“And then he got bored with hurting you, and started tossing Ben around.”
“That’s when I found my strength.” She twines her fingers with mine and looks into my eyes. “Maybe I stayed in a bad marriage for a little longer than I should have, but we got out, honey. And I pray every single day that you see what you deserve. Let my mistakes be enough, let my lessons be all that we needed to learn.”
“You became a fighter, Mom.” I smile for her, because that’s the reward she wants after all of her hard work. “You taught us to be fighters. You taught Ben how to treat a woman, and you taught me how I should expect to be treated. You did good.” I step away, and gently release her hands. “You did an amazing job. So when I bring the right one home, you’ll know when it’s time to scoot.”
“I’m not scooting for Brenten.”
I laugh and turn into the long hall.
“Olivia!” Mom repeats. “I refuse to scoot for the booger boy.”
“I heard you.”
I step into my old bedroom with a smile and stop to study the princess bed Oz had made specially for me when he and Mom decided to move in together.
He was the eternal bachelor, the guy who had no plans to settle down, but then he met a woman who already had children, and bam. He knew it was time to make room for his family. He had my bed made from scratch: the wooden base, the tall turrets, the hand-carved patterns. I walked in on the day the bed was delivered, and was welcomed with ballerina sheets and a hand-sewn blanket made by Ma, the woman I tease Oz about on a daily basis.
This bed is more than a decade old now, but it was made to last, and even now, at twenty-five years old, it’s not too small for me to sleep in. It was made so it would last me a lifetime. And then my daughter’s lifetime. And her daughter after her.
I stop in the middle of my room for a moment, and glance toward the closet with a forlorn expression. Shaking it off, I grab a fresh pair of jeans, a towel from the cupboard in the hall, then I head into the bathroom with the scent of baking cake filling the house.
Ten minutes later, I step out of the shower, and twenty minutes after that, I walk out with styled hair, a little makeup, fresh jeans, and when I finish rummaging through my mom’s closet, I have a pair of heels that I refuse – I refuse! – to think about why she owns them. They’re sex shoes, they demand a man’s eye – proven when I step into the kitchen, and Oz’s gaze snaps to them and narrows.
“Go get changed, Beauty. You’re going to Ben’s, not to a club.”
“I’m taking a date to Ben’s, which means I want to look nice.” I continue forward and press a kiss to my little brother’s forehead. “How was your day, Lach? Did Ma feed you till you exploded?”
Will
Calling Home
Over the past twelve months or so, it has become tradition to call my sister every single Friday night while she plays cards and hangs out with her new family. I haven’t seen her in person in a year, I haven’t hugged her, kissed her, lectured her, rolled my eyes at her… well, I’ve rolled my eyes. But it was via a phone screen.
It’s been the longest year of my life, for more reasons than one. But at the same time, the months have flown.
Tonight, I sit on the small balcony of my loft-type apartment, with my phone in hand, and a beer already popped open and awaiting my relaxing evening. The weather is cool, but not cold, so I wear jeans and a beanie, but only a shirt. Because I guess that’s the mood I’m in. I haven’t taken my boots off yet, despite how much my feet ache, and there’s a throbbing in the back of my skull that I’ll fix after I drink my beer.
Water, ibuprofen, bed.
In that order.
I lounge on a little fold-out chair, and prop my feet up on the metal table, and while the city around me chugs along, I sit in the shadows and study the time on my phone.
Seven o’clock is when Quinn eats her dinner, so I wait. Seven thirty, they’re eating dessert and laughing about their week. Eight o’clock is when I get to call, so as the time torturously clicks over to the hour, I open the video caller app and hit dial.
For the first few weeks after I left, my calls home were only voice, because despite the fact I willingly left my sister behind knowing that she would be safer and happier where she is, looking her in the eyes was just too much for me to handle. It was too much grief for one man to bear.
But just like the cliché goes, time heals all wounds, and it’s not like I’ll never see my sister again. Nobody died, and no one is being forced to stay apart.
At this point, it’s merely a matter of timing, of deals made, of work to do.
I just need to fulfill the commitment I made, and soon, I get to go home and be in her space until my heart is back in my chest where it’s supposed to be.
After a moment of the dial tone trilling into the night air, my call connects, and I’m met with one of the most beautiful faces on the planet.
“Will!”
A week’s worth of hard work and exhaustion leaches away from my body in one single breath. “Your smile is big. Did Kincaid just fall into a woodchipper and die?”
“You wish.” She snorts, then her eyes flicker across my screen. “You’re outside? Is it cold there?”
“It’s actually pretty decent,” I tell her as I sit back and relax. “The breeze is coming from the other side of the building, so I’m shielded. How was your week? You didn’t text me all day today.”
“Well, I knew you would call tonight, so I was saving it up. Guess what?”
She’s like a child again, carefree and happy, and that is why I left her with Jamie Kincaid. Her smile was stolen when she was too young for that to be fair, and for too many years, she relied on bitterness and the unshaking knowledge that something, someone was eventually gonna fuck her up. Her smiles were gone, her carefree demeanor, her hopes and dreams. But because of him, they’re back. So for the rest of my life, I’ll save that motherfucker from woodchippers.
“Will!?”
“What, Bubbles?” I reach forward and take my beer. “Guess what, what?”
“Sophia announced a show for next month. Guess who’s headlining it?!”
“Uh…” My heart thumps with happy nerves. “You?”
“No!” she screeches with euphoria. “Lucy! Lucy effing Kincaid is headlining, and Soph will dance with her. I’ll dance a little too, but that’s not even the best part.”
Of course it’s not. “What’s the best part?” I already know, of course. But half of the fun is letting her say it. “Tell me, Bubbles.”
“Let me show you!”
She jerks the phone around and bounds up from wherever she was sitting. I catch a flash of other faces, legs, people who sit around on a weekly basis and listen in on our conversations. They’re not doing it to snoop, but rather to check in on my whereabouts. The Kincaids feel somewhat invested in my safety, I guess.
“Here!” She replaces the image of her face with a glossy piece of paper. “Look, Will!”
I laugh. “Pull it back away from the phone a little. It’s too close.”