Chapter Eight

I can't stay outside forever, but oh how I wish I could. I'd live in the boots-only area if it meant not facing the future that I didn't accept.

God, why does he still have that look ? That moody singer-songwriter, catch you off guard when he smiles more than you think he would, stands so firmly on the Earth that he looks as warm and purposeful as an oak tree look . That summer, he spoke in eye flutters and listened with his skin. He treated me like a work of art. I'll forget a million words, but never how he made me feel.

I manage to make it long enough outside for my lips to feel numb before I succumb to self-preservation. They're all laughing in the kitchen. Probably laughing at me and my dry knees and cold, bold nipples.

"Vee!" Francesca calls out.

I close the front door and walk into the room. Adam has his back to me, he and David sitting at the kitchen table, a pulled-out chair where Fran had been. It took five seconds for her to find the coffee cake I made Wednesday night. Yellow beeswax wrapping sits crinkled next to dancing monkey salt and pepper shakers.

Francesca opens her mouth to ask me something, but she stops when Adam asks, "Who made this cake?" He munches on a brown sugar crumble. "It's delicious."

"Vienna did," she answers.

He mulls it over. Then: "You sell this?"

He's not looking at me, that would render me goo, but I'm being addressed. I can't find words. David raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to speak human words with my human brain.

"Sell it?" Francesca scoffs before I get the chance. "Like a bake sale? Or a sidewalk lemonade stand?"

David shakes his head, giving her a look. "It's not a crazy idea, Fran. People would pay money for this."

"Like charity?"

"Like a business," he says, giving her an expression I know all too well. The big brother eyes. The don't be like this look.

"It's my mother's recipe," Francesca snaps. Then, she gauges the energy in the room.

David's admonishment, Adam's indifference, my statue-like state.

"But, whatever, yeah, sure," she mutters. "Not that Vienna wants to become a professional baker or anything. She doesn't have time with her job. Besides, who would watch our children during the holidays?"

"A nanny." David tugs on the chair beside him. "Have a seat, Vee."

Francesca pulls open cabinets. "But first, Vee, where can we put this fish? Where does Heddy keep salad bowls and –"

David laughs, "Fran, you are not putting the fish in a salad bowl!"

I tug off my boots and, barefoot, cross the room, trying to keep my expression as vacant as possible. My feet stick against the wood, the hem of my shorts has a tear in them, and I'm sure my eyes are crusty.

At least I don't have to worry about Adam falling in love with me all over again.

"How about a vase?" I suggest, pausing in front of the stove and pointing to the cabinet above.

"Who puts glass objects on the highest possible shelf?" Francesca complains. "Heddy's a munchkin. You think she'd know better. I'll get a stool."

A gruff, melodic voice offers, "I got it."

" No ," I deny out of instinct.

I'm a lot of undesirable things, but illogically proud is not one of them. If I'm capable, I'd like to do it myself.

Adam and I finally meet eyes again. He's standing, ready to easily reach into the cabinet, a paused look on his vacant face. I wonder if he's doing it on purpose. I'm praying that it's on purpose.

I force my voice to work. "I got it." I walk over to the table and take Fran's chair. It falls on its legs and everyone stares at the sound as I drag it across the kitchen.

"Drama, this one," Francesca mutters.

I climb on the chair and reach for a wide, cylindrical glass vase. After placing it on the counter and hopping to the ground, I call out, "Hey, Gray!"

He shuffles into the room holding his iPad and leans against the doorway. "What?"

Francesca scolds, " Excuse me . Try again."

He sighs. "Yes, Auntie Vee?"

I squat, meeting him at eye level. "I'm sorry I broke Miggy's bowl. It was a complete accident. I'll buy you another one. For now, will this work?"

He glances behind me. His eyes narrow, his mouth purses. He doesn't want to let me off the hook, but he answers, "That works."

"Do you forgive me?"

A small lift creeps into the corner of his mouth. "Only if you make up for it."

David snorts a laugh.

"How?" I squint.

Grayson bites back a smile. "It'll come to me. It'll come to me." He looks over at the laughter coming from the table. "Who are you?" he wonders.

At that, Adam takes a step forward, crossing his legs and leaning his hip into the counter, things I only notice from my periphery because I can't bear to look at him straight on again.

