Open House Read online

  By: TC Matson

  Copyright © 2016 TC Matson

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permissions of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at [email protected].

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people, whether living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. The author recognizes the trademarks and copyrights of all registered products and works mentioned within this work.

  Cover Design by: © Sara Eirew Photography

  Editing by: Amanda Brown

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  More from TC Matson

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Connect with TC

  Hot Reads!

  Dedication

  The sun always shines behind the storm clouds. The night always gives way to the day.

  Stay Strong.

  Chapter 1

  Love. The dictionary says it’s an intense feeling of deep affection—to feel a deep romantic or sexual attachment to someone.

  When you meet your special someone, the one you know you’ll marry, deep in your soul, the one you love so immensely, you see yourself growing old and gray, dancing with each other in walkers at the same nursing home until you’re no longer a body in this world. You swear your love to them—“To have and to hold, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish from this day forward until death do us part.”

  I’ve dreamed of the day I could say those very words to my long, very longtime boyfriend, Brian. I’ve fantasized about what it would be like to walk down the aisle in a white flowing dress toward him in a tux as he grinned proudly and from ear to ear. You’d think after eleven years of dating we would have already taken that step. Nope. Brian doesn’t care for marriage. In fact, his very words were, “I don’t need someone to tell me I have a wife.” He’s fallen short on the understanding of how marriages work.

  But we have said our vows. We were in bed. I was pregnant. And he loved me.

  I’ve stuck true to our fake little vows over the course of our time together. But no one ever told me that at times the “for worse” can be so decayed that you live your life as a robot. You become complacent. Unhappy. You walk the same steps daily, basically becoming a routine, day in and day out. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I opened a different cabinet drawer instead of the usual one. Would the pull of the universe shift and the whole world collapse?

  I’d be lying if I told you I haven’t tried just to see what happens. Luckily for my son and me, the universe didn’t implode. Actually, it was very anticlimactic. The only thing that happened—the drawer opened. Big surprise.

  That’s where I am. Staring at the kitchen drawers, waiting for the coffee to finish, and wondering if this time when I grab a spoon, something will shift in my day.

  The coffee maker gurgles and bubbles the last few seconds of its brew. I watch as the dark liquid falls into the pot, creating ripples to spread, and wakes to splash into the glass. The house creaks above me where I know Brian has just gotten out of the shower. Regardless if it was the last thing he did before going to sleep, he requires one every morning. “It wakes me up,” he has told me for the past decade.

  I grab my white coffee cup that says “Mom Rocks” on it as well as his travel mug and fill them both to the top. I don’t dare add creamer and sugar to his as I do mine. He desires his one way and one way only, regardless of how many times I’ve tried convincing him my way adds a sweet and powerful kick. He insists his bitter jolt is much stronger and wakes him up faster, giving him the extra oomph for the day.

  I grab the toaster from the corner of the counter, slide two pieces of bread into the slots, and push the button down. As it toasts, I pause for a moment to enjoy the sweet aroma of my coffee before taking a sip and then getting the butter.

  Regardless of how many times I’ve done this, whether I’m watching it or not, when the bread pops up, it always scares the living shit out of me. Today is no different, except that it’s brought an ounce of laughter into my morning routine.

  “What are you laughing about?” Brian asks rounding the corner into the kitchen.

  “The terrorizing toaster.” I point to the evil thing with the butter knife.

  His left brow raises as he studies me like I’ve lost my damn mind, but the amused expression quickly slips away. “My coffee ready?” he asks nodding toward his travel mug.

  My smile dissipates. “Yes. Would you like toast this morning?”

  “Yeah,” he hollers over his shoulder heading into the living room to gather his things for work.

  “Do you have a busy day today?” I wrap his toast in a paper towel.

  He tucks his grimy white hard hat under his arm. “Not too bad. Why?”

  I shrug. “Just asking.”

  He offers a lopsided smile, one I know isn’t filled with any emotion. “I’ll come home early and we’ll spend some time together.”

  I give the best smile I can conjure up. I’ve heard the same line for years now. Early never comes. Neither does us spending time together. In his eyes, my demand for “us time” should be sufficed by him in the recliner and me on the couch because, technically speaking, we’re in the same room thus spending much-needed time together.

  He reaches around my shoulder, grabs the toast, and kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll see you later.”

  The scent of his cologne—spicy and musky—lingers for much longer than he was around and I take a long inhale, relishing the scent.

