CHAPTER FOURTEEN - UPDATED!!

!! UPDATE!! PLEASE READ AUTHOR NOTE BELOW !!

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi guys! I decided to add an additional scene to the end of this chapter because I felt it needed a little more before moving into Chapter Fifteen. The updated scene begins AFTER the journal entry. Everything else is the same. <3 Publishing Ch. 15 now as well! Enjoy xoxo

Nick made a garbled sound like he was throwing up as I pushed Chris back a step. "If I ever need to beat someone with a towel, you're the first person I'll call."

He wiggled his eyebrows at me. "Or, you know, anything else."

If I rolled my eyes any harder, they'd get stuck in the back of my head. I brushed Chris to the side as I made my way to the bedroom. Matt was completely covered now, wearing a gray zip-up hoodie, plain black tee, black pants, and a camo printed hat rested backwards on his head. He was lacing his sneakers up when I appeared in the doorway.

"I expected more from you," I said, resting my head against the wooden frame.

He looked up, confusion on his face.

"You let Chris beat you in a wrestling match." I shook my head like I was disappointed before moving to sit beside him on his bed.

He chuckled. "Yeah, well he might look harmless, but the kid's got a lot of pent up aggression. Kind of comes with the territory."

He finished tying his shoes and leaned back on the mattress, his elbows propping him up. I wasn't sure what he meant. I followed his lead and rested on my forearms. "Because he's the youngest?"

Matt was surveying a loose strand of fabric hanging through the springs of the top bunk. He reached up and gave it a tug; the seam unraveled a couple of inches.

"Sort of. He's always been like that, ever since we were kids. He's the first person to be by your side if you need him, but he's also got a bit of a temper. Mom wanted to sign us up for karate, but Nick refused to participate because he "didn't like the outfits.'" He made air quotes with his fingers and I laughed.

Leave it to Nick to be against a sport solely because of what they had to wear.

"So, we settled for wrestling each other." He shrugged, shaking his head.

"I'll never understand you three," I said, laying flat on my back and staring up at the now longer piece of string hanging above us. I guess rough-housing with your brothers wasn't so bad when you thought about the alternatives, like actually getting into fist fights or destroying each other's belongings. At least this way it seemed like they got some amusement out of it.

"I'll make a mental note not to piss Chris off," I said jokingly.

"Oh, Nick's even worse." A mischievous smile tugged at the corners of his lips like he was thinking of a specific moment where this was true. "He rarely gets physical, but he knows how to cut you where it hurts."

I believed him. Not just because I could tell Nick had a way with words, a certain tone that could make you feel smaller than a penny, but because I could be the same way. That was something Mom was sure to pass down. Her voice didn't have to be raised, she didn't have to lay a finger on you to let you know that you were nothing. Even when you knew she was trying to be hurtful and she may not really believe the words she was saying, her tone sliced you to the core. It was like being sawed in half and expected to still know how to function. And it was a skill I'd eventually come to master.

That's what made us so volatile the last handful of years - our relentless bouts of slamming doors, shouting over each other. Me whittling her down to nothing but an addict, her projecting onto me. Neither of us were completely right in our assessments of one another, but that meant we weren't entirely wrong either.

"Matthew if you don't get your scrawny ass out here in the next sixty seconds I'm going to be really upset!" Nick shouted down the hall, startling me.

Matt rolled his eyes dramatically and stood up, straightening his pants. "Need I remind you that you can't go anywhere without me?" He yelled back.

"Doesn't mean I won't be annoyed, and no one likes an annoyed Nick," he replied pointedly.

I looked up at Matt and nodded. "You should go. There's been enough tension in this tiny cabin today, I don't need to see or hear any more triplet disagreements for the next few hours."

I rose from the mattress and headed towards the door. Nick was waiting at the end of the hall, his arms sassily propped on his hips.

"Don't give me that look," I said walking past him to the couch. "You're not waiting on me."

"Yes, but you're not helping the cause." He rolled his head to the side, giving me a sharp look.

