Wish I May (4 page)

When we cut back through my yard to her car, I nod to my house. “That’s mine.”

It’s odd, seeing it through her eyes. I’m proud of the home I built—a two-story, brick behemoth with a gorgeous flagstone patio in the back—but as I watch her take it in, I’m almost embarrassed at the excess. Cally and her family never had much. In fact, they rarely even had
enough
. And now they’re staying at the Cheap Sleep, and her dad is living in that dilapidated old cabin. Not much has changed.

She forces a smile. “It’s beautiful. I’m very happy for you.”

She steps away, but I grab her hand fast.

“Cally.”

She turns to me, those big brown eyes, those perfect pink lips.

There are a hundred reasons why I shouldn’t want anything to do with her, but I have two, maybe three days before she disappears from my life again. Maybe for good this time. I can’t handle the idea of this being the end, and I’ll be damned if I’m letting her stay at that shitty motel. “Why don’t you and your sisters stay with me?”

She snorts. “You surely don’t have room for us
and
your wife and two-point-four children.”

“No wife. No kids. Just me and way too damn much space.”

She shakes her head. “That’s sweet of you, but we’ll be fine. You’ve already done more than most would have.” She walks to her car, slides into her seat, and pulls away without another glance my way, leaving me alone with my memories of strawberry wine.

S
TRAWBERRY WINE.

I can practically taste it as I drive away from Will and back to the motel. It’s the taste of my old life. Of careless teenage rebellion and first love, of starlit nights on the dock behind the old warehouse on Main. William and I would sit on the cool concrete and sip strawberry wine he snagged from his grandma’s wine cellar (an impressive 500-bottle collection of Boone’s Farm). We’d watch the moonlight play off the water and drink straight from the bottle. Sometimes we’d just look at each other. On cloudy nights, we could hardly see at all and had to let our hands do the looking—his thumb skimming across my lips, down my neck, under my shirt.

That was where I told him I loved him the first time. Where he splashed wine on my stomach and bent to lick it off. It was where he first unbuttoned my jeans and kissed his way down my body until he pressed his mouth—hot, wet, and so slow I wanted to die—right against the damp cotton of my underwear. And the night before I had to climb into the U-Haul with my mom and two little sisters, it was there on the dock that he kissed me softly, like I was this fragile thing he feared he might break. He ran his mouth down my neck and cupped my face in his hands and whispered,
“Hello.”

Strawberry wine, William Bailey, and a life so much simpler.

When I get back to the hotel, my fifteen-year-old sister, Drew, is sprawled on one of the two double beds, tinkering with her iPod, earbuds in her ears. She’s wearing a white tank and cotton shorts that say “You Wish” across the back and show more of her ass than they conceal. Her long, dark hair falls over half her face like a curtain, hiding the features that look so much like Mom’s.

“Did you find him?” she asks, lifting her head and popping out one earbud. “Dad better live in a big-ass house with a live-in cook and on-site spa.”

I snort. “Okay, Pampered Princess.”

“This so-called
hotel
is disgusting. Pretty sure they’re renting rooms by the hour here, Cally.”

If Extreme Bitchiness were a sport, my sister Drew has spent the last month training to be the world champion.

She’s dealing with losing Mom. It’s something I must remind myself of again and again. Instead of spending thousands of dollars we don’t have to visit a shrink, who would tell us this is her way of dealing with her grief, I just need to accept it. I need to be patient until my still-bitchy-but-much-more-bearable sister comes back.

“He’s out of town,” I say. No need to tell her how unequipped the man is for company, let alone to take in and care for his youngest daughters. I couldn’t see much through the little window, but my view into the old living room let me know there wasn’t much to see. Books, books, books. Not even a fucking couch.

We’ll figure it out.
It’s a mantra I’ve all but worn out over the last seven years.

“It’ll be okay.” God, I don’t sound the slightest bit convincing. Even
I
am unsure about the wisdom of my plan. But what am I supposed to do? Move them into my crappy little apartment in Las Vegas with my three roommates? Let Johnny teach Gabby how to roll a joint while lecturing Drew on the acceptable price of a dime bag? Or worse, beg Brandon to take me back so he can take care of us all?
Fuck no
.

“Mom worked her ass off to get us out of this crappy little town,” Drew says.

“So we’re rewriting history today?”

“You really think she’d want you bringing us back here?”

I don’t bother answering her. I’m sick of her painting Mom as the martyr she wasn’t, sick of defending my decision to track down our father, sick of trying to explain that there’s no money tree to harvest in order to allow her to keep living her old life.

“Whatever.” Dismissing me with a roll of her eyes, Drew pops the earbud back in and snatches her cell off the end table. Her fingers fly across the screen, no doubt texting her friends back home about what a heinous bitch I am.

If this is what motherhood is like, God can strike my ovaries useless right here and now.

I spot Gabby in the corner, sitting on a battered wooden chair and peering out the window to the parking lot below. She’s ten but she was born premature and her tiny frame and baby features never seemed to catch up, so she looks younger than she is. She looks up at me and gives me a sad smile, as if in apology for Drew.

My heart squeezes so hard and tight, my chest hurts and my lungs ache. I need those long, ragged breaths of a good cry and the bone-melting sleep that comes after. Every moment has been full since Mom died, and I haven’t given in to the temptation since the funeral. Crying is a luxury I’m saving for a private moment.

“How about we order a pizza for dinner?” I force enthusiasm I don’t feel into my voice.

“We had pizza for lunch.” Drew rolls to her back, never taking her eyes off her phone.

She’s right. In an attempt to lighten their sagging spirits today, I made a lunch stop at Chuck E. Cheese’s. It failed miserably.

I ignore her objection—pizza is cheap and something they’ll both eat—and look at Gabby. “Pizza and then maybe we’ll order a movie on Pay-Per-View, what do you say?”

Gabby nods before returning her attention to the window and the parking lot below. What is she looking for? Or who?

The doctor said that there’s nothing physically wrong with Gabby.
“She can talk, she’s just choosing not to.”
Then she recommended a therapist. Again.

I dig my wallet out of my purse and count the bills, even though I already know exactly how much I have. Or, more to the point, how much I don’t have. I didn’t anticipate my father not being here, and I’m out of money. All I have left is two singles, a quarter, two nearly maxed out credit cards, and a bank account wiped clean by Mom’s funeral expenses. As it is, I’m going to need money from Dad just for the gas to drive home.

I pull out the Visa and grab the phone book.

Where the hell are you, Dad?

The morning sun is hot on my back as I knock on the door to room 132 at the Cheap Sleep and hold my breath.

What am I doing? Cally wants nothing to do with me, and she’s leaving town in a few days. I should be calling Meredith, the granddaughter of my grandma’s best friend since childhood. Meredith has everything going for her—the career, the family, the personality. Fuck, she’s even gorgeous, and—judging by some of the texts she’s sent me—a little dirty in the best of ways.

But I’m not calling Meredith. I didn’t even respond to last night’s text—a creative promise of what she’d do for me if I came to her place tonight. No. Instead, I’m here, chasing after Cally. Again.

My thoughts are cut off when she swings the door open. She’s dressed in cut-offs and a tank and her hair is tied back at the base of her neck.

She freezes when she sees me. “What are you doing here?”

I lift the box in my hand. “Donuts?”

“Oh, thank Christ!” says a voice behind Cally. “If I have to eat another peanut butter sandwich, I’m going to retch.”

A teenage version of Cally appears beside her at the door and snatches the box from my hand. She has Cally’s dark hair and is dressed in far too little. Her short shorts and tank reveal more than they cover. I’m tempted to offer her my shirt to protect her virtue.