Forever With You (Silver State Series) Page 20

  “It’s very pretty,” I tell her, meaning it. “It’s much darker than it was before, yeah?”

  Donna waves her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I’ve hated my mousy hair since I was a girl. I decided if I’m going to have a go at replacing it, I might as well have the kind of hair I always wanted!”

  Again I laugh at her enthusiasm – she has a point. “It’s very – you,” I tell her. “It really is.”

  Donna laughs as she removes the wig and places it gingerly back in its box. “Thank you. I got it for the Christmas Eve service. I want everyone to be surprised, so don’t tell anyone.”

  “It’ll be our secret,” I agree.

  I stay two more hours, until long past dark. Donna and I talk about her chemo, which she’ll finish at the beginning of February. She cringes when she talks about it and how sick it makes her – how she throws up for two days before each cycle just thinking about it. She has only nice things to say about her oncologist though, who works in the same practice as my own physician, Dr. Hennessy.

  Eventually the conversation turns to happier topics. We talk about our Christmas shopping and how we both want to go to New York City around the holidays someday to ice skate at Central Park and see the tree in Rockefeller Center. We talk about Donna’s plans for her garden this spring and the trip I want to take to an archaeological dig in Spain someday soon. Having been in her shoes not long ago, I know it helps to talk about the future and voice your plans to still be a part of it when it gets here.

  It’s a little after 5:30 when my phone starts ringing, and I already know it’s Mom getting antsy for me to come home. Donna seems crestfallen when I tell her I need to leave. “It was so nice having a girlfriend to talk to all afternoon,” she says as she stands to walk me to the door. “I’m so glad you dropped by.”

  “I had a good time,” I reply. “Thank you for inviting me in.”

  Donna pauses with her hand resting on the doorknob. “Truly, Tawny,” she says, her tone suddenly serious. “Thank you. I spend so much time holding it in, pretending I always feel good or that everything will be fine, because I don’t want anyone to worry about me. You can’t imagine how good it feels to let some of that out.”

  I smile. “Oh, I think I have an idea.” I bend down and give her a soft kiss on the cheek. “Bye, Donna. See you soon, I hope.”

  Kyle – Saturday, December 24, 6:30 PM

  Traffic was horrendous on I-80 between Reno and Winnemucca because of a multi-car pileup just west of Fernley, so I didn’t get home until it was almost time to leave for the Christmas Eve service at my grandparents’ church. On my way in I gave Jack a hug and Donna a kiss, then slipped into my old room to quickly change clothes.

  Once I was dressed in a pair of black slacks and a forest green button down, I waited in the living room with Jack while Donna put the finishing touches on her makeup. I almost fell over when she walked out of their bedroom a minute later with a full head of hair. Both grandparents laughed at my visible shock as I processed the transformation. “Do you like it?” asked Donna, fingering the chestnut hair at the nape of her neck.

  “You’re exquisite,” I’d replied, borrowing a word I’d heard her use on several prior occasions. Seeing her girlish blush was enough to make my entire night.

  We take the old, rarely used Buick, since Donna isn’t as capable of climbing up into Jack’s truck anymore. I help her into the front seat, then slide into the back. As we start down the street, I look at the glowing Christmas lights on all the neighbors’ houses and glance back in sadness at our own dark house. Donna is big on decorating for the holidays, and ordinarily she’d stand outside and supervise while Jack stood up on a tall ladder and stapled lights to the gutter. This year, though, I know Jack has been too worried about her to spend much time outside the house. An ache of guilt spreads through me – Why didn’t I offer to put up the lights while I was home last weekend? I push the thought from my mind, knowing it’s too late now.

  The windshield wipers flick against the glass, expunging the moisture from the snowflakes that twirl in the frozen air. Meanwhile, Donna twists to look at me. “You’ll never guess who dropped by the other day,” she says.

  “Who?” I ask, thinking of her group of friends from bible study or fellow volunteers at the church thrift shop.

  Needless to say, I’m blown away when her response is, “Tawny Read.”

  Thinking I must be hearing things, I ask her to clarify. “Tawny…Read?”

