Page 100 of Tony

“So what?”

“So what? So… that’s your hangup.”

“What is my hangup?”

“Tony.”

“Fuck Tony.”

“I agree. Fuck that fucker. I don’t care about Tony. But you do.”

“Oh, my God. I do not!”

“Not like that, Belinda. I’m not worried you’re into him. You just have unfinished business with the guy.”

“What business?”

He shrugs. “I dunno.” Then he taps my head. “That’s all in there. Locked up tight so you don’t have to think about it anymore. But he’s gonna go home soon. I don’t know why he’s here, but whatever that reason was, it’s over now. So he’s gonna leave. And I just think… you know, before he takes off you should settle shit.”

“Settle what, though? I don’t know what unfinished business we have. I just want him to go away.”

His eyes gaze into mine. They are bright blue today. Like a perfect summer sky. “Me too, toots. Me too.” Then he slaps my leg. “Jump in the shower. Put on a pair of my shorts and grab a new t-shirt. Then meet me downstairs. We need coffee.”

He gets up, drops his towel so I have a perfect view of his ass, then reaches into a drawer, finds a pair of old jeans, and pulls them up his legs. Then he slides a t-shirt over his head, grabs a pair of socks and his boots from the floor, and leaves me there without saying another word.

I sit in his bed for a few moments, thinking about what he said, trying to force it all to make sense. But all I get for my trouble is an emerging tension headache.

It’s not my fault Tony is here. He should just leave. Then everything would go back to normal again.

Better than normal, actually. Because then I wouldn’t have this constant reminder that I’m someone other than Belinda Baker.

What did he call me? Rosalinda?

Asshole. God, he is such an asshole. Rosalinda. That makes me so angry, the emerging headache becomes a throbbing one.

I turn to the bathroom and go in, then spend many minutes letting the hot water pound against the back of my neck, trying to make the headache go away.

By the time I’m dressed and heading down the stairs, it’s mostly gone and I’ve decided to put the past behind me. Vann’s probably right. I’m sure there are lingering feelings that could use some airing out. But Tony has to go home eventually. I’m certain all this angst will disappear when he does.

I’m heading around the bannister of the second floor when I notice the long line of old photographs on the hallway wall. The Vaughn family. And… wow. There are women in these pics. Women who are not the sister, Veronica.

One catches my eye immediately. A very old picture of a man, who I recognize to be Grandpa, and a woman standing in front of the mansion. This mansion. And holy crap, it was a looker back in the day. A beautiful home.

The next one has Gram and Gramps and two little boys all sitting on the front porch. I recognize the younger boy as Vern, Vann’s father. But the older one, no clue.

There’s more on the porch. In fact, when I look closely, I realize they’ve taken a family portrait on the front porch of this house every year since nineteen sixty-nine.

Fifty. Fucking. Years.

Those early ones with Gram and Gramps. Then Vern and his unnamed brother. Then Vern all grown up with a wife and a boy who has to be Vic in her arms. Then Vic and the twins. A pigtailed Veronica shows up. And finally Vann. Cherub-faced Vann. But they don’t end there. No. All the kids grow up in front of my eyes. And then there’s Veronica’s husband, Spencer. And their baby. Then two. Then three.

Wow.

This family has lived in this house for fifty years. There are four generations of Vaughns on this wall and every single one of them has lived in this house.

I don’t even know what that would feel like. To grow up in the same place. Raise a family, and watch them grow up here too.

I could’ve had that if I had stayed in Key West.