  I bought that cologne for him many years ago for our anniversary, just knowing he’d enjoy it. I was strolling through the mall one day and a bright red bottle, centered in the glass showcase, caught my eye. All I was going to do was take a look at the fancy little bottle, but when the older lady with white hair sprayed it on the tester card, I knew right then and there I wasn’t walking away without it. I placed it in a small blue bag with green polka-dots, shoved some white tissue around it, and later that evening, I gave it to him. At first I could tell he wasn’t that into it, but that was before he got a sniff of the amazing scent. He grinned so big afterward and immediately sprayed a little on him. There was something about that cologne that made me unable to keep my hands off him. We both enjoyed that night. And even after years of buying the same bottle, it still has the same effect on me.

  “Dad just leave?” The raspy, just-woke-up, voice of Lucas fills my ears.

  I twirl around. “Good morning, sweetie. You�
��re up really early.”

  He nuzzles against me, hugging me. “I forgot to close my curtains last night.”

  “Shut them and go back to sleep,” I tell him.

  He shakes his head. “Already tried.”

  “Did you at least sleep well?” I place a kiss on top of his head.

  “Yeah.” He lets loose and heads straight for the refrigerator.

  Ever since he was a baby, when he woke up, he wanted something to eat. And now that he’s ten, nothing has changed, except he isn’t in a crib fussing for food. Now, he’s old enough to roll right out of bed and get something himself, but the demand is just the same.

  “Can you make pancakes?” he asks with innocent and hopeful eyes.

  “Somehow I knew you were going to want some today, so I made a few last night. Grab them out of the freezer and I’ll warm them up.”

  His hazel eyes widen with happiness. He spins around and jerks open the freezer door, reaches in and grabs the bag. I warm two of them up for him as he grabs some orange juice and jumps onto the stool at the island.

  “When is open house? Today or tomorrow?” he asks.

  “It’s tomorrow,” I reply.

  He nods. “I thought so, just wasn’t sure. I really hope I get Mrs. Sheets.”

  “And why’s that?” I ask placing the pancakes in front of him.

  “She’s really nice. Coby had her last year and said she was super laid back. Not strict at all. And she likes watching movies.”

  “I’m sure whoever you have will be great.”

  He shakes his head. “Not if I get Mrs. Dalton.” He shakes his body, overemphasizing a shudder. “I’ve heard she can silence you with one look. And if you drop your pencil, you’ll have silent lunch.”

  I laugh, leaning down on my elbow. “She sounds super mean.”

  He looks at me with the most serious expression. “She’s really mean. Homework for hours, mean.”

  I gasp facetiously. “Homework for hours?”

  “Seriously, Mom. If I get her, please remember me.”

  I burst out laughing. “I’m sure she isn’t that bad.”

  “You have no clue!” he exclaims. “She’s a witch.”

  “Lucas. Watch your words. That wasn’t very nice.”

  He drops his fork. “When she puts a spell on me you’ll see.”

  There isn’t any use in arguing with a head-strong ten-year-old, so I leave the conversation alone and grab my coffee before checking my phone. Sometimes Brian will be sweet and text me when he gets to work, but I learned long ago not to anticipate it. I used to ask him to let me know when he got to work since his job sites can be a distance away, but the sweet gesture dwindled away. He always forgot, even when I reminded him before he left.

  His father owns a pretty reputable construction company winning bids all over the United States. After John, Brian’s father, saw how sedulous his work ethics were, he gave Brian a foreman position when he was twenty-one. It was a pretty big deal to us. Brian had worked his ass off for his dad for years, and he had always thought it was futile. Lo and behold, John had been watching the whole time.

  Brian didn’t start working for his dad until after he graduated from high school. When I met him, I was seventeen and he was only a few months older than me. It was a Friday night and I had snuck out with some friends to go to a party. I wasn’t a goody-two-shoes, but I wasn’t a bad kid either despite sneaking off sometimes. I was a straight A student and education meant the world to me because I knew one day I was going to go to college to have a credible job, like lawyer or something of equal importance. I hadn’t figured it out yet. Although sometimes my actions were reckless, I was very responsible, which always led me to be the DD.

  Brian was in the kitchen with a group of his friends, mostly from the soccer team, standing around the little liquor-filled island, laughing and cutting up. My little “clique” of friends were in the living room with a direct view of the hunky jocks in the kitchen. I hadn’t paid much attention to anyone coming and going, or moving around us. I was sucked into the gossip stories being swapped between the girls. Occasionally, a loud boisterous laugh cutting through the blaring music caused us all to look up and around.

  I’m not sure how we caught each other’s attention, but afterward, we shared several flirty glances. A slow song over the radio finally made him advance toward me. Before he asked me to dance, he grabbed my hand like I was his to own. I wasn’t about to argue with him. He was the best looking guy at the party and he was interested in me. Of course, I said yes. I’d be a dumbass not to.

