4. Calista

4

CALISTA

A sbury Park is the perfect microcosm of life.

Everything changes, but nothing changes.

Same boardwalk, different bars.

New roads, same traffic problems.

And Tiberius Williams is no exception. He's the boy I once knew, and yet…

I feel like I've stepped back in time. And it's warped with memories of moments I thought I'd buried.

I attempt to clear my thoughts by looking up at my old family home in the daylight; it's the same, but different too. Someone painted the trim a pale eggshell blue. The stairs are the same, but the metal railing is new. I think about how hot the old one felt beneath my hand the sunny day I ran out of there, my heart racing in fear that the bikers would come back for me.

Mom's more sensitive shrubs were flowering at the time, but now they are tightly wrapped in burlap.

I see the cameras surrounding Tiberius's parents' property. Or maybe I should call him Vex , as the patch on his coat said. Separate the boy I once knew from the man he became.

And not think about the way his hands made me feel all over again.

Or the way I could have drowned myself in those expressive brown eyes that always moved something deep within. I hate that he could remind me of the girl who once loved her utterly clueless best friend.

But then, I took in what he was wearing. And the leather cut stating he was an Outlaw chilled me to the bone. Did he know what they did to me?

I force myself to refocus on the cameras on the lot, but I see he has one angled over my mom's house. He's been keeping an eye on her too, something I should have done but didn't think to.

When I ran, I abandoned her and this place in the same way she had threatened to abandon me. Hurt before getting hurt. She blamed me for what happened, when Ti was the one who set everything in motion.

I don't want to see evidence that he's the good man I always thought he'd become, even though his cut says different.

"Jesus, Ti," I mutter as I climb the stairs, dragging my two cases behind me. On the train, I changed into the only vaguely snow-ready pair of shoes I have with me: designer hiking boots that seem to have a love-hate relationship with the New Jersey weather. Still, they got me here from the train station, which means I arrived in the most untraceable way I could.

My feet are frozen. The hem of my trousers, wet. Snow from my mother's unshovelled driveway seeps over the top of my boots. I slip as much as I lug and drag. By the time I get both bags onto the porch, I'm pissed all over again.

When I pulled up last night, I couldn't imagine I'd be back here today. I'm not even sure what made me take the two-hour round trip to Asbury Park just to look at my old home.

The key is under the planter, like it always used to be.

Like I said, everything changes, and nothing changes.

I think back to the day Tiberius moved in next door. Their car pulled into the driveway, and his parents got out first. His two brothers and one sister followed. But Tiberius remained seated in the middle.

Nose in a book.

I yelled over the fence to ask him what he was reading, but he was so lost in the words, he didn't even look up.

His older brother, Malik, smiled at me. "Don't waste your time with him. He's boring," he shouted. From then on, Malik would always tease me in the way older brothers do. Playing pranks on me, yet defending me as fiercely as his brother.

The memory of walking to the car and climbing in with Ti makes me smile.

Childhood nostalgia.

Nothing more.

Except, a sense of sorrow fills me and wipes the soft smile from my face as I let myself into the house. Chemical-scented air fresheners assault my sinuses. They probably have titles like Forest Pines and Sea Breeze, but they make my head hurt. Lord knows I've sent Mom enough money over the years—the least she could do is buy some decent naturally scented candles if she won't move into a nicer home with the cash.

But then, I take in the house. Things are piled on the stairs. I say things because there is everything from broken children's toys to multipacks of soup, clutter and mess spread wide as far as the eye can see.

This isn't just a bit of untidiness. It's chaos that's been a long-time brewing.

I unplug the air freshener I can see by the boot rack and make a mental note to remove every other crime against scented humanity I can find.

I'll also put in an order to my fave candle store and see if they can rush a bulk delivery of them over. It's not even a reasonable reaction; I don't know why I think it. Scented candles are not the answer to this, but I feel so completely out of my depth that comfort shopping kicks in by default.

"Mom," I shout. "It's me. Calista."

"Upstairs." The word is thready. Hoarse.

I hang my coat on the hook, kick off my wet shoes, and trudge up the steps of the split level. The third floorboard creaks. I used to have to step over it when I snuck out at night to meet…

I need to stop thinking about him.

When I step into Mom's bedroom, my first thought is that she looks like death. The second is that she's aged dramatically. The third is that she's almost hemmed into her bed by all the clutter in here. It's impossible to decide what is clean laundry and what is not.

She takes a breath close to a wheeze. "I don't need you or want you here."

Sadly, her words have the exact same bite.

And there goes the echoing thought, yet again, that everything changes but nothing changes.

