Come Undone (The Kellys of Key West Book 2) Read online

  She didn’t realize giving me my own room, isolated from her, fed into my binge-eating disorder. No more chewing quietly under the covers or hiding food wrappers in the trash cans out back.

  She pulls last night’s dinner leftovers out of the refrigerator and the buttons on the microwave beep as she sets the cook time. She stares at the microwave and takes a deep breath. The scent of Fricase de Pollo, a recipe passed to Mom by my Cuban grandmother, hangs heavy around us, like the ominous sensation blanketing the room.

  “So, how’s your movie coming along?” She plops on the couch and I follow.

  “Mom, I don’t care about the movie! I just need you to be okay.”

  She looks at me, tears shining in her eyes. “I told you, I’m fine. But … Trini, I’ve been thinking about something. I wanted to tell you before tonight, when that poor man—”

  “Poor man!” I jump up off the cushy sofa, spilling mounds of pillows and lap blankets in my haste to make my point. “Mom, you got robbed. He pointed a gun at you. You are the victim here.”

  “Oh, yes. But the man, he appeared more … hungry than criminal. I’m rather sure the gun was a dollar-store toy. He only got fifty dollars from the register since I’d prepared a deposit a little earlier and stuck it in the safe.”

  “Still, Mom. You’re way too empathetic.”

  “Oh, honey.” She pulls me down beside her and wraps her arm around my shoulder. “When did you grow so cynical?”

  When Dean broke my heart a few days ago? Or when my dad took off for apparently no reason when I seven years old—right after my emergency surgery to remove a burst appendix?

  I remain silent. Mom had experienced a traumatic event, and I’ve learned that with most things, it’s best to let Mom speak her piece. She’s never nasty, but can sweetly argue her opponents into submission.

  “Hey, can you grab my yearbook off the bookcase for me?”

  I comply, wondering why Mom keeps high-school memorabilia so close to her. High school was miserable for me until my senior year. Plus, she met Dad in high school. I figured she wouldn’t want any lingering reminders of him.

  I hand her the worn blue faux-leather book and sit back down, curling my legs underneath me.

  She flips to the pages with the senior portraits. The picture of my mom with poofy hair always makes me laugh. I guess Mom didn’t own a flat iron back in the day.

  “I … Trini, I need to tell you something important. I apologize now for not telling you. I was wrong. I shouldn’t have withheld this. Tonight, when I thought I might die, I knew I couldn’t keep this secret anymore.” She brushes her hair behind her ear, then hops up and walks around the coffee table.

  “Mom, what’s happening? You’re scaring me.” I pull a blanket tight around me. I’m not cold, but I need a shield from whatever Mom’s about to say.

  “Your dad, honey. Remember when he left …” Her voice fades as she crosses and rubs her arms. Of course I remember. After he took off, all I wanted to do was eat as much as I could to fill the void, to replace his warm hugs, and soothe the sting of rejection when I tried to call his parents’ house a year later. The time my grandmother told me never to call again, and mentioned how they didn’t want to clean up someone else’s trash.

  “He’s not your dad.” The words, a whisper from my sweet mother’s lips, hit me harder than a punch to the jaw.

  Bomb. Dropped.

  Someone else’s trash.

  Those words—now I realize, not from my real grandmother—take on a whole new meaning in the span of ten seconds. I shake my head, trying to make sense of what Mom said.

  “He … he what?”

  “Oh, baby, I regret this more than you can imagine. I wanted to protect you. Protect Lucas. He wasn’t a bad person. We were from different worlds and were both at fault for our strained marriage. We were so young and naïve. Thought we knew everything. Obviously, that wasn’t the case.” She sobs and clamps her hand over her mouth, as though trying to contain her pain.

  My own hurt bubbles to the surface, jagged edges stabbing at my brain, making my skin tingle like my arms and legs have gone to sleep. I gulp in a few breaths to calm myself.

  But the effort is futile. The filter between my brain and mouth fails in the stress of the moment.

