by Emilia Finn
“You’re going to have to spar with him tomorrow for that.” She tips her chin toward the door. “He’ll know it’s you. “
“It’s the damn car,” I laugh. “Everyone knows that engine and broken exhaust.”
“You’re home late.” She takes the final couple stairs and steps toward me in silky sleep shorts and a cream tank that makes her tan stand out that much more. It’s December – a little over a week out from Christmas – and yet, she looks like she’s been at the beach all week.
She takes my hand in the darkness while Mac’s car noisily rumbles out of our estate, and leading me toward the kitchen, she doesn’t stop until I’m sitting on a stool at the counter, and the light from the open fridge nearly blinds us both.
She grabs a half-empty carton of milk and two glasses, sets them in front of me, and begins pouring. “You look like you’ve been crying.” She slides my glass in front of me, but before stepping away, she grabs my hand and leans across the counter to stare into my eyes. “Bean?”
“I’m in love with a guy that won’t be with me.”
In the light of the fridge, I catch the way Mom’s throat moves as she swallows. The way her eyes flicker with empathy.
“Isn’t it strange how history can swing around and echo on itself? These men, baby. I swear.”
I laugh to hide the way my bottom lip wobbles. “They’re so stupid. I just don’t understand what’s so damn hard with us. He’s got a new heart, not a deadly disease.”
“It’s called pride.” Mom reaches up and strokes my cheek. “Pride can hurt people, even when the person doing the hurting doesn’t intend to hurt. You’ve been crying?”
I shake my head. “No, but it’s been a big day. I think I’m just exhausted.”
“You weren’t at the gym this afternoon.”
“No, I was at the studio.”
I want to speak about my showcase, about the performance I won’t get to put on. It’s dark, I’m tired, and for just a second, I almost spill my secrets, but then my brain catches up. As is habit for me, I swallow the words down and lock them away.
Telling will only make my family feel bad. They’ll be hurt that I never shared before, and the guilt will eat at them because they didn’t know.
Telling now serves no purpose but to make myself feel better, so I lock it up and fake a smile.
“I took Mac to the studio once he finished at the garage. I didn’t want to work out at the gym. I wanted to dance, so—”
“So that’s what you did.” Smiling, she releases my hand, but only to come around the counter and sit down with her milk. “He likes watching you?”
I laugh and press a hand to my own cheeks when heat fills them. “Yes, I suspect he likes it a lot. Today was the fourth time he’s seen, and each time, I seem to have his attention.”
Snorting, Mom turns away to grab her milk. “That dirty little pervert is watching my girl dance. No doubt he’s thinking naughty things about you.”
“No doubt.” I draw in a deep breath. Let it out on a sigh. “He kissed me tonight. For the first time ever, he kissed me. I thought things would be better for us, because he finally kissed me.”
“But then his pride snuck back in?”
I nod. “As soon as we stopped, he clamped up again. Like, kissing fogged his brain, it made it so I could sneak past his defenses and finally get my way. But the second we stopped…”
“Boys are so stupid.”
I draw lines into the side of my glass. “That’s the best you’ve got? Those are your words of wisdom? Married for twenty years, sister to a bunch of boys, mother to a boy, and the best insight you have is that they’re stupid?”
“Yup.” She pops the “p” and grins. “That’s all I’ve got. Because it’s a universal truth. Boys rarely think with their brains, except for when they do. And when they do, they usually screw everything up. He’s trying to save you from himself. He thinks he’s going to hurt you or something equally annoying, but we know better, don’t we?”
She drops her head a little to catch my eye. “He thinks he’s protecting you, but there’s no one else on the planet that’ll protect you like he will. I mean, except for me and your dad, Mac comes in a solid third. No one else would risk the wrath of Uncle Jack by driving their loud car into the estate, only to wait for you to walk through the door before he leaves again. You have security all through the estate, massive security gates, a dozen fighters, and a giant dog that may be stupider than a bag of rocks, but I suspect his protective instincts would be on point if someone were to threaten you. You’re safe here, and yet he waited for you to walk inside and shut the door before he left.”
“You don’t think he’s stupid do you, Mom?”
“No. He’s impulsive. Or, well, he used to be. But what fourteen-year-old wasn’t? Sneaking out to hang out with his friends isn’t the same as sneaking out to rob banks or sell drugs. He’s loyal, and happiest when he’s with his Fearsome Foursome. He’s happiest when you’re right there in front of him. While that used to bother me, seeing as you were a child during all of those sneaking out episodes, he and Ben still kept you guys safe. There was no way in the world you would have been put in true danger. So despite your daddy’s gnashing teeth every time you get into Mac’s car, I don’t worry for you. I know he would sacrifice himself for you without thought. Not a single second of hesitance.”
