Page 24 of I Heart Mason Cartwright
He waves his hand in the air. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Really.”
Mason stands and follows me into the house.
“There he is,” Cassandra trills. “Oh, he’s older than I thought, but still very good looking. Goodness, AshLynn, your kids are going to be beautiful.” She rushes toward Mason and pulls him into her arms. He stands there stiffly, not returning the embrace.
“It is so lovely to meet you,” Cassandra says.
Note to self, new guy is not much of a hugger.
My dad is up next. He too pulls Mason in for a hug. “Welcome to the family, son.”
“Thank you, sir.” Mason’s face looks tortured from over my dad’s shoulder, at this angle I’m the only one who can see him.
We stand there and look at one another in that awkward way that only family can manage. My father strolls around the room, taking everything in, then peeks down the hall.
“Gotta say, it’s a cool house, kid,” my father says as he comes back in the room. “You done good.”
“Thanks.”
“Looks like a lot of work, though.” He grimaces.
“I got time.” I smile.
“You always were the strong one,” he says. “Just like your mother.”
“Thanks, Dad.” My heart warms when he says that. It’s not often I get a compliment from him. Let alone one that means so much to me.
Cassandra bristles. She always does when my father mentions my mom, who died when I was eight years old. I was in the car with her when it happened, riding in the backseat. We were on our way home from dinner and a movie. My father had met us at the restaurant straight from work and was in his own car behind us. We’d gone to a French restaurant and then to see the movieMadeline, my favorite book series.
We did it at least once a month, dinner and a movie with a theme. The night before my father had brought home berets for all of us to wear. As an adult, looking back I know my parents were awesome for giving me such experiences. As an eight-year-old at the time I just remember feeling fancy and sophisticated.
My mom and I were hit by a drunk driver in a head-on collision. She died in minutes, all the while telling me not to worry and that she loved me. I walked away without a scratch. Physically anyway. It took fifteen years of therapy to be able to talk about it without breathing into a paper bag. Which is why AshLynn likes to call me broken. And maybe I am. I know pieces of both my father and me died that night with my mom.
Dad married Cassandra two years later. A year after that AshLynn was born. At first it was great, but it didn’t take long for me to realize I was a hurtful reminder to my father of the great love he had lost. It started with matching dresses forhis three girls. I hated it. Cassandra and AshLynn loved it. They’d still do it to this day if they could get away with it. Now they can’t even wear the same dress twice, let alone the same dress as each other.
Then came the slip-ups, when he would call me AshLynn. Or bring me her favorite ice cream as a treat instead of mine. Or buy the two of them presents because theywere easier to buy forthan I was, and I could just pick something out of a catalog, right? I let it all slide, because grown-ups make mistakes. And my dad had faced a horrible loss, same as me.
But when he told me I had to celebrate Mother’s Day with Cassandra instead of going with my Granny Violet to my mother’s gravesite, I about lost my mind. It took the paramedics twice the recommended dosage of Ativan to get my panic attack under control enough to get me to the hospital.
After that, my father loosened up a bit about pushing Cassandra and AshLynn on me. But Cassandra hadn’tsigned upfor a moody tween who didn’t want her around. So, she made her preference of her own daughter exceedingly clear. I responded in kind and got a little lost in the shuffle. We’ve been a messed-up family ever since.
“Willow, do you have coffee?” Cassandra asks.
“I made some fresh, right before you arrived,” I tell her, proud of myself for remembering.
“I see there are no furnishings, do you at least have mugs?”
“In the kitchen. Cupboard to the left of the fridge.”
“Would you like a cup, Jonathan?” she asks my father. He nods in response.
Cassandra gets their coffee and comes back in to the room. “Let’s talk about this engagement, shall we? Willow, a place to sit, please?”
Because I can conjure this stuff up with my Magic 8 Ball?
“I’ve got patio furniture,” I say, gesturing toward the back patio.
“We’re going to sit on the patio?” Cassandra asks.
“That’s where I’ve got places to sit,” I tell her.
“Are the seats . . . clean?” she asks.
“Do you mean free of dirt, or something else?” I smirk.
“It will be fine,” my dad interjects. “I’ll grab one of those towels and lay it down for you, Cassandra.”
I refrain from telling Cassandra that she’ll be sitting on a towel that mopped up dirty water from an equally dirty floor. That’ll be my little secret. Which makes me smile.
