Truly Madly Deeply: Chapter 8

“Basket Case”—Green Day

It was a humbling experience, standing in the pissing rain on Dylan’s doorstep with a baking dish swathed in foil, shivering in my ladybug rainboots as Zeta Casablancas regarded me with the suspicion of a prison guard.

“Calla, cucciolotta, I am so sorry for your loss.” She sniffled through the tiny crack in the door.

Not sorry enough to let me in, I thought uncharitably.

“Is she waiting for you?” She peered beyond my shoulder, still blocking the entryway.

Mrs. Casablancas was a distrustful woman, though I had a nagging feeling she hadn’t always been this way. Zeta was as tall as treetops and as glamorous as the sun. She had given up her career in Milan to move here with Dylan’s late father, Doug, after meeting him on a night out in New York. Someone who up and left their entire world to enter someone else’s couldn’t be a person with trust issues, right? Something had made her the way she was today. I couldn’t recall one time I’d seen her happy. Growing up, I’d always assumed she missed her family in Italy.

“Uhm, well, not exactly.” I shivered, drenched to the bone. Mrs. Casablancas made no move to let me in. It stung, because she used to love me like a daughter. Used to braid my hair and laugh at things I said (most of them weren’t jokes, but still).

“Dylan is pregnant. It’s not good for her to get too excited,” Zeta explained.

“I just want to apologize.” I bent my knees, not above begging.

“For what?”

Screwing your son.

“Our…misunderstanding five years ago.”

Her gaze lingered on my face, fingernails drumming on the old wood, their sound pleasant but unnerving. She sighed. “I’ll go check if she’s accepting visitors.”

“Thank you.”

“If I don’t come back in three minutes, leave.”

“Yes, ma’am. I promise.”

The door slammed in my face. I proceeded to dance in place in an attempt to dodge the rain. Spoiler alert—it did not work. The Casablancases’ house was a twenty-minute walk from mine, nestled at the foot of the tree-covered mountains. The place was a far cry from the pastel-colored historic structures of the street my family resided on. This felt more like a cabin in the middle of the forest. A great spot for a murder-mystery plot.

Pacing, I wondered if there was even a point in sticking around. I knew my former best friend. If holding a grudge was an Olympic sport, Dylan’s neck would break from all the medals.

A minute passed. Then two. Five minutes melted into seven. The rain fell down harder, in thick sheets. God, what was I doing here, soaked to the bone, pining for a childhood friendship that had collapsed in a spectacular fashion? This was silly. It had been five years. It was time to let go.

Not yet, Callichka, Dad chided in my head. Have faith.

Shut up, Dad. You were an atheist.

Seven minutes passed. Then ten. Then twenty.

Twenty. Whole. Minutes.

“Sorry, Dad. She isn’t coming out,” I murmured. I took one last look at the Casablancases’ cottage—dilapidated, the rotten wood wet and sagging, yellowish windows, and a rickety front porch.

I tried, Dylan. I really did.

I put the dish down on the first step, turned around, and walked away. A screeching sound assaulted my ears. An old window cracking open.

“Calla Polina Litvin, you are such a quitter.” Dylan’s head popped through the window in her attic. Her dark locks danced in the wind, thick and glossy. She was waving a white shirt in her fist. A white flag? “It’s like that time we went to the regional hockey finals and you bailed ten minutes in because there weren’t any hot players.”

“Hey,” I yelled back. “No one on that rink was over a six, and you know it.” I stabbed a finger in the air in her direction. I remembered that day. I had left because Dylan was clearly PMSing and needed cake, not eye candy.

“Whatever, Dot. We were fifteen. It’s not like you were going to reproduce with one of them.”

“Did you stare at me through your window to see how long it’d take me to break?” I squinted, somehow still unable to be mad at her.

She mimicked zipping her lips and throwing the key out the window. I pretended to catch the imaginary key and tossed it back to her pointedly. She “unlocked” her lips and sighed in defeat. “Ugh. Fine. Yes. But in my defense, I hardly have any source of entertainment these days. I’ve watched everything worth consuming on Netflix.”

