Parking on the familiar street has my muscles tensing. Ready for a fight.
But I don’t let anything as unacceptable as fear register in my mind. Surviving here means wearing a tough exterior at all times. No hesitating. I climb from my car and head up the cracked sidewalk, my confident stride fueled by my need to have this encounter over as quickly as possible.
The door seems smaller than it used to be, as if the wood is a dying thing that slowly decays as the years pass by. The color is different too. A surface that used to be brown is now a faded blue. I’ve been gone long enough that things had time to be new and grow old. There’s no sound when I press the doorbell. I rap out a pounding knock with the side of my hand.
Still nothing, but that doesn’t mean no one is home.
“Hey!” I yell as I knock louder. “It’s Luna! Open the damn door!”
This time when I drop my hand, I hear movement on the other side. Not sure what kind of greeting I’ll get, I take a few steps back and make sure my piece is easy to reach in my waist holster. I’ve never had to use the thing other than in a shooting range, and I hope today isn’t the day that track record changes.
The door whips open, and the woman framed in the entrance stares down at me, distrust on her face.
In that moment I can’t help comparing her to Wai Po, recognizing the similarities in their faces. Confusion wrinkles the same sharp brows my grandmother and I share with Vivian Lamont. As if she doesn’t recognize me.
Do I look that different?
My mother always insisted I keep my hair long because men want a girl who looks like a lady, not like a boy. The first thing I did when I went to college was shave every inch off. My first year, I rocked a freeing buzz cut. But maybe I kept some of my vanity because I tired of the minimalist style and let everything grow back as far as a short bob that now frames my face. A face that looks more like hers than like my white dad’s. He’s all blond-haired, blue-eyed, Anglo to a T. Dash, Leo, and I take after our mom with our dark hair, hooded brown eyes, and skin sporting a golden undertone. For the longest time all I ever had of my Asian heritage was my looks. Mom was stingy with details about her past. I didn’t learn I was Taiwanese until I found Tsai Shu-fen.
“Luna?”
My first instinct is to snap back at her. No, it’s the tooth fairy, duh. Definitely not your estranged daughter.
But I smother the rebellious urge, holding on to civility as best I can. “Yes. It’s me.” I sound like a robot wearing her daughter’s skin suit, but I can’t seem to infuse any kind of affection into my voice.
“Why’re you here?” She leans a shoulder on the doorframe and braces her hand on the other side, barring entry with her entire body. As if I’m begging to enter the sanctum of her home.
Missed you too, Mom.
“I have something to tell you. It’s not really front porch talk.”
For a second her coolly dismissive exterior cracks, eyes wide in panic. “Is it Dash? Is he okay?”
Would she have that reaction if my baby brother came here and told her something was going on with me? Maybe Vivian Lamont cares about me, somewhere way down deep. But I don’t know that there’s anything on this earth that could bring motherly affection for me to the surface. It never rose before.
“Dash is fine.”
Tension drains from her in response. “Don’t scare me like that.”
Not like I was trying. If I wanted to hurt her, though, I could. I could tell her what’s going on with Dash. Tell her he’s getting ready for his wedding and didn’t bother sending her a notification about it. I could tell her the way Paige’s mom loves Dash like a son, the two of them working on cars together. Legally.
I could inform my mom she’s not the most important woman in her little prince’s life and never will be again.
But starting a fight is not why I’m here today. Petty revenge will have to wait for another time.
“Can I come in?”
She looks me up and down, as if I’m covered in bed bugs and just asked to take a roll in her sheets. But she steps back, walking into the house, leaving the door open as a silent indication I should follow.
Instead of storming back to my car and driving away like I want, I bite down hard on my anger and step into my childhood house.
No way will I ever call this thing a home.
The layout is as familiar as a worn pair of kicks, but the shiny new electronics are like neon laces added to old dirty sneakers. Only distracting for a moment.
I stride through the living room, straight back into the kitchen. Vivian leans against the counter, sipping some fruity cocktail as she watches a reality show on the TV mounted over the sink.
If we had a normal mother-daughter relationship, I might ask if she’s tried K-dramas. My roommate in college turned me onto them, and now I’m just slightly addicted. For a time, I wondered if maybe I was Korean. But when I finally found Wai Po, I learned about my Taiwanese heritage. Not that the discovery dampened my adoration for South Korean dramas.
When Vivian sets her glass down, she doesn’t acknowledge me, just reaches for a bottle of nail polish and shakes it hard.
I wonder if she’s imagining my face when she does that.
My mom blames me for the fact that we don’t have a relationship. I blame her ability to gloss over parts of reality she’d rather not acknowledge. Parts I’d started pointing out to her when I got tired of playing her dress-up baby doll.