  “Wow, Mom. Didn’t you think this was important enough to tell me earlier? Not just when your life flashed before your eyes?” A chill settles on my shoulders, and all the handmade blankets piled on the couch couldn’t warm me.

  Mom’s eyes widen, like Bambi caught in the path of an approaching eighteen-wheeler at midnight.

  Oh, but I’m not done.

  I inhale, exhale, catch a second wind. I pace the length of the room, a wild tiger, caged and itching to roar.

  “Well, Mother.” She flinches, like I slapped her in the face. “Remember in family therapy, Dr. Blades probed for possible causes of my binge eating, and I mentioned how my obsession with food began when Dad left? You could have mentioned this in therapy. Or wow, how about when he left, and this problem could have been avoided altogether?”

  She opens her mouth, but clamps it shut after I shoot her a sharp sideways glance. “What was the logic behind your decision?”

  “Honey, I know it was wrong. Your father—I mean, Lucas …”

  Right. The guy who actually isn’t my dad.

  “When you were in the hospital, you lost blood, and he wanted to donate. That’s when he found out. He wasn’t a match for you.”

  I suck in air, my breath shuddering through my whole body. “Did you know?”

  “Not for sure. Your dad—Lucas—and I had problems and were trying to work them out. We were young and stupid, and I ran away for a few days to see an old friend, and I made a mistake.”

  “A mistake?”

  “No, honey, you were …” She fidgets with her hands. “I’ve always loved you, never regretted anything about having you.”

  A mistake. “Who did you make this mistake with? Does he know?”

  She winces and doesn’t answer.

  I grit my teeth and my jaw throbs. “Come on, Mom. You have to tell me.”

  “I … honey, I shouldn’t tell you now. You’re overwhelmed, and you need time to process this before I give you the information.” Her voice shakes, and she stretches her neck side-to-side.

  How stressful this must be for her.

  “Information? Is that all my biological father is to you, a piece of information? This changes everything. My past was settled, and I’ve been moving forward, and now this. Now I’m clueless about who I am. Where I come from.” Each word is louder than the one before.

  “This doesn’t change you, it doesn’t have to. You’re still my sweet girl. We’ve made a happy life for ourselves.” Tears roll unchecked down her tan cheek, which is a few shades darker than my own. Her red-rimmed eyes almost evoke some pity in me.

  Almost.

  “Our life is based on a lie, Mom.” I ball up my fists, my fingernails biting into my palms. I laugh, the sound cracked and bitter. “I’m sure this was hard for you to tell me, but I can’t do this. I can’t be here.”

  I dart out the back door, nerves churning the acid in my stomach up into my throat. Mom’s words are bitter, like a large, distasteful pill going down sideways. I cut through the parking lot of the bike shop adjacent to our property, bumping into people in my haste up Bahama Street to get to Mac’s house. Though he doesn’t often provide advice, his quiet, solid presence is exactly what I need.

  “A touch, a smile/a comforting hug/who knew all this would lead to love?”—Lyrics from “Unknown Entity” by Mac Kelly

  IT WAS HARD TO APPEAR sad for Trini after Dean broke up with her. The jerk is out of her life, which evokes lots of emotions, but sadness isn’t one. She was so desperate to be loved by someone other than me or her mom, she allowed him to be mean to her. Maybe she didn’t perceive his behaviors as mean, but the things he said to her made me so mad.

  Occasionally he sounded lik
e he was doing her a favor by going out with her, because she used to be “fat.” She’s always been amazing, inside and out. I sometimes wondered at the beginning, when they first started dating, if it was like the movie Trini made me watch once called She’s All That. Like one of Dean’s friends challenged him to get with the girl no one else had dated, because those jerks thought she was ugly.

  Idiot. I hate to see her heart breaking, and I want to break Dean’s face for hurting her. I’m not a violent guy. I’ve never injured anyone but myself, ever, but Dean’s the one person I’d definitely punch if given the chance. Trini might get mad. I don’t care.

  Well, I care, but I would still get satisfaction out of it.

  A sharp tap on my door pulls my attention away from my fantasy of punching the douche. A couple more taps.

