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Nothing good lasts forever though, and my solitude is soon interrupted, by the appearance of a silhouette on the balcony adjoining Kate’s room, breaking me out of my reverie, unceremoniously. Earlier today, she had offered to stay in one of the bedroom upstairs, but mom and Kate had insisted she stay put. In the room, which is a labyrinth of childhood memories, with Elizabeth’s art adorning every wall. Kate hadn’t changed anything about the room, but had, instead, taken up residence in one of the up stair bedrooms adjoining mom’s.

She looks like a ghost now, with her hair falling down her shoulders and the skirt of her nightgown teasing her legs, gently swaying with the night.

I curse myself in English for noticing the stupid nightgown, and then curse
her
, in as many languages as I could muster. And just like that I lose interest in the outside realm. I wish, how I wish, if I can
physically
erase her memories by some experimental manipulation, or divine intervention. She’s like a piece of meat lodged in my throat, threating to obstruct every breath of air I inhaled. Not very flattering, I suppose.

It’s like I’m torn in two parts. While one half of me struggles to ignore her, the other is busy fighting to quell the physical pain, evoked by her proximity; luring, always luring me to take her in my arms, to hold her tight and never let her go, to skim my fingers across her cheek, to smooth her wavy curls. To look her in the eye and let my own do the talking. The asking.
The pleading
. Why had she left me? Where did I go wrong?

I burn for her, even when I hate her.

Would there always be this gut-wrenching hole in my life? Will this torment never end?

I feel the strings of that hopeless craving twitch inside of me, and I know I have my answer.

She looks at me then, and for the tiniest of moments, I could swear I see my inner turmoil reflected in her eyes. I stare at her, our eyes boring into each others’, while my heart drums mercilessly inside my chest. And I see pain in them, older than the sea, deeper than the bones. She looks wretched, defeated.

She looks lost.

“Illusions”, I breathe, breaking eye contact, and that thread of connection pulsing between us. “Illusions, smoke and mirrors, nothing else”, I ghost whisper and turn my back to her deceptive eyes.

3. Kitchens are sacred

I wake to the cacophony of the house, and after several unsuccessful attempts at shielding my ears with a blanket mounted by the pillow, I give it up and decide to join the land of the living.

I brush my teeth somewhat hastily, contemplating the sumptuous breakfast this morning. It is thanksgiving after all, and I am planning on stuffing myself with three years worth of missed delicacies. With visions of pancakes and waffles in my head, I climb down the stairs, two at a

time, and dash towards the dining table like a Super Sonic. Right on cue, mom emerges with a tray of chocolate and strawberry cupcakes, followed by dad who carries another tray loaded with waffles, eggs and seasoned fruits. Without waiting for an opening, I gobble up a cupcake and quickly wash it down with coffee. As I reach for another, mom breaks out in a hearty voice,

"These are amazing Beth, thank you so much for helping me with them. Come and sample one yourself."

And I promptly choke on them, throwing an incredulous glare her way.

You allowed her in the kitchen?
In the kitchen
? my eyes bitch.

'Granted that she had baked some amazing chocolate cakes and truffles for Christmas' an
eon
ago, but it's different now', they beg.

Family kitchens were sacred places, for god sake.

Mom averts her gaze and pretends to toy with the silver. Clearly, she has trouble keeping up with the tenses. Either that, or she simply doesn't care enough. Kate just shrugs and gets busy with her oats, and dad looks blissed out, on the verge of passing out of chocolate filled ecstasy.

It strengthens my belief, that poison-laden sugar syrup, served by Mother Gothel herself couldn't stow his appetite.

I sigh in disgust, grab my newspaper, and escape into the parlor now that my own has gone down the drain.

I cannot stick to reading it for long though, and, giving up, I walk towards the gardens, where four hired men are sprucing up the court, which is going to host the entire town tonight. It is an old tradition of Cider valley, and the families take turns to house all the major events every year. This year is our turn, and it was one of the things I was looking forward to.
Earlier.

"Will you behave like a martyr tonight?"

Kate stands behind me, mirroring my stance with her hands stuffed inside the pockets of her worn out sweatshirt.

"You expect me to whistle dancing tunes, and sing carols?" I return equably, struggling with anger and irritation at her relative insouciance.

"No, Nick. I don't. No one expects you to be unaffected. But I don't expect you to let it overwhelm you. And not this____ palpably, for her to see. She made us miserable once. Will you give her the satisfaction again?"

"I don't know how you can act so nonchalant. So indifferent. I don't know if I can do this. Not when every nerve in my body reacts to her proximity".

Truth is, she's tearing me apart, bit by bit, and I have no way of stopping the floodgates.

"Try", she whispers, forming soothing circles on my back.

"Try! Mom and dad are trying. So am I. We suffered together and we healed together. And together we'll show her that we don't care anymore, that we're beyond caring", she lets her own bitterness creep in, and just like that, I know I'm not the only one hurting.

"You know mom and dad loved her like their own child. They loved her like they loved
us
Nick. Do you know what's making them hold on to their precious control? It's the thought of you falling apart", she tries to reason with me, her eyes pleading with me to understand.

