Loaded, p.11
Loaded, page 11
Since I can’t quite bring myself to hate anyone with that kind of unparalleled musical talent, I sit, fuming, until I realize that I’ll be late for work. Now I have a real reason to curse her out as I head in for work. I’m on my way out when Jake’s door swings open. “You’re leaving?”
“I do that every day,” I say, “almost. More’s the pity.”
“Well.” He looks me over head to toe. “You look alright.” He nods. “No worse for wear, at least.”
“I suppose one night of drinking won’t wither me entirely.”
He smiles. “Not entirely.”
By the time I reach work, it’s raining. Of course it is. Maybe I can blame the rain for being late. I throw the strap for my bag over my shoulder and prepare to sprint from my car to the back door. My phone dings, and I almost ignore it, but it could be Harv. If he’s already mad I’m late, I should know before I rush headlong into a lecture.
I whip it out and tap the message app.
It’s not Harv. It’s not anyone from work. It’s a number I don’t know, but I’m guessing it’s someone who got my number from Emerson.
SAW THIS AND THOUGHT OF YOU. YOU’RE TOO SPARKLY TO BE INVISIBLE FOR LONG. There’s a link.
It must be from Easton. No one else knows what happened.
The link is for the same stupid song-writing contest Octavia sent me.
I consider texting back the word STOP, because my phone blocks any number that I text that to. . .but I feel like Easton would just find a workaround. He’s probably friends with Verizon’s owner or something.
Or, if I’m being really honest, I’d admit that I don’t actually want him to stop texting me. I was kind of excited when I realized it was from him.
I’m not nearly as excited that his text was encouraging me to write non-jingle songs. It feels like there’s some kind of conspiracy of people who don’t even know me but know what’s best for me. They seem to feel like they can simply encourage me a little, and suddenly I’ll burst out of my little shell to belt out bestsellers.
I blame the stupid inspirational movies like Coyote Ugly where stupid junk like that is always happening. It’s always the introvert who hides in their room and works remotely until they overcome their weakness and suddenly can be more. Better.
Where’s the story for the introvert who likes the idea of working in her room? Why can’t I be perfectly satisfied with it? Extroverts who want to be in the spotlight must secretly rule the world, and that’s why they’re shoving their values off on other people. By the time I calm down enough to make the mad dash into the restaurant, I’m already braced for Harv to yell. Instead he waves me over with a smile on his face. “I didn’t think it would be you,” he says.
“I’m sorry?”
“Theo overstaffed this shift on accident, but we didn’t notice until it was about to start. So we figured whoever got in first would work, and whoever showed up later would get to take the night off.”
That is not what I expected to hear. “Uh. Okay.”
“You’re usually early, so I figured you’d be working. Will it leave you in a bind if you take the day off?” Harv asks. “Do you need the money? We could just do smaller sections, but—”
“It’s fine.” I did just win five hundred bucks. But on the way back out to my car, I don’t even bother jogging. I walk, slowly, as the rain pelts my face and hair, drenching my entire body. By the time I get to my car, I realize that I’m crying.
It’s been a while since I’ve done this—rain-cried.
Rain used to be my favorite. I could cry as much as I wanted, and no one would even notice. It was the best cover story for having too many feelings—feelings that don’t always fit in my body like normal people’s. That’s my real trial. I feel too much. Always have.
Thanks to my mom, I learned early how to choke them down.
But sometimes, they overflow, and when they do, I’m always grateful for a nice rain storm. I stand beside my car for a few moments before I feel ready to get in and drive home. I’m parking when my phone bings. I kill the engine and check to see who’s messaging me now. Will it be Jake or Emerson telling me to cheer up, or Easton again with another stupid pep talk?
Toss up.
But it’s not any of them.
It’s Seren. I CAN’T EVER KEEP UP WITH YOUR WORK SCHEDULE, BUT I MISS YOU. LUNCH? DINNER? TELL ME WHEN AND WHERE.
That makes me smile.
Seren always makes me smile. She makes everyone smile. She may have the saddest story I’ve ever heard, but she spreads joy like she’s a hose and joy is water. Everyone in her life is better for knowing her. I wish I was like Seren.
I’m more like a hose that sprays Eeyore-vibes.
That thought makes me laugh for some reason. And the laughter turns into crying again. If I go inside, Jake will bug me until I want to strangle him, trying to cheer me up. The problem with trying to cheer someone up is that it’s so forced, so in your face. Seren’s not like that. She just quietly exudes calm and happy energy. I could really use some of that emanating happiness right now. I JUST FOUND OUT THEY DON’T NEED ME TODAY, I text back. HAVE TIME NOW?
OF COURSE! I JUST MADE A BIG PAN OF LASAGNA, BUT DAVE IS WITH KILLIAN AT A MEET.
I’LL BE OVER IN FIFTEEN.
It’s more like twenty, but when I pull down the drive, like always, I wonder why it’s been so long since I drove home. I spent most of my life thinking I didn’t have a home. I didn’t find this one until I was almost a teenager. I thought I was so broken I could never be of use to anyone.