I put my hands up in defense and plopped onto the cushion beside Chris. "Hey, he's your brother, not mine."

With that, Matt emerged from the bedroom and bypassed Nick on his way to the front door where his keys hung.

"Well?" He asked, opening the door and letting in a ray of warm light. "Are we going?"

Chris gave me a look that said do you see what I have to deal with? And I gave one back that said what do you want me to do about it?

He sighed heavily before jumping to his feet and draping an arm around Nick's shoulders. "Let's go before Nat decides we're more drama than we're worth."

Like that would ever happen.

Chris threw a wink over his shoulder as the three of them vanished into the daylight.

⎯

The cabin felt too large, too quiet for one person. Though it was the middle of the day, I could hear every creak of the foundation settling, every rattle of the pipes. There were only two small windows in the living room, both cloaked in thick curtains with no way to pin them back.

After about a half hour of scrolling mindlessly on my phone, I decided to look around. Chris hadn't bothered showing me the sunroom, and I wondered what else he left out.

The flat screen in the living room seemed to have been a newer addition since the TV cart it sat on was far thicker than it needed to be, like the one Mom and I had in our first apartment where the back of the television jutted out half a foot. An array of DVDs were neatly aligned on the bottom shelf. I ran my fingertips along their spines, a thick layer of dust settling on my skin. I smiled at the copies of The Sandlot and Matilda. Other classics like The Parent Trap - the Lindsey Lohan version obviously - and Home Alone were a part of the mix. When I reached the plastic case for my favorite, I slid it out.

I remember the first time I watched Casper; I was six and Mom was still on the other side of drinking. It was around Halloween time and we'd decorated the whole apartment in fuzzy cobwebs and plastic pumpkins. We even baked those little pumpkin Pillsbury cookies that are pure sugar, yet, you still find a way to eat all of them.

At the time, I wasn't allowed to watch scary movies because, to mom's credit, this was one of those good parenting moments for her and she "didn't want me to have night terrors." So, instead we built a makeshift bed out of couch cushions on the floor and bundled ourselves in the coziest blankets we could find before putting on the 90s classic.

Holding the aged movie case, I realized that was my favorite childhood memory.

I opened the case and inspected the disk. Dust was embedded in the corners of the plastic, but other than a few faint fingerprints, the disk looked brand new. Every time I watched this film it brought me back to the last time, maybe the only time, I felt like a daughter.

Snapping the case closed with a click! I tucked it back into its spot on the shelf.

The first back bedroom was practically empty. Other than the mattress beneath the window sill and a dresser that held a couple miscellaneous clothing items, it looked like this room hardly had any use.

I pulled open the accordion closet doors to find boxes stacked haphazardly, each with a description of what was inside sprawled across the side in black ink. One read 'NORA'S BOOKS' and another said 'ORNAMENTS.' A lone box was perched on the closet's shelf. It was longer than the others and barely fit in the space. 'FAMILY ALBUMS' was written in big, bulky letters across the front facing side.

Curiosity chewed at my insides. I knew that Nora was the boys' mother because Nick had jokingly referred to her as such during one of our chats, but I had no idea what she looked like. Did they get their eyes from her? Or was that from their dad? Which of them passed down the smile that could unravel you in an instant? The boys were identical to each other but did they even remotely resemble their parents?

I bounced on the balls of my feet. Was this weird? It was totally weird, right? And definitely wayyy too nosey. I wouldn't want them poking around my stuff if I'd left them alone in my house. These were family belongings, not just theirs, and...

I stood on my tippy toes, barely tall enough to reach the front corner of the box, and shimmied it down. It landed in my arms like dead weight. I groaned, dropping it on the foot of the bed.

Brushing off stray cobwebs, I pulled at the folded corners. There were at least a dozen photo albums arranged inside the box. I pulled out one that had a small baby photo tucked into the cover. It could have been Nick or Chris or Matt, between the newborn blonde hair and big blue eyes staring up at the camera lens, I couldn't tell the difference.