  I remember feeling weightless while being wrapped tightly against him as we swayed back and forth. We took turns firing off questions, interviewing each other. And even though he got way more questions in than I did, I was fine with it because he was interested in me and I was interested in him. He had the most intriguing and intense brown eyes, his black hair was trendy—cut short with bangs gelled forward—and his smile…Gah, that smile was encircled by the most enticing lips I’ve ever seen on a man.

  After the song, we found a quiet corner and continued to get to know each other. He lived in the town butted up next to ours and was on the varsity soccer team for his high school. We exchanged numbers, told dumb jokes, laughed and smiled a lot.

  Once it was time for me to leave, he wrapped his arm around my neck and kissed me very sweetly and sensually, but without tongue. I was so baffled about it. Tongue meant the guy really wanted you, like really wanted you. I was awfully confused and as my friends and I were walking out the front door, I glanced back thinking he had probably moved on to the next girl. Instead, he was watching me and winked. It might have caused butterflies in my stomach, but it did absolutely nothing to calm my doubtful thoughts.

  Was I not a good kisser? Was I just a nightly fling of some sort? A phone number for bragging rights?

  I didn’t have to wait long for my insecurities to be knocked out of the park. After I had gotten home, and almost asleep, he texted me. I sprang up and smiled like a giddy little girl at the simple words: Hey, Riley. You up? That was the beginning of a three-hour text conversation. It was shortly after four when his replies stopped.

  He apologized the next day about falling asleep and then asked me on a date. My parents were okay with me dating, but they always had to meet the guy first and I was fine with it since my dad had super powers of weeding out the jerkfaces. He could tell if they were a good catch or not by giving them a passive-aggressive third degree and only forbade me to date one guy. I was so frustrated at the time, but turns out, the guy was a weirdo and only wanted sex. How do I know? He impregnated two girls in a three-month span.

  Brian was nervous to meet my dad, but not as nervous as I was. I wanted so badly for my dad to like him because this time, I was going to go against whatever he said. Brian was my one. I knew it.

  And when Dad and Brian hit it off, I wanted to cry from the sheer joy I had. But I didn’t. I held it together.

  He took me to Olive Garden in his black Nissan Titan with tinted windows, loud stereo system, and big tires and wheels. I felt so freaking cool. No one I knew had rides like this. We all, including me, were stuck in our beat-up, hand-me-down Hondas. You were really something if you had a new car.

  During our date, he made me feel special. It was all about us—school, soccer, job, parents, friends and what we dreamed our future would hold. We found out a lot about each other and one thing in particular we learned—we really freaking liked each other.

  He couldn’t stay out late that night because he had something to do with his dad the next morning, so after we ate, we ended up getting lost in our conversation in the parking lot for about an hour, continuing to connect. He played a gentleman the whole time until we got to the stop sign just before my house. That’s when he leaned over, pulling me closer, and gave me the best kiss I have ever experienced to this day. He managed to pull exhilaration and a deep affection from every limb of my body. Hell, even days afterward, it left a
lingering sensation on my lips. This was instant attraction. Instant love.

  Between school, work, and him playing soccer, we weren’t able to see each other again for a full week after our first date. Even though we talked every evening until the wee hours of the night, or exchanged texts any chance we got, it was torture not to see him.

  But the next weekend, it was official—I was his girlfriend.

  I felt like a newfangled love-drowning-puppy. I was completely in love with him.

  I only worked ten to fifteen hours a week, part time as a waitress. My parents made me get a job so I could pay for my gas, but as long as my grades were good, they paid for everything else. Brian’s parents were just about the same way, minus him having to work. All he had to do was keep his grades in tip top shape, not miss any soccer practices or games, and they paid for everything. He was the kid we were all envious of—didn’t have to crack open a book or put in any effort to get an A.

  I did manage to go to most of his practices and all his games when I wasn’t working. I was head over heels for him. So much, I gave him my virginity after dating only three months. Yeah. Goodbye to the big “don’t have sex until you’re married” plan I had. But I was beyond ready for him. After all the making out, touching, and learning what drove us crazy, he had me throbbing between my legs daily. Hell, just thinking of him sent pulses of heat slamming into my center.

  At first, he took things slow and easy, patiently allowing me to get a grip on the uncomfortable but blissful adventure. I had always heard people say how badly it hurt, so I braced for the worst. But it wasn’t unbearable and I didn’t experience half the shit I heard in the horror stories. He was thrilled he took my virginity and I was happy to give it to him. After we got our first time out of the way, we found a way over and over, any chance we got to have sex again—his truck, my car, quickies when our parents weren’t home. We couldn’t get enough of each other.

  One night, his parents had a function out of town and we collaborated a plan. I told my parents I was spending the night with my friend Wendy, but I ended up at his house instead. I had dreamed of the night we could sleep in the same bed and wake up beside one another. Just like any other time, we wasted no time shredding clothes off and getting our sexual fill of each other.