What's Your Story?

Monday morning Kylie was up before her alarm went off, she was so excited. Her quick shower ended up waking Conner and they were ready to leave by seven-thirty even though the first story wasn’t until nine.

To waste time Conner got all of the directions they would need for the day and Kylie checked the weather. It would be a cold, rainy day with thunderstorms during the evening and night. By eight twenty-five Kylie was bursting with excitement so Conner agreed to leave and get to the diner early.

The diner was in Lenox, a fifteen minute drive. There wasn’t much morning traffic and they made it to the Golden Dawn Diner before eight-fifty. Conner sat at a table while Kylie waited in the front. At nine the doors opened, letting in a cold wind.

“Morning, Carla,” the hostess greeted the dark haired woman. “I thought you weren’t working until noon?”

“I’m not; I’m actually here for breakfast. I’m going to be speaking with the Kylie Shett!” the woman practically squeaked even though she looked to be in her mid-thirties.

The hostess’ eyebrows rose. “Who?”

Kylie smirked and stepped forward. “Kylie Shett,” she stuck out her hand for the woman to shake. “Author of What’s Your Story? Are you Carla Wilno?”

Carla was beaming at Kylie. “Yes! Thank you so much for meeting with me. Bec, get us a table, please.”

“Actually,” Kylie said before Bec could get the menus, “my friend is already at our table. Let’s get this show on the road.”

Kylie led the way to their table and Carla chattered the whole way.

“I’m a waitress part time and I work at a bookstore the rest of the time. I love it at both places but with the bookstore I can get copies of books the first day they come out without any hassle. I love reading your books. The details you add in to the stories really make them come to life. Hi! I’m Carla!” she greeted Conner when they reached the table.

He stood up and shook her hand. “Conner, Kylie’s editor and chauffer for the moment.”

“Let’s order then we can start with your story,” Kylie suggested.

A waitress came by and got their orders, an omelet with fruit salad and tea for Kylie; a short stack of pancakes, bacon, sausage, and home fries with hot chocolate for Conner; and a short stack of French toast with home fries and coffee for Carla.

Kylie took out her recorder, the notebook that had Marguerite’s story in it, and a pen. She set up the recorder, turned to a fresh page, and uncapped the pen.

“So, Carla, what’s your story?”

Carla’s giddiness disappeared. Heaviness entered her green eyes and her pink lips pulled down in a frown.

“My story is filled with lies, hypocrisy, fights, and few regrets.” She pushed her bangs out of her face and stared at Kylie who was furiously writing. “The source of everything is my father,” she spat the word out with such malice that Kylie glanced up, startled. “He started smoking when he was a teenager, his parents honestly didn’t care. When he met my mom, he was twenty-three at the time, he was still a smoker. I was born six years later. I had a bad lung because my dad smoked around my mom so much during her pregnancy, I have asthma. I begged my dad to stop smoking when I was five because my friend’s mom told me how bad smoking was, he almost banned me from playing with her.

“When my dad didn’t get his cigarette in time it was brutal. His temper was awful. I was five years old and terrified of my own father. I told me mom but made her promise to keep it a mommy/daughter secret, I was afraid my dad would get even angrier. She told him everything, though. That was a turning point.

“My father gave up smoking, it was a long, hard while but he did it. For a while. When I was eight I looked out a window that showed the backyard, I could see my dad. What I saw made me cry. My dad’s hands were cupped to his mouth, a stance I’d seen many times before. I ran away from the window and just cried.

“Over the next few years I was suspicious. My dad would smell like smoke but the stench of beer overpowered it. He would always have a lighter with him, too, which I found odd. I didn’t do anything, though.”

Their food was placed in front of them and they took a small break to eat. When Kylie was finished and Carla was almost done, they started again. Kylie went over the last sentence and Carla picked up where she left off.

“My dad acted like he was so anti-smoking. I took guitar lessons and the teachers would stand outside and smoke occasionally, he would act so rude towards them. I didn’t realize how much of a hypocrite he was.

“When I was seventeen I caught my father smoking. He was just standing in the backyard next to his garden, a lit cigarette in his mouth. I couldn’t believe it. Suspecting him of doing something was one thing but to have it become a reality was completely different. His smoking was what screwed up my health. I could barely play sports even though I loved them. In the instant that I saw the cancer stick in his mouth I lost it.

“I ran outside and started screaming at him. I called him a hypocrite, a bastard, and quite a few other things. My mother heard and she ran outside, my neighbors were looking out of their windows in wonder. They’d heard fights come from our house before but it had never been this bad. I was shrieking, crying, and cursing like a trucker.” Carla paused and wiped at her eyes. “I hit him. I hit my father. He was going to retaliate but by that time one our neighbors had run over. He pushed my father down and pulled me away from him.

“I was three months away from turning eighteen. During those three months I never uttered a word to my father. I wouldn’t allow him near my high school graduation. He was so fed up with me that he almost refused to pay for college. My mother wouldn’t let him do that. She was so mad at him fro almost hitting me, she never forgave him.”

Carla took a deep breath and stared into Kylie’s brown eyes. “I haven’t talked to my father in almost twenty years. He tries to call three times a year, on my birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. I never pick up and whenever my mom attempts to hand the phone off to him I hang up. I refuse to talk to the man who ruined my life.”

Carla’s story was finished, Kylie could tell as she sipped her coffee and glanced at the large clock on the wall.

“So,” she said when Kylie placed her supplies away. They were waiting for the bill which Carla insisted on paying. “Does my story make the cut?”

Kylie looked up and shot her a warm smile. “Yes, it does.”