"I'm Adam Kent," he says. "I live next door. I'm a friend of your parents."

"We don't know the neighbors," Grayson argues.

"I'm not here during the summer." Adam clears his throat. "We, uh, we spent a summer together. Years ago."

"Oh." Grayson asks, "Was Auntie Vee here?"

My head moves involuntarily toward Adam. He's nodding slowly, focused on Grayson.

"Sure." He shrugs. "She was around somewhere."

Drip.

There's a blankness in the way he answers, and I beg his eyes to care about mine, but his demeanor is one of ease. He keeps his gaze squarely on my nephew.

It leads me to wonder if I exaggerated all of it, if he never cared that much, if we were just lustful, hormone-impaired kids.

"Because she doesn't come here in the summer with us ," Grayson says. He casts his eyes to the side. "I usually sleep in her room."

I say, "So sorry for the inconvenience."

"We are glad Auntie Vee is here," Francesca begins. "I just hope she didn't stay away from this place because she knows something we don't. Like where the bodies are buried."

"Alice snores," Grayson pouts.

David stands and says, " Anyway , Gray, Adam's a singer. Your mom listens to him all the time.

"It's true." Francesca nods proudly. "I really, really do. If I'm in public and a song comes on, I always say to the stranger who thinks I'm crazy, I know him! "

Damn that smile of his, even under a layer of facial hair.

Adam jokingly waves them away saying, "Thanks, guys. It takes a village to make me a successful, rich, and famous person – I'll remember you in my will. Plus, I wrote every song about you, you know."

"Those were the best three months of our lives," David commiserates.

"I've never recovered," Adam breathes.

"You ruined everyone else for me."

"I'll never love again."

Grayson squints through their ridiculous exchange, his lips moving, mouthing something, and then his face lights up. "Oh! I remember seeing your name on my mom's phone."

David narrows his gray eyes. "You can read?"

Francesca, Grayson, and I answer in unison: " Yes ."

"Vee taught him to read. He's actually pretty advanced and a little insufferable about it," Francesca adds under breath to Adam.

" And I read his name on mom's phone." Grayson pauses. "Auntie Vee hates your songs."

"Grayson!" I snap.

Adam looks at the floor and laughs. "Well, I'm not everyone's cup of tea."

Grayson's hands start moving around wildly. "Every time we're at the grocery store or in the car or she's on TikTok, she's like, ‘No – no! Turn this off! I hate this song –"

"Okay!" I interrupt, plastering my hand over his mouth. "We're going to find Alice."

Francesca jumps in, "Why don't you put some actual clothes on, Vienna."

"Why don't you parent your children?" I call over my shoulder.

She shrugs. "We're on vacation."

Before I can leave the room, however, we're all frozen by the sound of something in the pantry. It bumps against the door.

"The peacock," Grayson whispers.

"The ghost," Francesca says.

"The Alice," I decide.

David opens the door to a surprised, horrified scream. Alice pauses, cross-legged in the middle of the closet, one cookie in hand and another in her mouth.

David and Adam laugh while Francesca comes to scoop her up from the floor.

"Alice Marie!" she admonishes. "When did you sneak in there? Where did you get those cookies from?"

"Auntie Vee must have made them," Grayson says. "They're too pretty to be from the store."

Fran takes the cookie and spins it around in her hand. "Oh yeah. Thanksgiving cookies. These are great, Vienna!" She takes a bite. "Cinnamon?"

I nod, tense. Still begging for a reason to get out of this room.

She says, "We should send some with Adam, you always bake enough for a Star Wars convention and my children turn rabid on sugar."

I nod. Tense.

I listen to the sound of Adam's breath. He's about to speak. It makes me more tense.

He says, "Actually, why don't you all come over for dinner tonight? My sister Maggie and her husband Diego would love to meet you. We're just grilling out: hotdogs and hamburgers, chips, s'mores."

As the three other adults discuss their plans, Grayson begins to walk out of the room and my hand's still glued to his shoulder, so I take the exit with gratefulness. In the hallway by the back stairs, I exhale.

Adam's voice carries through the kitchen, but I stare at the back door, imagining the sound coming from below the buzzing porch light as its surrounded by bugs. He's whispering to me through the screen, asking if everyone else has finally gone to sleep.