I pressed my lips together, fighting a smile. “May I come in?”

She rolled her eyes. “Guess so. It’s high time you say your piece.”

“Actually, I am pissed. You let me stand in the rain for twenty minutes and watched?” My mouth hung open in disbelief.

“Hey, you let me have sex with Tucker Reid.” She pointed at me.

“I would never.” I clutched my chest, staggering backward as if she had shot me. “You shunned me from your life, so I couldn’t be there to remind you that you are all that and a bag of chips and deserve so much better. You betrayed both of us.”

“Not me, my vagina.”

“Dylan Maria Casablancas!” her mother roared from downstairs. “Watch it before I wash your mouth out with soap.”

“What about your betrayal?” Dylan demanded, ignoring her mom. “Which part of your body was in charge the night you—”

“I regret that night every single day of my life.” A lie. I didn’t regret it, even though I should have. I only regretted getting caught. Row was the only man other than my dad who made me feel safe.

“Whoa.” Dylan puffed her cheeks. “Was he really that bad?”

“Not bad! Not at all!” I pretzeled inside my soaked clothes. Great. Now I had offended her beloved brother. “He was great! Wonderful.”

She made a gagging sound. “But…?”

“But he is…uhm, gifted.”

“Like, talented?”

“Like…the length of my height?”

“Dylan! My goodness! I’m coming out there with a broom!” Zeta threatened from inside the house. China crashed noisily in the kitchen, followed by more cursing in Italian. “I spilled all my minestrone. God forgive both of you girls because my ears never will.”

Dylan and I stared at each other…before dissolving into deranged laughter.

I grabbed the foiled dish and made a beeline for the door. She opened it before I could knock, and we were face-to-face, flushed, panting, shaking with exhilaration (and me, possibly also with hypothermia).

“Holy crap, you look so pathetic!” Dylan said cheerfully, gathering my cheeks in her hands. “I love me some good groveling.”

Inside, the house looked totally different from how I remembered it. Growing up, nobody in this town had a lot of money. But the Casablancas took the blue-collar cake. Doug had been a solo fisherman with a rickety old boat, and Zeta was a homemaker. Some days, especially at the end of each month, the electricity hadn’t worked and they’d rationed cans of food. Until Row had started working when he was a teenager and turned things around.

Now I saw that the inside was completely refurbished. The wooden floorings were gleaming and brand-new. The lights were bright, the furniture substantial and modern, and there were shutters. Row’s doing, no doubt.

As if reading my mind, Dylan tipped her chin up proudly. “Row’s building Mom a whole new house, you know. Four thousand square feet. White picket fence, red roof. It’s almost done. Just off Main Street and Winchester Road.”

“Oh wow,” I breathed out. Row was a total pain in the butt, but no one could deny he loved his family something fierce.

“Yeah.” Dylan’s face clouded. “He is kind of forcing me to live there too, since… Never mind. Anyway, we’re battling it out. I don’t need his charity.”

I had no interest in talking about the person who had made us fall out right now, so I tried to refocus her. “So I brought you a few things.”

“Edible things?” Dylan squinted, rubbing her belly through her yellow satin nightgown.

“Fifty percent of them, yes.”

“Yummy edible things?” Dylan elevated an eyebrow. “Because Mom and Row are making me eat all kinds of healthy shit full of iron and magnesium and whatnot.”

“Dylan, you’re on bed rest!” Zeta materialized from the kitchen like something that needed to be purged, brandishing a kitchen towel as though it were a weapon, clad in a house robe. “You don’t look very restful, and you’re definitely not in bed.”

“Bring your apology offerings upstairs.” Dylan snapped her fingers and tilted her head to the stairway with a flourish. I followed her, my heart in my throat.

On our way up, I asked, “Are you and Tuck still…?”

“Together?”

“Yeah.”

