Page 19 of Running Home to You
While their ten-year age gap and separate upbringings left distance between them, Isla’s home with its curated décor and artwork stretched those differences into something insurmountable.
Abby knew little about Isla’s life—just the pieces she parsed out from eavesdropping on her mom’s phone calls. She knew Isla grew up wealthy, and by the looks of the condo, was apparently still wealthy, but not because of their father. Isla’s mother came from oldHollywood money. She’d been a part of Audie Cruz’s foray into newfound fame and fortune.
Abby at least gave their father credit for that. He’d come from nothing in Puerto Rico, playing his way out of poverty into big-league stardom. Isla’s mother supposedly managed his early career, negotiating endorsements and contracts, but let him keep the money in the divorce—her prenup was still better. And Abby imagined, even if it wasn’t true, she was happy to be rid of him with his road game antics, illicit affairs, and parties splashed across the tabloids.
Meanwhile, Abby’s mother had tried her hand at Hollywood, but there was little money to speak of. A few guest appearances at prime time, typecast as the loud Italian friend in rom-coms. She’d lasted a few years on a bad soap opera when Audie entered the picture.
By the time he left, Abby and her mother saw little of whatever money he’d entered the marriage with. Though by what Abby scoured online—the vacation homes, his designer suits when he made appearances, the yacht and girlfriends—he wasn’t suffering. Not while she and her mother lived in a cramped Los Angeles bungalow.
The money never really bothered Abby. Perhaps because while her mother struggled to make ends meet post-divorce, she didn’t notice. Or maybe her mother just didn’t let her. Not with their trips to the beach and surf lessons, softball camps and tournaments every summer. It wasn’t until she grew older that Abby detected the strain. The burned dinners and nights sleeping on the couch. The missed days of work because she wouldn’t wake up, usually following a surprise appearance by Audie. Abby stared off into that same place as she imagined shaking her, begging her to eat something, to say something, to get up so she wouldn’t lose another job. She was lonely now without her, but God, she’d been lonely then too.
Isla popped the cork from a bottle of red, interrupting her thoughts. “What did you and your mom usually do for Christmas?”
Abby bit her lip. She hadn’t talked about her mom with anyone in months. An inkling of shame came with it, as though she was single-handedly letting her memory fade away in a second, painful death.
“Not much,” she said. “What about you?”
“Usually some stiff dinner with my grandparents. We celebrated Hanukkah for a few years thanks to number three. That was fun.” Isla slid her a glass of wine.
Abby peered into the glass, hoping that the prickle might leave her eyes before it became a stream down her cheeks. “My mom’s family was in New Jersey, but I never met them. So, it was just the two of us. The occasional neighbor or boyfriend, but no stepdads for me. We usually ordered Chinese and watched old movies.”
When Abby sniffled, Isla didn’t prod. She just squeezed her shoulder. “That sounds perfect. Let’s order Chinese.”
The differences between them ceased to be insurmountable after that Christmas. And despite Isla’s distant nature, despite barely knowing each other, Abby found it easier to be around her than most others. She wondered if that’s what it meant to be kin.
It wasn’t just Isla that Abby connected with over break. A few days after Christmas, an unexpected number buzzed her phone.
“Yo, Cruz, what’re you doing?”
Abby rubbed her eyes as she sat up in bed. “Is this Mick?”
“Dude, you’re still at Insley, right? Come hang out with me.”
The McMechan clan lived in Beaverton, a sprawling suburb outside of Portland, only an hour from campus. Five people made up the immediate family in a cinnamon-scented house that overflowed with noise. Mick’s older brother and sister were as quick-witted and obnoxious as she was. Her mother, a round woman who rarely left the kitchen, offered snacks almost hourly, and hugged Abby like she’d always known her. Mr. McMechan held court in his recliner, arguing with the TV. He lumbered like a bulldog and laughed like a giant, so infectious that Abby suppressed chuckles whenever he opened his mouth.
The home functioned as a revolving door of cousins, aunts, and uncles with the same laugh. Friends and neighbors didn’t knock. They strutted to the kitchen for Mrs. McMechan’s cookies and gifted Mr. McMechan cases of Rainier. Abby didn’t know how to handlethe influx of people, so she followed Mick’s lead, joining board games, sliding into a seat at dinner, drinking beer and playing Ping-Pong in the garage.
She stayed three nights at the McMechan house, sleeping on the top bunk of Mick’s childhood bed. Her family treated Abby like the rest of the kids and Mick never prompted any deep conversations, talking only about softball and school. It was perfect.
On New Year’s Eve, they attended a house party hosted by one of Mick’s high school classmates. Abby didn’t mind sinking into the background, sipping cheap whiskey, joining the occasional game of flip cup as Mick floated from conversation to conversation. After an hour, she stepped outside for a cigarette and tugged down her beanie in the frost. A group huddled around a firepit, blasting music, but Abby stayed back, contemplated the stars, and thought of Kate. The entire visit, her ears perked whenever Mick mentioned her name like her favorite song had come on the radio.
“God, it’s cold.” Mick exited the house behind her. “You know, if you quit smoking, you wouldn’t have to stand out here.” She nudged her and outstretched a hand.
Abby passed the cigarette, smirking when she took a drag. They stood for a while, sharing a smoke, Mick uneasy on her feet after drinking the brightly colored concoction the hosts served out of coolers. “Can I ask you something?”
“What?” Mick burped.
“Did Coach put you up to this?” Abby asked. “Inviting me to hang out?”
Mick punched her arm. “Shut up, Cruz, you’re an idiot.”
Abby chuckled, placated, though not entirely convinced. “Sorry, it’s just with Coach making Kate keep tabs on me, I assumed.”
“Well, don’t,” Mick said. “How’s it going with Hutch, anyway?”
Abby shrugged and lit another cigarette. “Fine, I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t have argued with her.”
“You pass your classes?”