  “Yes, Kyle, don’t you remember her? She was in your grade in school, even goes to UN now. She’s quite pretty, I’m not sure how you could’ve overlooked her.”

  Of course not – how could anyone overlook her? I swallow once to clear my throat. “Sure, I know who she is,” I reply tentatively. Why was Tawny at my house? I grow lightheaded thinking of the possibilities – Maybe she was looking for me?

  “She was so sweet to stop over,” Donna continues, talking a mile a minute. “We had such a good chat. She really is such a sweetheart.”

  I feel like I’ve been impaled with a knife, and every word that spills from Donna’s mouth causes the blade to twist a little deeper. I cough, squeezing my eyes shut against the pain. “You’re right,” I wheeze out. “That was nice of her.” Thankfully, Donna doesn’t seem to catch on to my discomfort.

  Jack turns up the volume on an old Bing Crosby Christmas carol that’s playing on one of the local radio stations, unwittingly allowing me a reprieve from the conversation. I fist my hands in my lap as I stare out the window at the passing houses. A flare of anger burns in my chest, although I can’t pinpoint its origin – it may actually be something akin to self-loathing. Regardless, when I think of how much more rested and peaceful Donna looks than even just a week ago, I can’t discount the chance Tawny’s visit has something to do with it – and for that I’m eternally grateful.

  Tawny – Saturday, December 24, 8:00 PM

  The pastor at Sonoma Peak Episcopal Church is an old man whose monotone voice tends to lull me to sleep. Thankfully, between carols and the choir performances, I managed to retain consciousness for the entirety of tonight’s service. Of course, it helped that Blake sat next to me – he and I kept ourselves occupied with a game of hangman on the back of the church bulletin during the more tedious parts of the sermon, while Rhiannon and Mom looked on with amusement and disapproval, respectively.

  At the end of the service, candles are lit at the end of each pew and the lights in the sanctuary are extinguished. The entire congregation stands to sing “Silent Night” in the flickering firelight before filing out, one row at a time, and reassembling outside the nave. Since it’s a special occasion, refreshments have been laid out on long tables, and people mill about, munching on cookies and wishing their neighbors a Merry Christmas.

  I stand with my parents while Blake and Rhiannon are intercepted by Mrs. Timmons, one of the former Sunday school teachers who also happens to have led my Brownies troop when I was in the first grade. While Mom and Dad chat politely with one of the choristers, I watch Blake with my sister, smiling to myself as he rubs her lower back and pretends to act interested in what Mrs. Timmons has to say.

  Distracted, I flinch when I feel someone’s hand on my arm. My alarm is replaced with a feeling of warmth when I turn to find Donna Freeman standing before me in an ankle-length, petal pink dress and her new brown wig.

  “Merry Christmas, dear heart,” she says. Her hazel eyes dance in the glimmer of the candlelight, but behind the spark I can make out a tiredness in her features. “So good to see you.” She strains to reach my face, and I stoop, allowing her to plant a soft kiss on my cheek.

  “Merry Christmas, Donna,” I say. “You look beautiful.”

  She chuckles and self-consciously tugs at her wig. “Thank you. I’ve had a lot of comments. It’s been a nice surprise, I think.”

  As if on cue, my mother sidles up next to us and exclaims, “Donna, your hair!”

  Donna winks discreetly at me before sli
ding over to talk with Mom, leaving me to shake my head and laugh. Behind her I notice Jack walking over with his wool dress coat on and Donna’s coat draped over his forearm. He nods his head at me as he joins his wife and presses his hand against the small of her back, silently impelling her to take her coat so they can leave.

  As I watch the older couple, suddenly I feel a hand grasping gently at my elbow; my heart leaps into my throat when I see who it is. Standing not a foot away from me is the person I’ve spent weeks and months trying to forget about.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Jack and Donna detaching from their conversation with my parents and heading toward the exit. Kyle’s eyes remain on me, however, as he leans in, giving an impression of urgency. “Thank you for visiting her,” he says lowly – the sound of his voice… God, it’s indescribable. “It means a lot.”