“Guess so.” She offered a little shrug, throwing the door to her room open. Holy crap. Row really did gut this place and redo it. It looked fantastic. All pastel colors, throws, and decorative pillows. The room Dylan had dreamed about when we were teenagers. The room she deserved. “Though I’m not so sure how much of it is Tuck wanting to be with me and how much of it is Tuck not wanting to die at the hands of my cranky brother.”

“Your brother is frightening,” I admitted, looking around in astonishment. “But I don’t know anyone who’d agree to spend the rest of their life with someone they don’t love just because they’re afraid to get punched in the face.”

“You haven’t met Row’s punches. Tucker has, and he is not a fan.”

“Still…this must be exciting for you.” I mustered a smile. I was excited about her having a baby; I was not excited that she was still with Tucker.

“The new construction is supposed to house Tuck, me, and the baby.” Dylan fell to her bed, sighing miserably. “The deed is gonna be in Mom’s name, so Tuck won’t get any greedy ideas after we get married. Guess Row wanted all of us together somewhere pretty and new so he wouldn’t have a guilt trip when he leaves again.”

“You’re getting married?” I whispered.

Dylan nodded miserably. “Tuck popped the question.”

“Aww.”

“…after Row almost popped his knees.”

“Oh. That’s…sweet?” I remained standing, waiting for an invitation to sit down.

If Tuck had two brain cells to rub together, he knew Dylan was eons above his league. Unfortunately, I seriously doubted those two cells were in existence.

“I mean, you’re engaged! Having a baby! Getting a new house!” I threw one hand up excitedly, hoping my fake enthusiasm was contagious. “My only achievement in the last five years is staying alive, and even that was purely accidental.”

“Thing is…I’m not sure I want to share this magnificent new house with him. Or if I want to share anything with him at all. Other than the baby, of course, which I don’t have a choice about. We’ve been together for five years…” Five years. Sweet Jesus. “But he also has a terrible temper, is about as intellectual as an expired bag of trail mix, and we can’t agree on anything other than the indisputable fact that the worst LaCroix flavor is cherry blossom.” Heavy silence fell between us before she added, “Plus, what if I don’t want to live in a big, fancy house in Staindrop? What if I want to live in a small, cool apartment in Boston? Or go back to being a PA in Greenwich?” I didn’t even know that had happened. “I feel like all my decisions were made for me the minute I got pregnant. People who are trying to take care of me are actually suffocating me.”

She was making a snow angel over her unmade bed, staring at the ceiling hollowly.

“Is Tucker really that bad?” I whispered.

“Dude, the worst. He has no sense of humor either. Before he went off lobster hunting, we attended a twenty-four-week ultrasound checkup, and when we were in an elevator full of people on our way to the sonographer, I asked him very loudly, ‘So when are you going to tell your wife about us?’ and you know what he did?”

I pressed my lips together, stifling a laugh. Dylan was so fantastically herself, it sometimes took my breath away. “Peed his pants cackling, as he should?”

“You’d think so, right? But no. He got all mad and started yelling at me that I was immature and too much to handle. What does that even mean?” Her eyes—a shade darker than Row’s—sparkled with unshed tears. “Shouldn’t the person you love be the perfect amount for you?”

Well, I’m no expert in love, but I think that if someone loves you the way you deserve to be loved, they could never get enough of you.

Rage scorched through my body. Dylan was clearly unhappy, and that made me want to use Tucker’s arteries as shoelaces. The jerk.

“Dylan…” I cleared my throat. “You should do what makes you happy.”

“I know.” She worried her lip, sitting upright. “But Chris Hemsworth is married. And lives in Australia. I’m not built for long distance, Dot.”

That made both of us laugh somberly.

“Hey! At least you got a baby out of it!” I reached to rub her belly with my free hand, which looked like a prosthetic glued onto a supermodel’s body. “You’ve always wanted a baby, and you gotta admit, this is so much better than stealing one.”

“Not if you have to push it out of your body. Plus, if I steal one, I can have my pick.” She pouted.

“Hmm.” I pinched at my puckered lips. “You have a point. If only kidnapping children wasn’t illegal and stuff.”

