about how much I hate this place all at once,” I sigh, shaking my head. “I’ve still got to take it through the next couple of years, y’know? Until college.”

  “I feel that,” Jack nods, “Well, not the college part. But the hating this uptight buzzkill of a town? I’m right there with you.”

  “Wait. What do you mean ‘not the college part’?” I ask, jerking around to face him.

  “I’m just not into that scene,” he shrugs. “I’ve got other plans.”

  “Jack,” I groan, “You can’t just be one of those asshole trust fund kids who never works a day in his—”

  “Hey,” he cuts me off abruptly, “I’m not going to be one of those kids. You were born into the same kind of money I was, Callie. Don’t go getting all high and mighty on me. I’m not going to college, but I’m still getting the hell out, make no mistake about it.”

  “Oh...Shit. I’m sorry,” I tell him, daring to lay my hand on his muscled shoulder, “I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything. It’s going to sound lame as hell, but...I guess not going to college never really occurred to me as an option.”

  “Nerd,” he replies, his indignation dissipating as I let my hand linger on his arm.

  “What’re you going to do instead?” I ask, wanting this conversation to go on as long as possible. Wanting to keep him here.

  “Promise you won’t get all judgy on me?” he replies, searching my face for skepticism.

  “Promise,” I assure him.

  “Alright,” he says, with a conspiratorial gleam in his blue eyes. He leans in close to me, and I feel a thrill race through my core. “I’m going to be an actor,” he tells me. “I mean a real actor, Callie.”

  If it were anyone else in the world, this is the point where I’d have to start feigning enthusiasm. But this is Jack. Call me crazy, but I have absolutely no trouble believing him. If he wants to set out to become an actor, that’s exactly what he’ll do. He’s been amazing every time I’ve seen him perform—in all of our school plays, our friends’ no-budget indie films, and even at the occasional community and regional theater. Jack is a natural. And I’m not just saying that because I want him with every fiber of my being.

  “So, what do you think?” he prompts me.

  “I think...that’s awesome, Jack,” I tell him sincerely.

  “For real?” he asks, surprised but excited.

  “For real!” I assure him with a smile. “But you know...you can go to college for acting...”

  “Don’t start,” he groans, laying a playfully accusing fingertip flush between my collarbones. I have to grab hold of the railing to keep from falling over in glee. “Jesus, Cal. You’re gonna freeze your ass off,” he says, cutting off my rapturous train of thought. Only now that he mentions it, do I realize that my parka is still hanging out around my high-heeled feet. Closing his teeth on the cigarette, Jack leans down to pick up my fallen coat.

  “Oh, you don’t have to...” I start to say, but trail off as he straightens up before me, not three inches of space between us.

  I gaze up at him—all the way up, as my five-foot-four frame doesn’t exactly rival his in height. Jack is standing so close to me that I can feel the heat radiating off of him, cutting the frigid air. My hands ache to reach for him as he wraps the coat around my shoulders, his eyes skirting down along my body all the while. For once, I’m actually glad that I took Avery’s fashion advice this evening. I’m wearing one of her little black dresses, with a classic silhouette and a neckline that plunges low enough to show off my newly-acquired cleavage.

  “There you go,” Jack murmurs, resting his hands on my shoulders for a moment that may as well be an hour.

  “Um. Thanks,” I breathe, feeling something like physical pain as he lifts his hands away and takes the cigarette between his fingertips. I could swear he looks just the tiniest bit disappointed to let go.

  We turn back toward the railing and look out across the property, standing side-by-side but much closer now. Daringly, I press my shoulder against his arm, feeling the muscle there even through our many layers of clothing.

  “You know something? You clean up pretty good,” he tells me, casting a sidelong glance my way before taking a long drag of his smoke.

  “Because I’m a hot mess the rest of the time?” I reply with a snarky smile.

  “Yeah. Pretty much,” he laughs.

  “Sorry, I don’t go out of my way to dress up for guys,” I shoot back, “I’m usually pretty preoccupied with, you know, things I actually give a shit about.”