She wrinkles her nose. Sips her milk while she thinks. “He’s not trying to hurt you, Bean. He’s doing what he does; protecting you. He’s just misguided this time. He thinks he’s the danger, which has to be screwing with his head.”
“I have a plan.”
She grins. “I suspected you did. Which is why you came to the kitchen with me, and not upstairs to bed.”
“I—”
She lifts a hand. “I really don’t think you should tell me your plan. You can,” she adds. She stares right into my eyes and pushes. “You can, because I want you to share yourself with me. I know you often don’t. You lock your secrets up and make me work harder to reach them. But in this case, tonight, you don’t have to tell me your plan. I don’t think my heart can take it.”
“I’m going to seduce him.”
She giggles. A schoolgirl, chittering giggle that makes my stomach dip. “Of course you told me anyway. And of course you’re going to seduce him. It’s what we do when men won’t listen.”
“He refuses to hear me, Mom. He treats me like I’m clueless, like I have no say in my own future. It’s almost like he thinks of himself as an old man with weeks left to live, and not a healthy twenty-something, fit enough to compete next week, healthy enough that his yearly tests continue to come back at zero percent rejection. He’s healthy, Mom. And he’s not going anywhere for a long time.”
“So you’re going to seduce him and show him that he’s still young?” My mom actually blushes. And I’m not sure I’ve ever seen that happen before. “That poor boy has no clue who he’s crossed.”
“I’m not a child. It’s time he started treating me like a woman with a voice.”
It’s not so hard to escape my family’s estate when you know all of the routes out. I’m grown now, which means I could walk straight out of the gates and not risk grounding from my family. But for the sake of nostalgia, I head into my Uncle Jack’s yard with Deck on my heels, through the little gate that leads from the front yard to the back, and then around the children’s toys like they’re landmines in an active war field.
Trikes and kettlebells. Balls for bouncing, and balls for working out with. The yard is a mishmash of stuff that a grown fighter likes to use to keep fit while his kids want a little sunlight.
The air is freezing now, way too cold to dash through yards in yoga pants or booty shorts, so I’ve changed into jeans, a waterproof coat, boots, and a beanie to cover my ears. Deck wears… well, nothing. Because he’s a dog, and I’m a terrible dog mom.
We move in silence around the scattered toys, and make our way across the yard. The house
is silent again, the bedroom lights are out, which means the baby has drifted off again, so I tiptoe and make my way to the fence surrounding the yard. There’s a little gate at the end, but like every other gate on this estate, it’s secured and will send out an alert if I open it.
That’s the first problem we had to overcome as children, wanting to sneak out without our parents finding out.
Uncle Jack’s yard is surrounded by a wooden fence, with wide planks nailed to the frame. But as I walk the perimeter, I count each slat. Ten, eleven, twelve; I reach the set of three in a row, press my fingers to my lips when Deck bops my leg and grins like a goofball.
“Deck.” I say it low and commanding. “Quiet.”
He closes his mouth. Snorts and sneezes. Then shaking his head, his tongue lolls out again and steals a little more of my heart.
He’s an idiot. But he’s my idiot.
Which, I suppose, is what I say about Mac too.
The irony is almost amusing.
Casting a fast glance back to the house – still quiet – I turn to the fence and start tilting the slats so they open at the bottom. Three in a row, though I only need two.
As soon as the wood moves, stiff from disuse, considering I haven’t had to sneak out in a long time, Deck sits on his butt and turns serious. He’s my accomplice, my lookout, and when I kneel and begin moving through the gap, he slides his nose under the slats to hold them up.
He’s not stupid at all.
“Good boy.” I crawl under so fast that I scuff the knees of my jeans, then standing, I keep hold of the timber and pat my thigh. “Come now, Deck. Come through.”
He goes crazy. Bouncing. Barking. Slamming a solid body of muscle against the fence because he misjudged the gap, and shoulder barges it.
“Deck!”
Woof! Woof!
“Deck!”
Uncle Jack’s bedroom lights flick on again, just half a second before the baby starts bellowing.
“Dammit, Deck. Run!” I release the fence as soon as he’s through, and bolt straight into the forest surrounding my estate. “You’re a pain in my ass, Deck! Why do you have to bark?”
It’s not like I expect an answer from the frolicking goofball as we run, but still, he barks like he thinks I want him to talk. His noise echoes in the night and sends sleeping animals dashing away, and though a part of me wants to scold him for being a pest, I come to a screeching halt when he bolts in front of me and stops.
My heart races. My brain whooshes with adrenaline.