  Then, much to my bewilderment, he closes the remaining distance between us and kisses my forehead before whispering, “Merry Christmas, Tawny.”

  I open my mouth, but Kyle steals away before I can utter a word. He doesn’t look back as he follows his grandparents out the door and into the frigid darkness.

  Chapter 23 – Super Bowl Sunday

  Sunday, February 5

  Tawny – 6:00 PM

  I really wish I hadn’t let Aiden talk me into coming to this Super Bowl party with him – I’m getting over a cold, and I feel gross and achy and feverish. Plus, even though my parents are big Denver Broncos fans, I’ve never really been into football.

  When we arrive there are already a dozen people milling around the basement of the town house Aiden’s friend Brady shares with two other guys. There’s a keg and lots of liquor and a table covered with bowls of popcorn and pretzels and platters of brownies, but none of it looks the least bit appetizing. While Aiden greets his friends, I curl up on the couch with the box of tissues I brought along with me and pull my arms inside my hooded sweatshirt for warmth.

  “You don’t look so good,” says Vivian as she sits down beside me. I’m relieved to see her here – she had said she wasn’t sure she could make it.

  “I feel awful,” I reply, my voice raspy and nasal. “I’d keep my distance if I were you.”

  Ignoring my warning, Vivian scoots closer. “Why are you here then?” she asks. “You should’ve made Aiden stay in and fix you some soup or something.”

  I shrug. “I voted to stay in. I got vetoed.”

  Vivian rolls her eyes and turns around to give Aiden a hard glare, but he doesn’t notice. His hands are shoved deep in the front pockets of his jeans, and his feet are spread apart as he rocks back on his heels, admiring Brady’s new flat screen and surround sound setup.

  A little while before halftime, Vivian stands up to use the bathroom, and Aiden comes over to take her seat next to me on the sofa. He takes a pull of his beer then grabs my ankle, which is curled up beneath me, and pulls it over into his lap. “Your team isn’t doing so hot,” he says, nodding at the TV. I squint at the score – I can’t even remember which team is “mine.” Since I really could care less about either, my choice had been arbitrary when I entered five dollars into the pool Aiden was organizing.

  “Can I get you anything?” he asks after a moment when I don’t respond to his taunting.

  “No, I’m fine,” I reply, wishing he’d just take me home so I could go to bed.

  He leans over and nuzzles his face against my neck; his beer breath causes my stomach to stage a mini revolt. “Thank you for coming with me,” he says in a low voice. I might find it sort of sexy if I didn’t feel like I was on death’s doorstep.

  “You’re welcome,” I mutter. Vivian returns and Aiden stands, but not before giving my hand a quick squeeze. Good, I think. At least he feels bad.

  During the halftime performance, attention shifts away from the television, and a circle forms around the foosball table. Some girl named Stacy challenged Aiden to a match, and he’s making a show of blowing on his hands and rubbing them together in preparation for their battle. A less ill and more supportive girlfriend might make her way over to watch, but all I can do is let my head loll back against the sofa cushion and listen to their teasing banter.

  A minute later, Vivian leans over and says, “You want me to go kick her ass?”

  “Whose ass?” I ask, my head feeling foggy as I lift it.

  “That Stacy chick,” she says. “She’s been shaking her boobs at your boyfriend for the past ten minutes. She’s annoying the shit outta me.”

  “Is he looking?” I ask as I blow my nose into yet another tissue.

  “Who? Looking where?”

  “Aiden. Is he looking at her boobs?”

  Vivian twists around to investigate. “I can’t tell,” she says carefully. “I don’t think so.”

  I blow out an exhale, not really caring at the moment. “I think he’s the one who needs his ass kicked,” I mumble.

  Vivian laughs loudly at my comment. “You just say the word, friend. I’m all over it.” I snort as I chuckle, then wince at the soreness that results when my body shakes.