  “Trust me. The guys are sorry too,” he grins, shooting me a wink. “You’d be a pretty hot commodity if you tried a little harder.”

  I bristle at his words. I know he’s just trolling me, saying the exact thing he knows will piss me off the most. He’s trying to be the charming, devil-may-care guy that the rest of the world wants him to be, but I hate it when that kind of arrogance creeps into his voice. I’ve known Jack long enough to be sure that there’s a lot more to him than swagger and smug superiority. But my impossibly huge crush on him has kept me from telling him to cut it the hell out...Until tonight, that is.

  “You’re not fooling me with that shit, you know,” I say quickly, before I lose my nerve. I can feel my cheeks burning red as Jack raises a perfect eyebrow, but I press on anyway. “And if you ever refer to me, or any other woman, as a ‘hot commodity’ again, I might have to punch you in the teeth. Just saying.”

  “Duly noted, Ma’am,” he smirks, flicking his cigarette off the balcony. I watch as the slender stick of white careens through the air, landing somewhere among my mother’s prized rose bushes.

  “Seriously, Jack,” I go on, lifting my eyes to his, “I know you too well to buy that crap.”

  “Is that so?” he counters, turning his body to face mine. I swallow hard, squaring off against him. Now that I think of it, this is the most time we’ve spent alone together in years. This is my chance to really get through to him, to tell him how crazy I am about the Jackson Cole I know is buried under all the ‘Rebel Without a Cause’ nonsense. But wouldn’t you know it...I seem to have forgotten every word I’ve ever known under the sudden intensity of his blue-eyed gaze.

  “Well, yeah,” I finally manage to say, surprised by the lusty rasp of my own voice. “I mean, we’ve always been close. Haven’t we?”

  “Sure,” he murmurs, his own voice swooping low in his register. “But there’s close, and then there’s close. Right, Cal?”

  There’s barely an inch of space between us as we stand on the balcony, eyes locked. I force myself to keep breathing, trying desperately not to lose my head and do something stupid. But I’m not sure how much longer I can keep my hands, or my adoring thoughts, to myself.

  “We may have known each other a long time,” he goes on, as the sliver of air between us crackles with anticipation, “But there are still a few sides of me you haven’t seen, Callie. They might surprise you.”

  “Well...I’ve always loved surprises,” I breathe, my eyes flicking down to his perfect mouth. I can feel my face tilting up towards his as if of its own accord.

  “That so?” he says, that lopsided grin blossoming across his face.

  I gasp as I feel his thickly muscled arm circle the small of my back, tugging me against his firm body. My hands press against the smooth panes of his chest as every inch of me that touches him sparks with electric excitement. Holy shit. This is it! I think to myself, staring up in wonder as Jack’s lips move ever-so-slightly toward mine. I let my eyes close, readying my heart and mind to record every single detail of this perfect moment...

  “WHAT’S UP, BITCHES!” sings a loud, tipsy voice as the second set of doors at the other end of the balcony clatter open.

  I spring away from Jack, totally disoriented by the interruption. All of the anticipation, the delight, and the desire that raced through my veins just a moment ago is replaced with weary, begrudging irritation. My sister Avery sways in her own bedroom
doorway—of course we share this balcony between us—clutching a bottle of vodka by the neck and grinning mischievously. Despite the fact that we’re identical twins, Avery always manages to look more put together than me, even one-too-many drinks in. Where my dirty blonde hair is piled in a pageant girl up-do, her dyed-platinum locks hang in sexy, tousled waves. Where my makeup is prim and girlish, hers is smoky and mature. And of course, where my body is skinny and unremarkable from hours spent with my nose in a book, hers is toned and muscular from hours spent cheerleading at Jack’s football games.

  Our superficial differences have never really gotten under my skin all that much. But her penchant for playing the golden child for our parents while sneaking into the liquor cabinet? That gets a little old. Especially when they assume that I’m the one who’s nipping drinks, being the “rebellious” one and all. How many times have I wanted to shout at them, “The most rebellious thing I’ve done is plan on voting democrat and having a career in the arts! It’s your good daughter who’s boozing it up and giving backseat blow jobs.”