I don't know why my parents kept trying to have a child. Ten childless years, so many losses along the way. Mom was forty when she had me. Forty-five when Dad had a heart attack and died as he walked me home from the park.

I don't remember much about that day beyond a lingering sense of confusion and being asked by a police officer to show them the way to my house. But I do remember how Mom became more withdrawn after it. Like Dad died and took her with him.

Now, she's seventy-three and looks every day of it.

I'm not even sure how to explain the way I'm feeling about that other than momentary desperation at the slippage of time. "I wanted to see you." It's a little white lie. I'm here because of everything but her. As I look around, the thought that I might have remained unaware she was living like this troubles me.

I get my hair from her. Thick dark blonde. Almost too thick in the summer when it traps heat or gets frizzy. Mom's is cut into a short bob. Mine has naturally lightened beneath the hot California sun. There is a bandage on Mom's wrist and a deep-purple bruise surrounding her left eye.

"What happened to you?" I ask.

"Slipped on the ice. Landed on my arm funny."

My head creates a replay of the fall happening, and I feel sick to my stomach. "Why didn't you call me?"

"Why would I? All you'd do is send money." Her words are interrupted by a coughing fit that has her reaching for a half-filled glass of water. Finally, she composes herself. "Or flowers. Once, you sent soup. You never come."

"You told me I had to leave and that you never wanted to see me again." I roll my eyes and sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing an imaginary crease out of the cheap cotton cover. "Anyway, I'm here now. What did they say at the hospital?"

"I didn't go to the hospital. Too much faff and too much money. And I'm fine. It's just a sprain and is tender. That's all."

"Mom. You clearly aren't. Are you okay if I stay here? Or should I check into a hotel?" The words are out of my mouth before I can process them.

Her eyes narrow. "This house not good enough for you now?"

Shit. "That's not what I meant at all. Did I not just ask if you're okay if I stay here?"

Mom sighs but looks out the window at the snow that's still falling. "Fine. Do what you want. Your room will need a little reorganizing to clear the bed."

I intend to. Looking around the state of her room, I'll need to disinfect everywhere before I sleep tonight. "Mom. Where did all the money I sent you go? You could get a cleaner. Decorate the place. Get some bedding that doesn't feel like sandpaper. Turn on the goddamn heating because it's freezing in here."

"Because I know what you do for a living. That money is stolen. I don't want a penny of it, and I wish you'd stop making it appear in my account. It's just sitting there because I won't spend it. So why don't we get to the crux of why you're really here?"

I stand and smooth my pants. They've picked up dust and fluff from the bedding. "I'm here because you need help," I say resolutely. She doesn't need to know about the stalker.

Or that no one will come looking for me in po-dunk Asbury Park.

I'm cast back to being a fourteen-year-old girl when I thought I could get away with everything, but my mom was wiser than I ever gave her credit for. "As you say," is her comment.

"I'm gonna get caught up on the house a bit, then do some work. Can I get you anything?"

Mom shakes her head. "But we're pretty low on groceries. If you don't want toast and peanut butter, you're going to need to hit the store. And don't be moving all my things except those on the bed."

I wish I could safely hire a car. But everything is traceable. And who knows what the guy stalking me has access to. I'd have to present my own license to hire another car, and I'm not prepared to do that. "On it."

I walk into the spare room and blow out a breath through pursed lips when I take in all the shit that threatens to spill out into the hallway. The reality slaps me in the face that my mom has become a hoarder. I can see the foot of the bed, just. Wooden newels float in the mess as if buoyed by the tide of junk.

Newspapers stand in tall stacks.

There's a stash of cornflake boxes, empty and folded in half.

Tears sting my eyes. What was it Mom said?

Your room will need a little reorganizing to clear the bed.

Sometimes when I have the TV playing mindlessly in the background, one of those TV shows about hoarders comes on and I always wonder how the heck they let their houses get out of control like that. But this one room gives me the chills.

When I was younger, the house was always cluttered with bargain finds Mom had picked up along the way.

Some were useful.

Heck, I got one of those huge hoop trampolines because Mom found one on some curb, took it, and repaired it. Ti and I used to…

"Stay on task, Cal." I can't let myself get distracted by memories of our past, though, when viewed objectively, they are some of the happiest I ever had.

My first reaction is to leave, check into a hotel, use that as my base to get some work done, and then come back here when I need to. I could always access my assistant to book one using her credit card, although, depending on what my stalker knows, he could be looking out for her financial activities too. But it may be worth the risk because staying here will be so uncomfortable. But just as I'm about to close the door on my old room, I hear Mom start coughing again.