The old metal bed frame squeaked as I positioned myself on the edge, kneeling to flip through another album.

The first few pictures were of the boys smiling with big gaps in their teeth, wearing matching striped shirts, each with their initial sewn on the chest. Matt was in a yellow and blue long sleeve, while Chris wore a red and black, and Nick tugged on the hem of his navy blue and white one.

Even as toddlers they smiled with their eyes crinkled at the corners, all their teeth on display. I continued flipping through the pages, stopping on a photograph of what I assumed was Nora and Patrick in their twenties. Nora was shorter than I'd expected; in this picture she looked to be just a couple inches taller than me, whereas Patrick was a good head and shoulders above her. He was thin; his arms were long, draped around his wife's shoulders. He had the same build as the boys with the exception of a little more meat on his bones.

Staring at their young faces preserved behind the flimsy slip of plastic, there was no question whose smile was inherited by their sons. Nora's face was beaming, her cheeks round and slightly flushed, eyes hardly open. Dark strands fell loosely around her face, coming free from the ponytail high on her head.

Enamored with how familiar she felt, how much of Chris I saw in her, it took me a minute to realize she was pregnant in the picture. One of her hands was delicately placed on her lower belly, a sliver of fair skin protruding from beneath a floral blouse.

She and Patrick were standing in front of a two story home, half of a "SOLD" sign peeking into the frame. I touched the photo tenderly. This was where the boys grew up. This is who created the three people who had quickly become very important in my life.

I smiled wistfully at the photograph before reaching for another album. Photos upon photos of Nora, Patrick, Nick, Matt, and Chris filled the pages. They were on family vacations, sometimes here at the cabin, and others posed in front of national park signs. I paused when I'd realized a majority of the early childhood photos didn't only have Nick, Matt and Chris. There was a fourth boy who looked a couple of years older. I squinted at his face. It was hard to tell, but it didn't look like he had the same coastal eyes as the boys and his skin was a shade warmer than theirs. In a couple of pictures the boys were trailing him like a little family of ducklings.

As the album progressed and the boys got older, he seemed to disappear. I went through three more picture books and didn't find any more photos of him.

"Weird," I said to myself, tucking the albums back in the box and hauling it onto the shelf.

Maybe he was a close older cousin. Or someone Nora and Patrick fostered for a few years before having the boys.

I shrugged off my nosiness and closed the closet doors.

Nothing else seemed to catch my attention as I wandered aimlessly throughout the cabin. After a while, I grabbed my journal and made my way to the sunroom.

Mine and Matt's bean bags were where we left them, the blanket he slept with bundled in a heap on his. I picked it up, wrapping myself in its comfort and settling into the seat. The sun was well over the peak of the cabin's roof, bright light pouring in from every direction. I wiggled myself deeper into the bean bag until I was comfortable and flipped open my journal.

September 16th, 2023 - Black Ink Submission (draft 4 cont'd)

I've always wanted to see the world through someone else's eyes. Growing up in Northern California was like living in a bubble. I wasn't sheltered by any means, but I was withdrawn from the world around me because my own had given me more than enough to experience.

When I was a teenager, my English teacher Mrs. Slater had asked our class to write a letter to ourselves five years in the future. "Tell me what your life looks like," she said.

Some students wrote that they'd be rich with a Ferrari, living in a big house on a hill. Others wrote that they'd be famous, getting their big break on The Voice.

I wrote that I'd be gone.

Truthfully, I don't even think I really knew what I meant by that. At the time, I couldn't see five years into the future. I could barely see five hours. Back then, my world revolved around one thing: a two-bedroom duplex on a dead end street. The only future I could see through was the one where my mother drank herself to death and I'd wake to find her in the same house I'd never be able to leave.

Do you ever find yourself longing for a place you've never been? Or for people you've never met? That overwhelming sense of homesickness deep in your belly? I have. I feel it right now. More than ever before.