  But of course, I’d never throw Avery under the bus like that. Being curious about sex, booze, and drugs is pretty standard sixteen-year-old fare. But her insistence on hiding those parts of herself, out of shame or fear of punishment, makes it hard for her to experiment carefully. And it makes it damn near impossible for me to protect her from going overboard. The best I can do is hold back her hair, Google hangover cures, and cover for her whenever our parents hound me for details of her whereabouts. I mean, isn’t that what sisters are for?

  “I am so pissed at you two,” Avery says now, taking a staggering step onto the icy balcony. Jack instinctively offers an arm to keep her from falling on her ass. Giggling, Avery accepts his steadying embrace, tucking herself into the crook of his arm.

  “What terrible thing did we do now?” Jack asks, gazing down at the top of Avery’s bobbling, platinum head.

  “You left me in there!” she says, feigning outrage, “You left me to fend for myself in that pit of bald heads and Botox.”

  “Well, you managed to escape,” I reply, easing the vodka bottle out of her manicured hand. I help myself to a swig of the smooth, clear liquor. My nerves are feeling a little frayed after that near-kiss with Jack. Nothing like that has ever happened between us before. And thanks to Avery’s sudden entrance, there’s a pretty good chance that it’ll never happen again.

  But I can’t much blame her for needing some liquid courage and an escape plan from the party inside. My parents, in their ignorance, have once again invited a certain guest that Avery and I would prefer never to see again in our lives. A friend of theirs’ who gave me and my sister our first lesson in not trusting the world around us. But of course, Howard and Sylvia would have no way of knowing about our more painful memories. They’d have to pay any attention at all to be privy to that knowledge.

  “How’re you guys doing that spinning thing?” Avery slurs, her eyes going wide as she looks back and forth between us. “I don’t like it...It’s making me dizzy. I...I don’t feel so great.”

  “Come on Ave,” Jack says, his voice softening as he holds Avery up. “Let’s get you into bed, OK?”

  Those two have known each other just as long as me and Jack, of course. It’s so confusing, but the compassion and care he shows to Avery only make me like him more...even if it’s becoming increasingly obvious that I’m not the sister who’s going to be spending much time in his arms.

  Gently, Jack guides Avery back inside, stealing one last glance at me over his shoulder. His expression is fixed into a cool mask. Is that regret I see, at missing out on our moment alone? Or pity, at my deluded desire for him? I feel like an open book whenever Jack looks at me. But to me, he’s completely unreadable. Sighing as they disappear into the house, I turn back toward the grounds and take another deep drink.

  “Happy birthday to me,” I mutter into the silent, freezing night.

  Chapter Three

  Present Day

  The harsh fluorescent lights in the motel bathroom are doing nothing to help my tear-soaked, totally exhausted appearance. My eyes are puffy from crying, my hair is piled into a messy bun, and I have no idea how I’m going make myself look halfway decent for the day ahead. I smile wryly as I realize that today is February 14th. Valentine’s Day. Leave it to my parents to schedule their daughter’s memorial service on what is supposedly the most romantic day of the year. Though, considering the fact that their hearts have been frozen solid as long as I’ve known them, I shouldn’t be surprised.

  My mother threw a fit yesterday when I arrived in town and promptly found a cheap motel room for the weekend. I can’t help but replay the scene in my mind’s eye. I’d stopped by my childhood home to see if there was anything I could do to help, and watched Mom’s eyes bug out of her head when I informed her I wouldn’t be staying the night.

  “A motel? Are you angling for a case of Hepatitis?” she scoffed.

  “Mom, I lived in a motel for a month when I first moved out,” I reminded her, “And a college dorm for the next four years, which was about five times more of a wreck than your average motel room.”

  “Well, that’s what you get for going to a state school,” she sniffed, turning back to her guest list for the memorial service reception. “If you’d gone to Sarah Lawrence, or Wellesley, or anywhere halfway decent—

  “Mom, don’t. Not now,” I reply wearily. “Just give me something to do, OK? How can I help you?”

