Read Online Catching Cassidy by Melissa Foster - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Melissa Foster
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car and don’t feel anything weird. I thought I’d feel a punch to the gut, but there’s nothing strange going on inside me.
The girls get out of the car, and we grab our stuff from the trunk and head inside.
“You okay, Dee?” I ask, eyeing Cassidy as she sends a text. I’ve never cared who she texted before, but now I want to ask. I try to push the thought away. But the annoyance doesn’t disappear. It just sort of festers, burning a hole in my gut.
Maybe there’s no room for a gut punch about my parents because the idea of Kyle and Cassidy talking is taking up all the space.
“Surprisingly, yeah. I am okay.” Delilah manages a smile as we walk up the slate path toward the front door.
The front of the house has a large deck that wraps around the side. There’s a slate patio out front with deck furniture, and we have the same type of overgrown garden as everyone else does, only ours has mostly yellow flowers because our mom was a freak for yellow. We have yellow towels, yellow blankets in the guest bedrooms, and back in Connecticut we had so many yellow knickknacks they probably could have lit up the house enough that we wouldn’t have needed lightbulbs. Strange how I didn’t even think about that when we were home.
The flowers are knee high and brush against my legs as I walk down the stone path toward the deck. I fish for the right key and unlock the door, then push the door open. We all stand there, staring inside. The afternoon sunlight floods the first floor. That was one of the things my mother liked most about being in Harborside. She used to sit on the deck and drink coffee, listening to the ocean and smiling. I often wonder about my parents’ decision to buy the bar. They weren’t drinkers, and even now I can’t really put the pieces of that purchase together with them in my mind, but there’s no doubt they loved owning it and they loved Harborside.
My dad was a keen businessman, though. Throughout the years he’d bought and sold many businesses. I don’t know why the Taproom is the one he chose not to sell, but he’d guided me and Delilah toward taking it over for the last four years, so I know his plans were to keep it.
I push thoughts of my parents to the side and take in the rest of the room. There are no curtains on the two sets of French doors on either side of the open kitchen. The enormous bay window behind the kitchen table is also void of any curtains, as is the window over the sink. We have a clear view of our private beach. I drop my duffel bags in the center of the room.
“Looks like home.” Feels like it, too, familiar and comfortable. I don’t have the feeling that my parents are going to come through the door like I did back in Connecticut, where I felt like the walls were confining and my lungs were constricted. I inhale deeply, relieved that I can. My parents were with us every time we stayed here, but unlike home, there were no grades to ask after, no pushing us toward our future. Even though they owned the bar, it was like this was where they could let their hair down, kick their feet up, and be a little less controlling.
Cassidy closes the screen door behind her, leaving the front door open. I cross the well-worn path in the hardwood to the back doors and pull them open. Salty sea air mixes with the scents of sand and seaweed and wafts through the screens. I love everything about being here, from the smells to the sights, but there are two things that make Harborside my favorite place on earth. There’s nothing better than hanging out with good friends and falling asleep to the sound of the waves breaking. Even though we see our friends here for only a few weeks out of the year, we talk about deeper stuff, and I trust them more than any friends I met at college.
I shrug off the dissection of our friendship and point up at the ceiling. “I’m taking my stuff up.” I shrug the straps of my duffel over my shoulder, then reach for Delilah’s. “You taking your
The girls get out of the car, and we grab our stuff from the trunk and head inside.
“You okay, Dee?” I ask, eyeing Cassidy as she sends a text. I’ve never cared who she texted before, but now I want to ask. I try to push the thought away. But the annoyance doesn’t disappear. It just sort of festers, burning a hole in my gut.
Maybe there’s no room for a gut punch about my parents because the idea of Kyle and Cassidy talking is taking up all the space.
“Surprisingly, yeah. I am okay.” Delilah manages a smile as we walk up the slate path toward the front door.
The front of the house has a large deck that wraps around the side. There’s a slate patio out front with deck furniture, and we have the same type of overgrown garden as everyone else does, only ours has mostly yellow flowers because our mom was a freak for yellow. We have yellow towels, yellow blankets in the guest bedrooms, and back in Connecticut we had so many yellow knickknacks they probably could have lit up the house enough that we wouldn’t have needed lightbulbs. Strange how I didn’t even think about that when we were home.
The flowers are knee high and brush against my legs as I walk down the stone path toward the deck. I fish for the right key and unlock the door, then push the door open. We all stand there, staring inside. The afternoon sunlight floods the first floor. That was one of the things my mother liked most about being in Harborside. She used to sit on the deck and drink coffee, listening to the ocean and smiling. I often wonder about my parents’ decision to buy the bar. They weren’t drinkers, and even now I can’t really put the pieces of that purchase together with them in my mind, but there’s no doubt they loved owning it and they loved Harborside.
My dad was a keen businessman, though. Throughout the years he’d bought and sold many businesses. I don’t know why the Taproom is the one he chose not to sell, but he’d guided me and Delilah toward taking it over for the last four years, so I know his plans were to keep it.
I push thoughts of my parents to the side and take in the rest of the room. There are no curtains on the two sets of French doors on either side of the open kitchen. The enormous bay window behind the kitchen table is also void of any curtains, as is the window over the sink. We have a clear view of our private beach. I drop my duffel bags in the center of the room.
“Looks like home.” Feels like it, too, familiar and comfortable. I don’t have the feeling that my parents are going to come through the door like I did back in Connecticut, where I felt like the walls were confining and my lungs were constricted. I inhale deeply, relieved that I can. My parents were with us every time we stayed here, but unlike home, there were no grades to ask after, no pushing us toward our future. Even though they owned the bar, it was like this was where they could let their hair down, kick their feet up, and be a little less controlling.
Cassidy closes the screen door behind her, leaving the front door open. I cross the well-worn path in the hardwood to the back doors and pull them open. Salty sea air mixes with the scents of sand and seaweed and wafts through the screens. I love everything about being here, from the smells to the sights, but there are two things that make Harborside my favorite place on earth. There’s nothing better than hanging out with good friends and falling asleep to the sound of the waves breaking. Even though we see our friends here for only a few weeks out of the year, we talk about deeper stuff, and I trust them more than any friends I met at college.
I shrug off the dissection of our friendship and point up at the ceiling. “I’m taking my stuff up.” I shrug the straps of my duffel over my shoulder, then reach for Delilah’s. “You taking your
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