“So,” I begin, “about a year ago—”
The sound of the front door opening cuts me off.
“Mom?” The voice is deep and familiar.
“In the kitchen!” she shouts back, and her beautiful face splits into a wide smile when my brother strolls in.
“Leo.” I say my twin’s name in greeting with as little emotion as I can manage.
“Luna?” He stops mid-step, every bit of his shock showing on his face. The man is a terrible poker player.
“Wow. You still remember my name. I’m flattered.”
He regains the ability to move and rolls his eyes, then throws a quick glance behind him before moving further into the kitchen.
“There’s leftover pizza in the fridge if you’re hungry, baby.” My mother scoops her drink up and gestures with the glass before taking a sip.
Of course, she didn’t bother asking me if I wanted pizza.
“Thanks, Mom.” Leo dodges around me, heading straight for the food. Not acknowledging in any way that it’s been close to two years since we last saw each other. It takes everything I have not to pick at him as he settles his ass at the kitchen table without another look my way.
Now that I’m back here, I can’t help noticing the strange difference between this house and the Herberts’. Take away the actual appearance of the places, and you get down to what makes a home. The people. In Paige’s home, which I have an open invitation to visit whenever the whim takes me, you’ll find everyone joyfully, if frantically, in the midst of wedding preparations. It’s been that way for months, with Mrs. Herbert working to ensure the day is perfect for her daughter and soon-to-be son-in-law. And despite the stress that comes with all the planning, love fills every joke and bantering comment exchanged in those four walls.
Here, though, there’s no sense of urgency. Neither of these people know about the massive life event taking place in less than a week. That the baby of the family has excluded them from his celebration.
Mom sets down her drink and strolls over to my brother, where he sits devouring the leftover pizza without heating it up. She claps her hands on Leo’s shoulders and gazes at him with so much fondness I can guess at least half is a show for me.
That’s my mother. Displaying affection to one child in an attempt to hurt another.
“Look at you! Still a growing boy even at your age.”
I fight off the urge to mime gagging.
“Worked up an appetite on the job, huh? Uncle Mike better appreciate all the hard work you do.”
Leo grunts, and I shove my clenched fists into my pockets. Yeah, I’m sure Uncle Mike has him real busy.
Before a comment can snap off my lips, the front door shoves open, and my nerves tighten to pure steel. I need the reinforcement to deal with the new arrival.
“Fuck, I’m hungry.” A deep voice announces a second before the owner steps into the kitchen.
My father, ladies and gentlemen.
His blue eyes land on me, then widen, and when he paints on what other people have labeled as a charming smile, I just feel sick.
“Hey there, baby girl. Finally come home to your momma and daddy?” He hooks his thumbs in the loops of his jeans and stares down at me. Bill Lamont loves to stare down at people from his six-foot height. Loves pretending he’s some kind of big man.
Not for the first time, I’m glad I look nothing like him. That I didn’t inherit his pale skin, primary-color eyes, or yellow hair. That no one is ever going to point to me on the street and say, “There goes Bill Lamont’s daughter.”
I hate this man and the callous way he treated both me and my brothers when we were children.
But I hate him for what he’s done to Leo most of all.
“I’m not home,” I growl. Home is my house in Nashville. The place I bought with my own savings and filled with my own happiness.
He keeps his patronizing smile on. “Then why are you here? Need money? That fancy fighting you do not pay anymore? Maybe we could set up a bout down here for you. Put you in the ring with someone who knows how to hit.”
There’s so much wrong with his statement I don’t know where to start.
“I came here to talk to Mom.”
I don’t add the rest even though the words already sit on my tongue.
I’d sell every one of my worldly possessions and still not ask you all for money. My job is about preventing fights, not starting them. Hitting your kids doesn’t mean you know how to hit.
“She doesn’t have the checks.” Bill meanders to the fridge, pulling out a beer. “I do. And if you want cash, you’ll have to work for it. Just like Leo.” He claps his hand on my brother’s shoulder.
Leo keeps chewing on his pizza like he can’t hear any of what’s going on around him.
“I’m not here for money.” I barely keep my voice steady. There’s one task I need to complete, and then I can get the hell out of here. “I’m here to talk to Mom. Let’s go outside.” I nod to the back door, hoping Vivian will pick up on my urgency. But my dad wraps a possessive arm around my mother’s waist, keeping her in place.
“We don’t keep secrets from each other.” He sends a mocking smile my way before tugging from his beer. “But when you never visit, you forget things like that.”
I barely suppress a snort. Why would I visit people who told me I was dead to them?
“Leo’s here almost every day.” Bill gestures toward my brother with his beer bottle. “Comes by after work just to say hi to his momma. And he’s getting more responsibility at the shop. Doesn’t need to beg anyone for a paycheck.”