When I pulled off I-89 six months ago it was like my body knew. I don't know how to explain it other than it was the same familiar feeling that settled over me on an ordinary September day sitting at a wobbly, corner table in a local coffee shop where I met three unexpected strangers. It wasn't your stereotypical "love at first sight" - I don't believe in that. What I do believe in is an invisible string, carried deep within us, tethering our souls to places - people - that align with who we are at our core.

Some call this the "Red Thread Theory" and others call it "destiny." I'm not saying that I believe I was destined to be in that coffee shop, at that table, at that very moment, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't believe even if I hadn't been, we would've found each other one way or another.

It's the same as stumbling across a small, sleepy town after traveling across the country with no plan, no final destination in mind, and realizing it was where you were meant to be. How all of the pieces align for you even when you don't know it.

I've never been good at making decisions unless it's about whether or not I should stay or go, to which my answer has always been to leave. A therapist may deem this as a "trauma response" and I'd be inclined to agree, however, why would anyone want to stay when there's so much you're still looking for? So much still looking for you.

My phone vibrated softly. I fumbled around the bean bag, shaking out the blanket and hearing a heavy thump against the hardwood. I smiled at the caller ID.

"Jenny!" I chimed.

"That's probably the happiest anyone has ever sounded answering my call." Her voice sounded thick as molasses over the speaker. "Did you make it there all right?"

I nodded though she couldn't see me. "We decided to make a pit stop at the boys' family cabin for a couple of nights."

The shop's bell chimed faintly in the background as Jenny whispered "Welcome in." There was some shuffling and the familiar creak of the kitchenette's wooden stools before she asked, "Are you second guessing your decision?"

The pen cap I was chewing on cracked between my teeth. I frowned. "I wouldn't say second guessing so much as...taking my time."

The cap bounced lamely as I tossed it onto the blanket.

Okay, so, I was definitely not not second guessing going to Maine tomorrow. Intrusive thoughts had been fighting for my attention all day. At first I thought about what would happen if we arrived in Harborough to find that Mark and his family – err other family – weren't in town. Would we stay the night and hope they came back the next day? The day after that? What if his daughter (she was definitely not my sister) answered the door? Would she recognize any of herself in me? Of our father?

Then my thoughts went from bad to worse. Once I'd stopped hyper-fixating on the what-ifs of meeting Mark, I started daydreaming about things I really shouldn't have been thinking about at all. Like my fingers tangled in Matt's soft brown curls or how close I was to feeling his perfectly plump lips last night. Chris' palms firmly on my thigh, working their way upwards...

I palmed my forehead and let out an aggravated groan.

"That better not be towards me, Natalia Jane," Jenny admonished, and I reflexively straightened in my bean bag. There's something about an adult using your middle name that always seems to strike fear into you, even if it's over the phone.

"Sorry, Jen," I slumped back into the vinyl, "it's not you. I feel like I haven't had a second to get my head on straight and every time I think I'm done overthinking, another thought pops up and it's... a lot."

"If I was shacked up with three handsome boys, I wouldn't be able to think straight either."

"Jenny!" I gasped. Normally I would've made a joke about not being Nick's type, but I was too busy picking my jaw off the floor to get it out.

She chuckled. "Well? Are you saying you don't think they're handsome?"

I was in so much shock I had to stand up and pace the width of the room. "I mean... I don't know. They're cute, I guess."

Jenny clicked her tongue and I knew she was giving me one of her infamous looks. "Oh, please, Natalia. I'm old, not blind."

I couldn't believe we were having this conversation. The only way my cheeks would've been hotter is if someone shone a spotlight straight down on me, but at least she couldn't see my reaction.

Denial poured from my lips. "Sure, they're handsome," I emphasized, "but I need more than just looks, Jenny. Matt's so "I like to be alone," always sort of brooding in the corner, and don't even get me started on Chris! Prince Charming would flirt with just about anyone given the opportunity."

Anyone except for Macy, I thought.

I swatted the image of Macy with her big blue eyes and frizz-free blonde hair and perfect pilates ass away, along with the fly buzzing around my head.