“Oh, Cal, what have I done?” Dylan moaned, throwing an arm over her eyes. “Tuck and I are the least compatible people on earth. We both come from families of giants. I’m only thirty-three weeks along and the baby is already, like, five pounds. It’s going to come out your size.”

“Hey, I’ve been told I’m pocket-sized.” I swatted her knee.

“For an adult.”

“That’s a very big word for what I am.” I was torn between being devastated for her and happy for myself that we seemed to be friends again. “So…why were you with him? Before the pregnancy, I mean.”

“Boredom? Loneliness? Temporary insanity?” She hitched one shoulder up, drawing circles over her nightgown with her fingernail. “Everyone left for college. You all lived your cosmopolitan lives. I stayed behind to take care of Mom. My universe was small and insignificant. I bussed tables every day, got back home, ate my frozen dinner in front of Netflix. Slept. Rinsed. Repeated. Tuck was there, making a good buck and easy to boss around. He took me to nice restaurants, weekend getaways, movies; he was a great distraction.” She paused. “Oh, and he really loves giving oral. Like, I’m talking thirty-minute sessions and multiple orgasms.”

“Wow. He really didn’t strike me as the giving type.”

“I know, right? I’ve met plastic utensils more charitable.” She popped her head up from her pillow, patting an empty space on her bed. “It’s probably an ego thing, but at the time I did not complain. But enough about my life. Let’s see what you brought over. It better be good.”

“Oh, it’s the best.” I inched toward her with my offerings. First, I put the foil-covered cupcake pan on her nightstand, unpeeling the edge for easy access. “Found our shoebox last night.”

“You mean the one that you stole from me?” She gave me the stink eye.

“I didn’t steal it; we had joint custody over it, remember? Giving it back was never an option because you were mad at me. Anyway, I started going through our notes. One of your birthday wishes was a dessert made out of M-lettered ingredients. I did my best.”

I had made her marshmallow cupcakes with milk, M&M’s, and Maltesers. Yeah, I’d had to cheat and use eggs, butter, and flour, but overall, I had brought my M game.

“Lookie here.” She removed the foil, bringing one of the cupcakes to her lips and taking a bite. It looked moist and soft on the inside; my heart swelled with pride. “Damnrm,” she murmured, mouth full. “I don’t know if it’s amazing or if I’m just not used to eating junk anymore.”

“It is amazing.” I flipped my hair—black-tipped, for obvious, morbid reasons. “And there’s more of them coming—including foot massages and doing your nails if you forgive me and take me back as your BFF.”

“A foot massage can get you into premature labor.” Dylan’s eyes widened in horror. “Hard no to that one.”

“Guess I’ll have to fan you with a palm leaf and tell you how pretty you are.” I stuck my finger into the frosting of one cupcake, popping it into my mouth.

“Well.” Dylan licked the frosting off her thumb sulkily. “I am very pretty.”

I perched my ass on the edge of her bed, careful not to wet it with my clothes. Dylan took another bite, craning her neck to peer at the plastic bag behind me. “What else did you bring me?”

“Siri, play ‘Material Girl.’” I slapped her hand away when she tried to snatch the bag from around my body, laughing.

“Siri, play ‘My Best Friend Screwed My Older Brother.’” She finished her cupcake in one bite. “Oops. Never mind. No one wrote a song about a betrayal so cutting and deep.”

“I’m sure there’s a country song about it,” I muttered. “It’s not like I slept with your boyfriend.”

“If you’d have slept with my boyfriend, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Why?”

Dylan snorted. “I’m not a medium, silly. I can’t speak to the dead.”

I was glad I had come here.

“Chop chop.” Dylan clapped. “What’s my next gift? You can’t squeeze any of the Hemsworths into a bag so small, so I already know it’s not what I want.”

“I sincerely hope you are not on any FBI watch list.” I sighed, producing a burned CD from the plastic bag and handing it to her. “I made you a playlist of baby shower songs.”