I hate sickness.

I hate being around it and have limited sympathy for it.

But something stops me. And I feel…relief…when she finally takes a full breath.

Not for me, but for her.

So, I change my plan. I'll take a walk around the house. Find the least cluttered and cleanest room. I'll make a spot to settle into. A workspace and a bed. Then, I'll make a start on getting my arms around this house by hiring the people to help me sort it out.

Throwing money at the bulk of this problem is something I can do.

I head downstairs and find the main living area my best bet. It seems strangely unaffected compared to the rest of the house. Worst case, I can sleep on the sofa tonight. My clothes can stay in their suitcases until I figure stuff out. I open one of them and find a pair of jeans, a thick pink sweater, and a pair of thick socks. I peel off my suit and cashmere, and turn to grab the sweater, when I hear a knock on the window and turn around, grabbing the sweater to me.

Tiberius is standing there, a dark beanie pulled low on his forehead.

"Just me, Calista. Thought I'd let you know I'm clearing the drive." His voice carries through the glass.

Anger floods me…at his appearance and the state of Mom's house. At the fact I'm half naked while he stands there looking like a kid outside a candy shop. "Wait there," I shout.

He folds his arms. "Would love to."

He tips his chin and I glance down, noting the sweater isn't hiding my underwear. "Shit. No. Go wait on the drive."

His grin gets even larger. "Whatever you say."

I tug on my clothes and pull on my hiking boots again. They're wet inside, where the snow that spilled into them melted. I yank the door open. "Are you a peeping Tom now?"

"Always come and give Mrs. Moray a heads-up when I do anything outside. The striptease was a bonus."

I gasp. "How much did you see?"

"Probably more than you'd be comfortable knowing about."

I cross my arms over my chest. "You should have stepped away when you realized what I was doing."

He rubs his hand across the scruff on his jaw. "To be honest, not sure a passing tornado could have gotten me to move from that spot. You've certainly changed since we went skinny dipping that night after we?—"

"Shut up. Well, you're certainly more lewd than you were."

"One of my many flaws, I assume," Ti says.

"If you've been checking in on Mom, how did you not know about this?" I gesture up to the house, and his face grows serious.

"What do you mean by ‘this'?"

"She's sick. Hoarding. Not buying food. How could you not do something?"

Tiberius steps back and looks up at the house. "Your mom hasn't let anybody into her house for at least a decade. After you left, she blamed me. My whole family, actually. Thought I'd done something to break your heart. Nine times out of ten, when I knock on that window, she tells me to go fuck myself."

My heart skips a beat. "What?"

Ti shrugs. "I still do the shit, though. And she never calls the cops on me for trespassing. Even when me and Niro spent the summer painting all her trim. Never offered us so much as a glass of water from the tap."

"Why did you do that?"

He runs his tongue over his teeth. "Ain't that the question. Another one would be why are you standing there blaming me for the state your mom's home is in? If you'd ever deigned to come back here, you would have seen inside for yourself. When you're done lashing out at me because you're angry at yourself, you'll realize it."

Conflicted feelings battle inside me. But how could the man who betrayed me be so loyal to my mother all this time?

"You did, by the way."

Wrinkles form between Ti's eyes. "I did what?"

"You said Mom thought you'd done something to break my heart. You did."

Gravely, Ti nods. "I did. Because I'd rather have you alive on this earth hating me, than dead because I didn't stop you from ripping off a motorcycle club. You're still too stubborn to admit that, then it's on you."

Seconds tick between us.

"Anyway," he says, looking at the snow shovel on the porch. "I'm just gonna clear the drive for you, seeing you're going to be coming and going."

"I can do it. We're fine."

"I know. But I just did Mom's, and I always do yours next."

"Not anymore," I insist. "I can manage. You've done enough damage trying to help me in the past. I don't need any more. And as far as?—"

"You know what, shut up, Calista," he says, and I watch his back and wide broad shoulders, as he lumbers down the porch steps.

I hate being spoken over. I hate being told to shut up. And I hate most of all that it's Ti doing both.

I let myself back into the house, slam the door, and start sorting my clothes by throwing them into piles. He helped my mom all this time, and she never said a word to me about it. I remember what it felt like to fall into those thick arms of his in front of the bank and feel utterly safe in the world. And it dawns on me that Mom probably kept the living room in half-decent shape because she knew he'd occasionally look in.

"Damn it."

And then I hear it.

The slow and steady scrape of a snow shovel on the driveway.

And the reckless beat of my treacherous heart.