  Trini.

  I’ve been her emotional sounding board since the breakup, so I guess another tragedy brought her here tonight. She doesn’t wait for me to answer the door. Our special knock seems to be enough notification because usually I’m alone in my room.

  I scribble out the last few words of the song rattling around in my head and tuck the notebook under my pillow.

  Her swollen eyes and red-streaked face tell me she’s been crying. She throws herself against me, her arms wrapping around my back. The contact used to make me uncomfortable. The first time she touched me, I thought my skin might stretch and tear. Then she squeezed my hand and calmed me. I never believed I could enjoy physical contact with anyone outside my family. When I experienced the pleasant tingle where her skin touched mine, my life changed.

  I never want her to stop touching me. However, she seems to need comfort from me, rather than the other way around.

  “Oh my God,” she sobs into my chest. “I can’t believe it!”

  A few more muffled sobs. The wetness of her tears seeps through my shirt, making contact with my skin. I touch her back, softly rubbing between her shoulder blades. Whenever I got sad when I was younger, Mom had rubbed my back. The action soothed me. So whenever Trini’s sad, I do the same to her. It seems to work for adults too.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She pulls away from me and looks up, the corners of her lips drawn down in a frown. Her sadness makes me sad too.

  “M-my mom. Her store got held up today.” She sobs again.

  “How terrible. Is she okay? Did they catch the guy?”

  “Yeah, she’s okay. I was so scared though. She kept calling, which she doesn’t do when she knows I’m filming, so I panicked at first. She’s physically fine. Rattled though, because she told me a secret she kept from me for a long time.” Trini sucks in her cheeks, her jaw twitching like she’s chewing on the inside of her mouth. “Mac, Mom told me my father …”

  I nod somberly. I’ve never met the guy, but I know how much pain he’s caused Trini.

  “Yeah, Mac—Mom says he’s not my real dad.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand either, why she waited to tell me, but so many things make sense now. Remember I told you about when I had surgery, before we moved here? I lost blood, and Dad wanted to donate his in case? I guess that’s when he found out I wasn’t his child.”

  The light bulb goes on over my head. Now I get it.

  Trini fidgets with my shirt, her fingers twitching. “He left because I’m not his kid, but Mom let him believe I was for years. I blamed him for so many of my problems, but he was justified, huh?”

  She lets go of me and paces the length of the room. She balls her fists at her sides, punches her hips as her jaw tightens. She’s angry, with good reason.

  I always knew the woman I call Mom, the one I still live with, isn’t actually the woman who gave birth to me, but she’s the one who raised me and my brothers. The one who cared for us when we were sick, and loved us—loved me—through all the hard times with my autism and bouts of depression. Even when I tried to kill myself. Though we aren’t related by blood, she’s still my real mom.

  Trini loved her dad, and they did lots of stuff together. She told me how he read to her, made cookies with her. She remembered him taking her to the grocery store and buying her treats, where he’d whisper, “Don’t tell your mom. Our special secret.” When he left, they moved to Key West and Trini treated her sadness with food, but never at home. She’d come to my house, and my mom was always happy to share cookies with her. Trini would ask me not to tell her mom—not that I talked much when I was younger. A few years later, I discovered she used her allowance money and her loot from the “tooth fairy” to buy more junk food at the pharmacy and eat it on her way home.

  She stares out of my window, the twinkling lights from my neighbor’s house casting a glow across her skin. Should I hug her again? Her face is drawn up in an angry scowl. Would a hug help? She closes my curtain and turns back to me.

  “Did your mom put candy out?”

  Of course. It’s Christmas Eve, so she’s stuffed my stocking with candy, too. Though I’m too old to believe in Santa Claus, I still like getting the goodies in my stocking, along with gift cards for iTunes and guitar picks and similar stuff.

  “S-she didn’t put candy out this year.” I’m sure she can read the lie all over my face. Or in the tone of my voice.

  “Why are you lying? I want a couple pieces. I won’t stand at the counter and stuff my face.”