  Kyle – 8:45 PM

  I grab my camera bag from the front seat of my Jeep and trudge slowly up the walk to my front door. I’m so tired I can barely stay upright, but I’m glad I made it back without having to stop and rest my eyes. Even though it isn’t that late, I spent a lot of time on the road today driving to and from Winnemucca. Donna had her last chemo session on Friday, so I went home to go out for a celebratory dinner with her and Jack. I’d thought it would be a joyous occasion, but strangely it didn’t feel that way. Donna had smiled a lot, but something about it seemed off, like she was putting on an act for our benefit.

  The entire house is dark except for a bar of light shining from beneath Shelley’s bedroom door across the hall from mine. I can hear her inside giggling, apparently on the phone with someone. I shuffle into my room and shut the door, then toss my keys on the desk and drop my camera bag on the floor. Pumpkin meows at me from the center of my bed, reminding me to feed her. I dump some food in her bowl, and the bell on her collar jingles as she hops down off the bed and begins hungrily scarfing it down.

  I kick off my shoes, then remove my socks, shirt and pants. Too tired to shower or change into a clean pair of underwear, I simply collapse on my unmade bed and pull my computer onto my lap to check my email. There’s one from the magazine with a list of stories they need volunteers to cover and another from one of my professors about an upcoming test. Then there are a handful of messages alerting me to various Facebook posts.

  I open up my internet browser and click on Facebook in my list of bookmarks so I can clear out the alerts. My newsfeed is filled with comments about the Super Bowl and the halftime show – I had forgotten that was even going on today. My eyes flick down for only a fraction of a second as I prepare to close the lid on my computer and lock onto a post that says, “Tawny Read was tagged in Vivian Walcott’s photos.” Obviously I never stood a chance against a headline like that – I click on the first picture.

  The photos look like they were taken in somebody’s basement. There’s a big black sofa with a Wolf Pack blanket draped over the back of it, and the frame is filled with several faces I don’t recognize. There’s one, however, that I do. Tawny looks so small curled up in the corner of the gigantic couch. While everyone else’s eyes are trained straight ahead, likely on the TV, she’s looking down at her phone. I flip to the next couple; Tawny looks equally apathetic in all of them. For some reason this makes me smile – I don’t care much for spectator sports either, especially on television. I’d probably look the same way.

  In the last photo, there’s a guy in a backward baseball cap leaning over the back of the couch with his arms wrapped around Tawny. His smile is big and goofy; hers seems sort of forced…or maybe I’m just seeing what I want to see. Regardless, my heart starts galloping, causing my chest to feel uncomfortably tight. I lean in closer to inspect the dude’s face and realize I recognize him. “Aiden Jones,” the tag
says. Where have I seen that name before? I get a sinking feeling as I click on Tawny’s name and scroll down through her timeline, all the way back to September. I click on one of the photos taken over Labor Day with her in that black bikini looking sexy as hell. The pressure in my chest amplifies when I come to the picture of Tawny standing with a guy, both of them dripping wet. Sure enough – goddammit. So he must be the guy she’s dating now.

  I sink lower on the mattress until my head is flat against the pillow and push the computer off my lap. I raise one arm to cover my forehead and use my other hand to cover my chest as I stare up at the ceiling and try to manage my breathing. Why the fuck wasn’t I good enough for her?

  Tawny – 9:00 PM

  The girl named Stacy grows more persistent as we inch toward the second half of the game. Knowing she’s pretty much hammered, I try not to hold it against her. Still, I’m no saint. I can’t help my frustration when Aiden starts responding to her advances with his own coy banter, even though I know he’d never act on it. He may be tipsy, but for God’s sake, I’m right here. Granted, I’m sort of just lying here, fading into the couch at the moment, but I’d hope he hasn’t forgotten he brought me.

  When the second half begins, the room is quickly divided between groans and cheers as the team I bet on comes from behind and overtakes the lead. At one point, Aiden lands his fist in the back of the couch as he utters every expletive under the sun. By the beginning of the fourth quarter, he’s ready to leave – considering the wide margin in the two teams’ scores, the ending looks like a foregone conclusion. Seeing his genuine chagrin, instead of teasing him or gloating I bite my tongue. Viv shoots me a sympathetic look as we say our goodbyes and leave, but really I’m just happy to get out of here.

  “You okay to drive?” I ask when we reach Aiden’s car.