They are, however, no match for my hidden miseries or the depths of my depraved mind.

"Why did they invite her then? Why did they bring her home, Kate? Why this punishment?" I argue, trying and failing to accept that part.

"You would have met her, one way or the other. It was inevitable. Whether she stays in our house or her own is inconsequential. We cannot force her out of town, not when her father owns half of it anyways. "

"Exactly", I protest, with newfound vehemence. "Her father owns half the town. Why can't she stay in any of the ostentatious hotels he owns, or in one of the haveli's that are part of her family legacy? Why is she taxing us with her company?" Her notably renowned family tree had been one of the reasons why she had always sought the ordinary. As it happened, it was the main reason why she decided to leave us commoners, for good.

"Nick, she's dad's goddaughter, and there's no way he'd turn his back on her. It's not how he's built."

I knew it. I knew it. I just couldn't accept it.

"Maybe, but
I
don't have to like it", I whine in a tone more suited to a 16 year old. Truth is, I wasn't that whiny,
even
when I was 16 years old.

A loud sigh escapes her, as she stands silent, trying to collect her thoughts. I know I am being unfair to her; Elizabeth had been Katherine's best friend. They had been inseparable, a force together. Her desertion had been very difficult for her. Many a nights, I had stayed up in her room soothing her, as she cried herself to sleep. Many a mornings had been spent contemplating ways to get her back, when a letter from Beth had finally put an end to any possibility of further correspondence.

Finally, after a moment of thoughtful contemplation, she speaks,

"You need to find closure, Nick. You need to let go. She hurt us all. But she damaged something in you Nick. I want to see you happy and I want to see you move on", she finishes, looking at me with poorly concealed tears swimming in her eyes. It was a matter of pride for Kate, to not waste any more tears on
her
, she'd already gotten more than she deserved. Knowing that she shed them now, for me, made me cringe in guilt.

I attempt to smile at her, rubbing my knuckles on her cheeks to wipe the tears away. Watch her give it her own pitiful attempt. And together we make our way back into the house.

4. Old friends and old wounds

Kate and I are mingling with the guests, while mom and dad are busy steering them towards the buffet table. A gathering of roughly 200, (give or take a hundred), are currently clustered together to celebrate tonight's festivities with us, and my folks have left no stone unturned to make this thanksgiving a memorable one. Mom has personally supervised the three-course meal, adding and deleting innumerable dishes besides the standard turkey, and dad has hired the local band to entertain the guests with the Valley's special age old melodies. Kate has invited a few of her college friends, and a few of my colleagues from the law firm have also turned up.

People are dancing and eating, joking and laughing, and everyone appears to be enjoying themselves. The oldies are holding conversations by the buffet while we wild ones are making merry at the hot water pool.

And while they're taking their turns, I stand at the entrance waiting for Drew, a close friend of Kate and mine. Closer still, for the brief bittersweet romance we'd shared a few years ago. Drew's father Dr. Luke Hamilton, had moved out of valley a few years ago to further his practice, and Drew had followed in her father's footsteps a few years later, and was even now, in premed school. Uncle Luke, as we called him, had readily accepted our invitation for tonight, but was running a little late as was predicted, owing to the snow laden sloppy roads which had received a fresh quota of snow this very morning.

Just as I am about to retrieve my cell phone to give him a call, I see him driving through the gates, into the front lawn. Mom and dad rush to welcome them, following which, Kate and I take turns hugging uncle Luke and aunt Lydia. Then Kate jumps up and down, smothering Drew in a tight embrace, both of them laughing and talking simultaneously.

Drew smiles at me, the same sweet smile I fondly remember, and I draw her in a hug of my own. The family is ushered into the parlor and offered refreshments, while Kate introduces Drew to her friends.

It has been nearly three years since I last saw them. Uncle Luke was a miracle doctor, and had been the town council's medical head, and our family physician for years. He had moved to Cider valley when Kate and Drew were four, and though his practice flourished in small town, the Hamilton's had eventually decided to venture into a larger city to advance Drew's aspirations in the field of medicine, who was their only child, the apple of their eye. Academically, Drew had managed to stay in the top percentile of her class, and had even managed to rob in a few scholarships to Ivy League institutes. On a personal front, Drew had never had trouble finding friends.

She’s beautiful, with smoky grey eyes and thick blond hair, and she’s
smart
, the kind that can spout off Latin names of mountain lions and tree barks off the top of her head, two qualities that earned her a long list of buddies and a longer one of childhood sweethearts, some of whom still pining for her. But she is also one of the most kind-hearted persons I'd ever met and had remained friends with. We had dated briefly, very briefly, when she was in high school, only to realize that we were better suited as friends, which we have remained ever since, despite the distance.

I smile at her, reminiscing a few precious memories of our salad days. Drew has been a great friend, a confidante, and an avid listener. She's always been there for us in times of need. As she looks up to return that smile, I am struck by how little she has changed, and how much have I. I wink at her, and she laughs uproariously, sauntering towards me with exaggerated slowness. With her index finger, she points towards the mistletoe hanging from the overhead arched roof at the entrance to the living room and she reaches for me, curling her fingers around my arm and winking back.