Dave and Seren, and Emerson too, honestly, glued me all back together. I’ll never be like someone who wasn’t shattered, but I can usually function well enough that people can’t tell how broken I am. And it’s all because of this place—these people.
Even stepping out of my car helps me breathe easier.
Seren understands what I need. She never ever pushes me to do things I don’t want to do. In fact, when we were younger, I’d come home crying sometimes about some project I couldn’t fathom doing. Before I came to live with them, I was never at any one school long enough to worry about grades. But once I moved here, I realized I was pretty behind.
Group projects and class presentations practically left me covered in hives.
Seren went to bat for me and had the school provide something called ‘accommodations.’ It meant they had to find me an alternative assignment that I could do without wanting to crawl in a hole and never come out.
When I walk through the door, looking like a drowned cat, she holds out her arms. “Oh, Beebee.”
I rush into her arms.
She hugs me tightly, never asking any questions. Then she releases me. “Need a change of clothes? Or are we marinating for some reason?”
Most of my analogies are music ones, but all of hers are something to do with food and cooking. In spite of that, she herself is very thin. In fact, she looks like a movie star. Always has. It’s in her blood. My mom probably passed me a genetic disposition to be an alcoholic, whereas Seren got movie-star genes. Her grandmother was one of the most famous movie stars of her era, and the mansion Seren and Dave run as an inn used to be her family home, staffed while she was growing up with five full-time employees.
She had a very different childhood than I did.
And yet she gets me. When I finally emerge, wearing her slightly-too-big clothes, I feel like a totally different person. She always smells like lilacs, for one. I used to think it came from spending time in her garden, which she’s always working in when she’s not baking, but I think it must be a perfume. She smells this way year round.
But I smell like her right now, and I love it.
“Ready to eat?”
She didn’t mention rolls, but of course she made those, too. I swear, it’s a miracle everyone in this family isn’t a thousand pounds. “Thanks.”
“We should set up some kind of weekly dinners. I wonder if we could find a day everyone could come.”
“I’d love that,” I say. And I mean it. I think we all would. “What about Sundays? I get Sunday and Monday off every week.”
“I’ll text Ardath, Emerson, and Jake right now.” She beams. “What about Bentley and Barbara? Should I invite them? Or no?”
“Of course,” I say.
“It’ll be more chaotic, but their twins are so stinking cute.”
She’s not wrong about that, but family chaos is the good kind. After eating two plates of lasagna, even though it’s the vegetarian kind, and three rolls, I lean back and cry Uncle. “I’m so full you could stuff me for Thanksgiving.”
Seren smiles. “Good.”
“You didn’t go to Killian’s meet?”
“It’s in Philly, and I had to be here to meet the contractor.”
“What contractor?”
She sighs. “We’re remodeling the Oceans Beneath Us room—there was a busted pipe, so it moved to the top of the list. We’ve been waiting on this tile—it’s period, and it’s perfect—for three weeks.”
“A lot of people ask for that room, too.”
Seren nods. “Less than used to, but yeah. People still like that movie.” She looks almost sad. I suppose it’s inevitable that the pool of people who loved her grandmother will shrink with time, but I can see why it would bum her out. It’s not about the money for Seren—it never has been. I’ve rarely met someone who cares about money less than she does.
“Thanks for texting me.” I look at my hands. “I had a rough night last night.”
Seren drops a hand on mine. “I’m sorry.”
She never pries. It’s just not her way. “I was a finalist for a jingle contest, but I lost.”
“Oh, Beebee. I wish you’d told me—I’d have come and cheered.”
“Emerson and Jake went,” I say. “But having them there when I didn’t win made it harder.” It feels nice to say that. I’m not sure if she’ll understand, but it’s true.
“I would have been proud if you’d gotten dead last.” She really would have been, I’m sure.
“I got first runner up,” I say. “I did win a five hundred dollar prize.”
Her eyes widen. “Bea! That’s wonderful. How many contestants were there?”
“A lot,” I say. “I should be happy, I know. But the woman who gave me the news told me that I should have won.” I grit my teeth.
Seren blinks. “I don’t understand. Was it political?”
I shrug. “Nah, I don’t think so.” I want to tell her—and I don’t. Talking about it hurts, but I think she’ll get it. So I explain what she said, and then I tell her how Easton was there, and what he said.
“Wait, Easton—Elizabeth’s brother?” Seren frowns. “Why would he go? Did he know another contestant?”
I sigh. “No, he came to support me. I ran into him at the Red Horse.”
Seren nods slowly. “Okay.”
“He asked me out, and I said no.”
Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t say anything.
“I—he was there on a date with some supermodel with these huge, fishy lips.” I pucker.
“That’s definitely not you.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
Seren leans back, laughing as she drops her hands flat on the table. “I meant the fish lips.” She lifts both eyebrows. “You’re definitely lovely enough to be a supermodel, but you might need really, really tall shoes.”
That makes me laugh, too.
“But Bea, why was he there if you turned him down? And why would he tell you that the woman might be right? It feels. . .bizarrely overreaching.”
“We did get along pretty well when I took care of him on his failed date,” I say. “Miss Collagen USA left in the middle of the meal, and then he flirted reasonably well. And then. . .he set up a weekly board meeting at our restaurant, so I talked to him some then.”