My brother keeps his stoic routine going as my mother lets out a happy sigh. “I’m so proud, Leo. Knowing you’re part of the family business.”
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
Am I chanting at her or myself?
Both. Definitely both.
“Leo is such a loyal boy, you know?” My mom beams between her son and her husband, as if they’re the only three people in the room. I’m only here to be the audience for the show. “Hardworking and loves his mother so much. It’s nice to have a child who does. Who cares.”
The hypocrisy is too much, and that’s the only thing I can blame my complete lack of tact on. Certainly not my constant need for petty revenge.
“Tsai Shu-fen died.”
All three faces turn toward me, finally fully acknowledging my presence.
Leo has his brows dipped in confusion.
My mom looks like I threw a glass of water in her face.
My dad’s cheeks and neck flush red. “What did you say?”
“I found out about Tsai Shu-fen. My grandmother. I met her. She passed away three weeks ago because of cancer.” Focusing fully on my mother, I let all my disappointment and anger show in my face. Drip from my voice. “I thought, as her child, you might care.”
As my parents both grapple with this info, I march up to my brother, determined to get more out of this visit than just the hollow victory of shocking Bill and Vivian Lamont.
“Hug me or I’ll put you in a headlock.” I stand next to Leo, arms spread wide, glaring to keep them from seeing how vulnerable I am in this moment. How much I need this single sign of affection from my brother.
One glimmer of hope that this man is still someone I know.
Leo snorts, but then rises from his chair and envelops me in a tight embrace. The hug feels like hope, and with us standing close, I’m able to whisper one more thing to him without our parents hearing. When I step back, my twin has wiped all emotion from his face, giving me no sign of whether he’ll follow my whispered directions.
I can only hope.
CHARLIE
“You left this to the last minute, huh?”
My mother glares at me over a display of blenders. “Hush now. You going to help me or shame me?”
“Both?” I offer her the cheeky smile that always melts her glare away.
“You’re lucky you’re my only child or I’d ship you straight back to Germany. Lord knows there was less sass in my life before you came around.” As she grumbles out the words, her lips start to curl at the edges.
I whistle an innocent tune as I tuck my hands deep in my pockets and stroll down the next aisle. Passing by cookware, I let the happy glow of the day infuse my entire being. In the past, shopping with my mother would have ended up low on the list of fun activities. But now, after being away for so long, I’m enjoying myself.
Doesn’t hurt that I just finished eating delicious brunch with my best friend, and before that spent more time in Luna Lamont’s presence. I conveniently gloss over the part where I once again made a complete fool of myself.
Overall, this is shaping up to be a great day. Which puts into stark contrast how few of those I’ve had lately.
I wince at a stab of shame.
How could I think that? I have a great life.
I work for a company with a good atmosphere and reasonable hours. They’ve set me up with a position in a foreign country, just like I told them I wanted when I was first hired four years ago. Over those years I’ve built up a group of friends in Germany, getting drinks with them at least once a week and traveling all through Europe.
Some might say my life is charmed. For a while I thought so too.
The dissatisfaction came on slowly, with small dips in my mood that lasted for a few days. I’d press the snooze button a few more times and find myself gazing at the clock, trying to will the workday to pass by faster. Then there were the spikes of anxiety that gripped my chest whenever my supervisor gave me a new project. My mind shied away from spending any more brain capacity on fabric sales.
All of those signs I forced myself to ignore, accepting them as normal among all adults in the workforce.
But then one night when I was chatting with Paige about her latest editing project, I blurted out the question.
“Does your work ever depress you?”
On my phone screen, Paige blinked wide eyes. “Depress me? I mean, some of the authors write about hard topics. They craft the scenes so excellently that I feel what the character does. Their sadness. Is that what you mean?”
“No.” I’d searched for a way to explain the creeping shadow descending over the hours I spent at the office. “I mean, does the idea of doing your job ever…I don’t know. Do you wish you could get away from it? Just keep sleeping through the day or something.”
My friend stared at me, and I let her. The moment was important. The first time I’d shared the ache no painkillers could correct.
“Martin.” Paige announced her cheating ex’s name like it was the solution to a brain teaser I’d given her. I flinched at the sound, my dislike for the asshole rooted deep in my bones.
“I’m not talking to that motherfucker about my work problems if that’s what you’re saying,” I growled.
But she was already shaking her head. “Sorry. Meant to say more words. What you described, work never made me feel that way. Martin did. Our relationship. I should’ve gotten out of it long before he cheated on me. You should break up with your company. Not that I think they’re going to cheat on you. How would a company even do that?”
And just like that, my friend had me laughing, my anxiety forgotten for a time.