Dylan flipped the CD to its back, where I had slid a piece of paper with a handwritten song list. “This better not have ‘Isn’t She Lovel—’ Oh!” She jutted her lower lip out and nodded, impressed. “‘Plug In Baby’?”

“Epic intro,” I confirmed.

“‘Baby Got Back’?” Her gaze skated my way, eyebrows arched.

“Fun, right?” I beamed.

“‘There Goes My Life’?” Dylan gasped, punching my arm. Hard.

“Hey, that’s what the rumors say!” I rubbed my arm, chuckling. “Whatever happened to no kids before we hit thirty? You broke the pact.”

“No, he broke the condom. And you’re horrible.”

“You still love me.”

A reluctant moan escaped her lips. “Ugh, I really do. It’s such a curse.”

I kicked off my boots, crossing my legs over her bed, my heart galloping happily in my throat. I pulled her nightstand drawer open, knowing tiny hairbands were waiting for me in a small tin box, and patted my thigh. Begrudgingly, she rested her head on said thigh, staring up at me, blinking at her ceiling.

“So I have a question,” I said.

“No, you cannot be the godmother.”

“Shush. Of course, I’ll be the godmother.” I began parting her hair into neat sections, getting ready to Dutch-braid it. “I wanted to ask if you sent me a broccoli cake for my twentieth birthday.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “That’s random.”

“But true…?” I peered into her face, brushing each piece of her hair with my fingers.

“No. The only thing I wanted to send you over the years was anthrax, and I was too scared to get caught.” Dylan shook her head. “Not me. Sorry, Dot.”

“I’m asking because you’re the only person who knew about my gross cake wish,” I explained, even more confused than I was before. If it wasn’t Dylan, who was it?

“Oh Christ.” She rolled her eyes as I began braiding her satin-soft hair.

“Christ, what?” I frowned.

“Christ, Jesus…?” She pressed her lips together, eyes flaring in her alarm, like she had said something she shouldn’t.

“Tell me.”

“Shut up.” She clamped her mouth shut.

“Come on, Dylan—”

She leaped up, grabbed one of the red-and-pink cupcakes, and shoved it in my mouth. She missed by a few inches and it landed on my ear and hair. I gasped audibly. This was a declaration of war if I ever saw one.

I picked up a cupcake, hurling it in her face with surprising force. It hit her eye. Dylan’s jaw slacked. “No, you didn’t.”

“Did too.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

She picked up the cupcake she’d shoved in my face from my lap, smearing it all over my face. I, in return, shoveled cupcake crumbs and frosting into her mouth. Soon, we were flinging cupcakes at each other while making squeaky sounds. I got her cheek. She got my hair. Dylan’s church-bells laughter filled the room. I was laughing too, until I remembered she was on bed rest and wasn’t supposed to get too excited. That was when I raised my arms in the air in surrender. I was pinned under her, trying to scoot back and sit up. “Stop! You’re on bed rest.”

Dylan, who had been about to shove a cupcake down my throat and suffocate me, collapsed backward on the mattress and groaned. “Oh, right. I have to take it easy.”

“Why are you on bed rest, anyway?” I straightened up onto my elbows, peering at her frosting-covered face.

“They scheduled me for a C-section. They think the baby’s gonna come out the size of a Saint Bernard. Like, ten-pounds big. I’m the poster child for safe sex, Dot.”

We stared at each other silently. Pieces of cupcake dangled from our hair and lashes. Her face was a red-and-pink mess, and I guessed mine looked much worse. We both started laughing, toppling over in her bed. I didn’t even know why we were laughing. Just that we needed that laugh very much, even if for different reasons.

Me—because I missed Dad, the only man in my life I’d ever loved, and because my fear of men stopped me from pursuing my other dreams, like the podcast.

Her—because she was with a man she didn’t like, on a journey she hadn’t chosen.

We were laughing like there was no tomorrow, a never-ending giggling sound, when the front door slammed downstairs, and I heard the voice of the man who had nearly made me come in my dress on my kitchen floor a few days ago.

“Where’s Dylan?”

Oh shit.