  She raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow at me, her blonde bob unmoving. “You could have helped by picking your sister up out of the gutter before it was too late,” she said evenly.

  “Avery was not in the gutter,” I snapped, “She’d been struggling with substance abuse since we were kids.”

  “That’s not true,” Mom replied.

  “It is true, whether you choose to believe it or not,” I insist, “And this is exactly why I have long since given up telling you anything at all about my life. You refuse to hear—”

  “Calista, I have quite a bit left to do in preparation for the service tomorrow,” she cut me off. “If you insist on staying in some flea-bitten hovel, I’d prefer that you get a move on and leave me to my work.”

  It probably goes without saying that I didn’t get a “happy birthday” out of her before I stormed back to my car and hit the road.

  Running the motel room shower now, I let an empty sigh escape my lips. I made up my mind a long time ago not to expect anything from my mother and father. But I suppose some small part of me had hoped that they would be different, in the wake of Avery’s death. Silly me. Not even death can sway the resolve of Howard and Sylvia Benson.

  I step into the scalding shower, savoring the sting of the hot water against my tired skin. My body has filled out some since I was a scrawny sixteen-year-old, but I’m still petite at 5’ 4” and 115 pounds. I’ve always loved my soft curves, and cared for my body with yoga and long hikes along the Hudson. I’m not much of a gym rat, but I feel comfortable in my skin.

  Avery was always the real fitness nut. Though “fitness” was never really her goal. It broke my heart to know how much she loathed her own form, the body we had in common. Since we were teenagers, she’d been punishing herself with extreme diets, hours spent in the gym, and any sort of substance that would “keep the weight off”. I learned from my mother that this is what had led to her death—a fateful combination of narcotics and alcohol. Despite my mom’s claims, I myself had no idea how bad off Avery really was, at the end. We’d grown further apart than I ever could have imagined by the time she passed away. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for that.

  I dress for my sister’s memorial service in silence, choosing the only clean black dress I could find in my apartment. As I slip into the garment and look myself over in the mirror, I feel the breath rush out of my lungs. All at once, I remember where this dress came from—it’s the same one I borrowed from Avery on the night of our sweet sixteen
. It’s been hanging in the back of my closet, following me around from motel, to dorm, to apartment like some kind of spirit. As if it was just waiting for this day to finally arrive.

  If I’m completely honest, I’m sure that there are plenty of people who would have predicted Avery’s far too early death. The gossip blogs have been quick to point that out. But today, I resolve to not think of Avery as a tragic almost-starlet, the way the rest of the world has been quick to do. I’ll hold her in my heart as the bright, sensitive, determined girl she really was. Even if I—and maybe Jack—were the only ones to ever see that side of her.

  With my jaw set, I swipe on a quick coat of deep scarlet lipstick, grab my purse, and set off for St. Gregory’s Church. I try to keep my eyes on the road, ignoring the familiar contours of my hometown of old. Remembering everything that happened here would be far too painful a task to take on today.

  The air that fills the church is heavy with the sickly scent of lilies. As I step inside St. Gregory’s and spot the abundant bouquets of Avery’s least-favorite flower, I know at once that she would have hated everything about this service. Thank god she at least got her wish of being cremated, rather than buried in this terrible town. I’m sure that’s the one part of this whole charade that wouldn’t have disgusted her. My suspicions are confirmed as I watch all of our parents’ friends fill the pews from my place in the first row.

  Avery hated all of these people, and everything they stood for, I think angrily, wondering if my mother bothered inviting any of Avery’s actual friends, or anyone who wasn’t abjectly terrible to her in life. And despite myself, I can’t help wondering as the guests stream in whether or not Jackson Cole will be here today. He and Avery were engaged, after all—a fact that still boggles my mind. They were close friends, but I never would have pegged either of them as the kind to get hitched. But then, I haven’t known anything about their lives these past few years apart from what the gossip blogs have reported on.