The sun was beating down through the glass ceiling, and that mixed with the direction this conversation was going in, caused sweat to pool along my hairline. In the window's reflection I could see my baby hairs start to curl. I really should've changed out of this sweater.

Jenny's hearty laughter spilled from the phone that was now on speaker so I could freely talk with my hands as I wore another hole in the sunroom's rug.

"Not to mention," I interrupted before she could butt in, my arms flopping loudly against my thighs, "they live across the country! I just left California, I don't want to go back. I'm not built for Los Angeles and even if I was, I wouldn't stand a chance next to those kinds of girls. I mean, I know I'm pretty or whatever," I flicked my hand, "and I don't think the boys would be shallow enough to only want to be with someone for their appearance, but let's be honest here — they're hot and famous, and I'm so...little Orphan Annie."

My rambling had gone on for so long I was out of breath by the time I finished. And now, I really was sweating.

I flapped the end of my sweater to cool myself down. "Jenny? Are you still there?"

"Oh, sorry, I wasn't sure if you wanted to say anything else."

A half-hearted laugh escaped me as I flung myself onto the loveseat. It was firmer than I thought, and a lot mustier than it looked. Its paisley pattern was discolored, resembling a shade closer to vomit than the light green it used to be and it was surprisingly scratchy. I flicked a piece of fuzz off the arm and watched it float languidly to the floor.

"That about sums it up," I grumbled.

Jenny paused for a moment. "Don't you think you're jumping the gun just a little?"

She didn't give me a chance to respond.

"Nothing you said has happened yet. And even if it does, it can all be worked out. Life's no fun when you're always worried about doing what's right or what's best in the long run. Sometimes you just have to make a choice because it feels right. There's always going to be consequences. Good and bad. I'm worried you're going to spend the rest of your life running from those decisions because you're afraid they're going to turn you into –"

"My mom," I finished for her.

Jenny let out a long, uneven breath. "You're not her, Natalia."

I was sweating more now, bad enough that rolling up the sleeves of my sweater did nothing other than add to my frustration when they immediately slid back down. It took everything in me to not scream when I pushed them back up and they fell again. Really? I took a steadying breath.

Deep down I knew that what Jenny said was true, but I couldn't bring myself to fully believe it. For years I watched my mother make impulsive decisions and convince herself that it was in our best interest. After Grandma died, Mom drained her savings (which wasn't much to begin with) and drove us three hours north to Reno for the weekend. She'd surprised me by booking a stay at Circus, Circus Hotel, where we drank virgin pina coladas by the pool and played skee ball in the arcade until we won the biggest stuffed elephant they had.

Another time, when I was eleven, Mom started seeing this guy named Paul who she'd met through a friend of a friend; he worked as the assistant manager of General Motors in town. Their relationship was one-sided to say the least. Paul spent the first three months spoiling Mom — and by association, me — with lame gifts like bouquets of roses and See's Candy boxes, until finally he showed up one day with a freaking BMW. After that, Mom was all in.

Well, as "all in" as a narcissistic, high-functioning alcoholic can be.

It wasn't even six months later when Paul caught wind that Daniela had been secretly sleeping with — really, it was only a secret to him — the bartender at McGill's and had our car towed. I spent the rest of the school year catching rides with the neighbor whose daughter was a grade above me and didn't so much as bother saying "bye" once we exited the car.

You see, it's easy to make a decision when you don't care about the repercussions, and considering the only confrontation Daniela ever had to make when life got too hard was finding the mouth of a bottle, it's pretty clear who had to pick up the pieces.

"I'm not saying that you need to throw caution out the window and suddenly decide you're going to follow these kids anywhere they go, but let yourself enjoy where you're at. Let tomorrow be tomorrow's problem," Jenny coaxed.

I rested my head on the back of the sofa. If it were possible to cut out all of my hesitation like a bad tumor, I would've done it a long time ago.

But that would be too easy.

"Baby steps," I said finally.

Jenny gave a resigned sigh. "That's a start."