  Time for me to be a friend. Give her some tough love. “Not a good idea. Candy is one of your triggers.”

  She throws her hands up. “Why is everyone doing this today? I’m tired of everybody telling me what’s best for me. If you don’t help me, I’m out.”

  “I don’t know what’s best for you.” My heart lodges in my throat.

  “What is it then? Are you afraid I’ll hate myself?”

  “You’ve got so much happening. I’m no psychotherapist, but I’m sure eating a whole bunch of candy won’t help.”

  “Mac, I have no clue what’s gonna make things better, but being here with you isn’t helping.”

  She storms out, slamming the door behind her. She’s usually not rude. Of course, I hope she’s going to be okay. I shouldn’t chase after her right now. She’s too mad at everybody—and all I’m going to do is make her feel worse. So I let her go and hope she’s okay.

  “A musician may give up on his dream, take on another occupation to make ends meet, but the need to make music will always eat at his soul.”—Trini Díáz, Songs in the Key of Paradise

  New Year’s Eve

  “Hey, Goon, I’m sorry I was so nasty last week, and we missed Christmas with your family. None of this was your fault, and you were trying to help me.” I swipe at the tears spilling over, choking on the overdue apology and the snot sliding down my throat.

  He grunts. I’m not sure he heard me, but apologizing lifts a heavy weight from my spirit, and he seems to have forgiven me. I’m happy he responded to my text today, since I missed him and wanted to spend time with him before I return to school.

  I was such a bitch last week, but in my defense, I hadn’t expected so many bombshells to drop on me at once. I struggled to wrap my brain around Dean’s douchery and Mom’s revelation, and I lashed out. Mac didn’t deserve my wrath.

  We’re sitting on the floor in my room, shoulder to shoulder. He presses closer to me, his thigh making contact with mine. My heart races a little. Over the years, we’d supported each other through so many trying times. Through Mac’s toughest moments, I was the one person on whom he could rely. His mom showed me ways to cope with his meltdowns, how to talk to him calmly, how to use deep pressure—like squeezes to the hand or shoulder—to help soothe him. For so long, I’ve been Mac’s rock.

  Today, I’m grateful he is mine.

  Something’s different about Mac today, though, and I’ve figured it out. “Are you using a new body wash?”

  “Um, yeah. Stuff I got for Christmas. Why?”

  He’s lying. His family knows better than to buy him new personal hygiene pr
oducts. He is rather particular about what he uses, and doesn’t like anyone picking new things for him. But whatever.

  “No reason.” Except you smell so good. I keep this to myself so he doesn’t think I’m a freak or anything.

  “Are you still coming to the party tonight? You’ll disappoint Thea and Shay if you don’t come.”

  Crap! Right. The engagement party. I sit up and nudge him playfully. “Will they be the only ones disappointed if I don’t come? Huh?”

  Mac flushes and covers his face with his hands. “No. Of course, I’d miss you.”

  Huh. Another weird thing. He normally teases me and tells me he doesn’t miss me and is glad I went away to school. I know it’s not true, but the silly banter is fun.

  I grow mock-sober. “Well, I guess you should go home to help set up while I plan my best party outfit now.”

  He stands up and nods. ”Around eight?”

  Grateful once more for his support today, I jump up and hug him, then glance into his gorgeous hazel eyes. I run my fingers along the scar on his forehead from his car accident last summer. He tenses.

  Wait. Did I think my best friend’s eyes are gorgeous? I mean, they’re cool, different in the way they appear to change color, but gorgeous? Why did I touch him like that? It was so intimate, in a scary but not bad way.

  I’d experienced twinges of attraction for Mac in the past. Over the years, the feelings have cropped up, especially at my lowest points when I craved affirmation. I’d always tamped the urges down, knowing our friendship is too important to sacrifice to a fleeting need for attention. He deserves better than me at my broken-down worst. His generous heart deserves someone who would be careful and unselfish with it, and over the years that’s often not been me.

  Mac twitches and I release him from the tight embrace. “You okay?”

  Again, I worry because when he gets twitchy and tense, he may be on track for a meltdown.