“Oh?”
“And I might have led him to believe I might have some small interest.”
“Okay.”
“But he’s wrong about the song things, and so was that Octavia woman.” I whip out my phone. “Look—one of them emailed me about this song-writing contest, and the other one texted me. Why do people think I don’t know what’s best for me?”
Seren drops her hand over mine again. “They care about you, and most people can’t see past their own damage to navigate someone else’s.”
It’s stuff like this—these profound things—Seren just drops them around like stray musical notes kind of pouring all over from a bucket full of sound. “I think they probably do care, but they want me to be successful in the way they measure it. They don’t accept that what I want is also fine.”
“Are you sure that writing non-jingle songs isn’t what you want?”
That surprises me. Of all the people in the world, the last one I thought might side with them was Seren. “Wait, do you think they’re right?”
Seren tilts her head. “It almost feels like you do.”
“What have I said that might possibly be taken that way?”
“You’re awfully upset,” she says, “for something you don’t care about.”
I sit back and think about it for a moment. Could she be right? Am I incensed because I’m scared?
“You know what masking emotions are.” Seren shrugs. “And maybe that’s not what’s going on, but anger’s a pretty strong mask.”
Sometimes I hate all the stupid cognitive behavior training Seren’s had. Alright, maybe that’s not true, but I do hate when it feels like someone is analyzing me, even when I asked for it. “You think I’m angry because. . .I’m afraid of writing anything but jingles?”
“You wrote a song first, you know,” she says. “Not a jingle, but a song.”
“For you,” I say. “For your birthday.”
“And then Jake used it for that contest and won.”
“That song may have been what broke him out, but it was the least played song on his first album.”
“Still.” Seren nods. “It could have broken you out.”
“I didn’t want that then, and I don’t want it now.”
“Alright,” Seren says. “And that’s fine.”
“I know you think working at the restaurant is a waste of my talent.”
“Have I said that?” Seren stands and picks up our plates, but she pauses with her face just a few inches from mine. “I’ve always thought that anything you do, as long as it makes you happy, is exactly what you should do, even if it’s collecting trash.”
I should get up and help her, but I don’t. I sit like a scarecrow, not moving, not shifting even a stray piece of straw while she moves around me. Clearing the table. Putting leftovers in the fridge.
“But let’s say that’s right.” I stand up. “Let’s say I should write songs.”
“Okay, let’s say that.” Seren wipes her hands on a towel. “Then what?”
“Why would people I’ve barely met be the ones to point that out?”
“Sometimes it’s the people who don’t know you as well who can see what you need most. They’re impartial and unbiased.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Does it matter what I think?”
“It does to me,” I say. “A great deal.”
Seren sets the towel down and crosses the room. She brushes a hand against my cheek. “I think you’re exceptionally talented, but I’ve never been sure whether you’d be happier writing songs and living a flashier life—whether you should push through that childhood trauma and move past it—or whether you’re someone who has always and would always have wanted a quiet life at home.” She gestures around her. “I love my life. I make lasagna. I care for the inn and my children, and it’s everything I ever wanted. I didn’t have trauma as a child, but back then, I never wanted people staring at me and complimenting my face.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “But I don’t want to project my desires on you. You might not want what I want.”
There’s no one I’d rather be like. “What if I do?”
“There’s no shame in that,” Seren says with a soft smile. “But you’re every bit as amazing and just as much my daughter if you do want something different.” A tear rolls down her cheek. “That’s what true love is, I think. Wanting your child to succeed in whatever way they want to succeed, and helping them do it in any way you can.”
“Mrs. Stevens seems really happy, writing jingles,” I say. “And she never has to leave her family room to do it. She teaches there, too.”
“Mrs. Stevens is a gifted teacher, and I think she really likes you,” Seren says. “But she’s also using you—has been for years.”
“What?” Today’s apparently the day for Seren to say a million things I never expected. “How so?”
“She told me about two years into teaching you that you were the most talented songwriter she’d ever met.” Seren sighs. “Then she proceeded to have you help her sell dozens and dozens of jingles.” She shrugs. “You were happy with it, so I never intervened, but I’ve thought she was taking advantage of your talent for a very long time. She should have found you work years ago, but she’s selfishly told you she couldn’t help.”
“But—”
“You’re her competition,” Seren says, “and she’s not nearly as good as you, so she has kept you under a proverbial rock.”
“But she said if she ever heard about—”
“About a job?” Seren arches a brow. “And in years, she’s never once heard about a single job you’d be a good fit for? She’s never once recommended you?”
I feel like an idiot. My own mother thinks I’m a dupe.
“You’ve always been afraid to try things,” Seren says. “I probably should have pushed you more—then you’d know that failure isn’t the worst thing in the world.”
“What’s worse?” I ask.
“Never trying.” Seren walks past me into the family room and sits down. “You know I lost my husband many years ago in an accident.”
I follow her over. She never talks about this.
“One thing I almost never tell anyone is that I was pregnant when the bus crashed.” She meets my eye, and I can see the wreckage. “I lost that child, and I lost my uterus, which ruptured in the accident.”