But never gone. Especially with her advice lingering long after we hung up.
You should break up with your company.
Easier said than done. I can’t just serve up the “It’s not you, it’s me” line. My employers are good people. How can I leave a career with great benefits when I don’t know what I want to do in my life? I’ve spent many evenings trying to figure out what my passion is, but nothing falls perfectly into place.
“None of these are right,” my mom says, unknowingly echoing my inner monologue. She’s stopped in front of a variety of sheet sets.
Slipping my phone from my pocket, I pull up the web page we consulted before coming into the store. “These are on the registry.” I tap a slate-gray set and try to imagine my friend gravitating toward the neutral color.
“You and I both know Ginny cobbled that together when her daughter forgot. Neither Paige nor Dash are the ask-for-gifts type.” Mom passes on the boring sheets.
“Well then, what do you want to do?”
“I want to get her something with love in it.”
The emphasis she puts on that four-letter word has me backing away, hands raised. “Sorry, Momma. I draw the line at going to an adult toy shop with you.”
“You devil!” She barks through a laugh, then chucks a pillow at me. “I can’t take you anywhere.”
“I’m not the one throwing things in the store.” With a mocking amount of carefulness, I place the pillow back on its shelf.
“You’re a bad influence.” She meanders away, smoothing her hands over the purple silk scarf wrapped around her head, as if the brief moment of immaturity might have knocked the fabric loose.
That’s Regina Keller. One moment the image of elegance, the next as mischievous as a teenager.
I’ve missed her.
With the ease of travel, flights coming and going all the time, New Orleans shouldn’t feel far away. But I can’t help feeling panic that I’m missing precious time with my parents. During my childhood they traveled all over the world, and I always went with them. Now I’m lucky if we see each other twice a year.
Sometimes, when the homesickness of missing my parents hits hard, I’ll play through one of my mother’s albums, letting her voice lull me into believing she’s by my side. But I can only ever trick myself for so long.
Just like this visit will only last for a limited string of days. The thought sends a familiar spike of anxiety through me, and before examining the urge, I cross the few feet between me and my mother and scoop her up into a hug.
“Charlie?” Her tone is half-curious, half-worried, and all-loving. Her strong arms wrap around me, returning the hug. “What’s wrong, baby?”
“Nothing.” I set her down and make sure a reassuring smile is in place when she sees my face. “Just missed you is all.”
“Okay then.” Doubt sits heavy in her voice, and she cups my cheeks, the tips of her acrylics just brushing my skin as the familiar scent of cocoa butter surrounds me. The attention brings to mind the word she said earlier.
Love.
This is love. This is what my mother wants to gift to Paige. An embrace that shows all the support and affection and hope that the Kellers have for my friend.
“I thought of a gift.” The triumph in my voice has her lips twisting.
“You gonna share your insight with me or do I have to guess?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” No matter how much I missed her, the urge to wheedle her can never be eradicated.
“You sound like your father. Isn’t it obvious?” She affects a deep voice, mocking her husband in a way she’d be just as happy to do to his face. Mom steps back, planting fists on her hips and giving me a scorcher of a scowl. “No, it’s not obvious. Tell me already.”
I pause just a second longer, for dramatic effect. “Give her a song.”
“Charlie.” My mother speaks my name with surprise that morphs into a sweet dismissive expression. “She hears me sing all the time.”
“But not for her,” I insist. “You know Paige would like that more than a random item bought from her registry.”
Mom waves a hand as if my words buzz around her face. “They’re starting a life together. They need more than a song.”
Sometimes I want to grab my mother by the shoulders and shake her until she realizes how much her art can mean to a person. Sure, when Mom takes the stage, she knows how her talent can hold a room. At times, she’s proudly proclaimed her diva status. But around the people close to her, Regina Keller sinks into a humble state. As if she thinks her voice is a showy illusion, and the people who love her see right through it.
She’s wrong.
“Then give her a check along with the song. But I’m telling you, if you get on that stage and sing, Paige will feel every ounce of love you want her to.”
My mother doesn’t respond right away. She turns away, pretending to browse the bath towels. I follow behind, acting like the well-behaved son for the moment. After picking up a peach towel that Paige would be just as likely to use for her pit bull, Pumpkin, as she would for herself, my mother tosses the fabric to the side and strides toward the door.
“Fine. A song it is. But you’re picking it out and playing the guitar with me. And your father is going to dance with her. There we are—family gift. Plus, a check. A really big check.”
I hide my grin behind a hand, trying to smooth the cocky expression away before she sees.
“Paige will love that.”
My mother huffs as if frustrated with me, but the sound only makes me want to hug her again.
One more week. The internal countdown clock to my departure sucks away all the happiness of the moment.
What if I want to stay?