With shaking hands, I grab my phone, switch the flashlight on, and shine it around to find a low-hanging branch no more than two feet in front of my face.
“Jesus. I would’ve knocked myself the hell out. Good boy, Deck.” I reach down and pat his floppy ears. “Good looking out, buddy. Come on.” I don’t pat my thigh, because I think in dog language, that means go stupid. Instead, I take a slow step and duck under the branch that was going to take me out. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go find Mac.”
Mac
Danger, Will Robinson
I take a drive around town after leaving Lucy’s estate. I go the long way around, down dirt roads, past the old folks’ home and the lake beside it. The ‘Cuda revs higher as I push her to the top of Lookout Hill, then down again. I wind my way back to town past sleeping homes and leave a string of barking dogs in my wake.
Next time I do a job for Checkmate, I have to use that money for a new exhaust system. I can’t continue with what I have if I want to escape fines from the local cops. I’ve been given my warnings. Something about noise ordinances, and folks getting pissed that my car wakes them every damn time I start it up.
My ‘Buy a Dream Home for Lucy Kincaid’ fund will have to wait, but it’s not like she’ll be moving in any time soon anyway. Not after tonight.
When a woman tells you she loves you for the first time, you say it back. If you feel the same way, you say it the fuck back. You don’t nod, you don’t send her away. You don’t commit relationship suicide, and hurt her feelings in the process. But this is the way it’s supposed to be for us…
Right?
Push her away. Fuck it up. Remind her that she can do better.
I pull into the parking lot outside my shitty apartment block, cut the engine before my neighbors belt me with a baseball bat, and sitting for a moment, I study the brick box. Because that’s what it is. A cube of living spaces for the poor folks.
This is the apartment building I was born in. Hell, it’s the apartment building Lucy’s dad and uncles were raised in. For a few years, anyway. Jimmy’s mom and dad – Lucy’s grandparents – moved in with my grandpa when Bobby was a toddler. Nelly was pregnant with Aiden, they needed a place to live, and back then, these apartments weren’t quite as derelict as they are now.
They moved out of my apartment a few months after they moved in, but only to relocate to their own on another floor. That’s where they stayed for a few years, and as their family grew and changed, so did mine. My mom was born – Grandpa Geo’s only child – and when she was sixteen, practically a baby herself, I came along.
The day I turned twenty, and therefore, no longer a teen, my mom made an extra special birthday cake. I could no longer be a statistic. I would never be a teen father, which was one of my mom’s biggest fears. I was many things that reinforced the stereotype. I was a thief, I was on a first name basis with the cops, I was a distraction for the other kids in school, and then later, I was sneaking out with girls and landing myself in the hospital on a semi-regular basis.
But once I turned twenty, I would never be a teen parent. And that alone was reason for my mom to celebrate.
My mom and I stayed in this building until she married Eric and we moved out, but I was gone only a few years before I came back. It’s not like these apartments are in high demand, considering they’re shitty and falling apart. So when my mom and Eric had baby Lauren, I moved out to give them space. I called up building management, asked for the apartment I’d grown up in, and within hours, I had approval for the lease and a set of keys.
It’s not far from where my mom sleeps, so it makes her happy. And the nostalgia of being in this apartment kinda feels nice. It’s ridiculous, of course. I should want to run far and wide to get away, but I kind of think of it like that disorder where someone falls in love with their kidnapper. Stockholm Syndrome.
In some crazy, warped, messed up way, this apartment is my captor, and somewhere deep in my heart, I actually kind of love it. So I came home.
I pass the overflowing mailboxes without checking – I don’t want to know about my bills right now – climb the stairs, and emerge on my level. This isn’t one of those fancy buildings with the parquet floor and muted lighting in the middle of the night.
Nope. There’s just darkness. And maybe a little mold. There are definitely mice, and if I lay in bed late at night, quiet my breathing, and simply listen, I’m fairly sure I can hear cockroaches fucking.
I make my way in the dark, led by my memory, and slide the key into the lock. And every step I take, I smell strawberries. Pomegranate.
Lucy Kincaid. She’s still in my system. Her hair, her fragrance. If I close my eyes, I can imagine her still in my lap. Her lips on mine. Her hands in my hair, her arms around my neck.
My fucking nirvana.
She wants me to say yes. And at this point, I’m not sure I want to say no anymore.
Can I be that selfish? Can I truly let go of my pride and just take her anyway?
Yes, I could. But what of my guilt afterwards? What of her well-being? If she’s finding it difficult to let me go now, when we haven’t sealed what we have, then how difficult will it be for her once I take her to bed?
And if I’m being honest, I have to ask myself how difficult it would be for me, once I’ve taken her to bed.
My refusals sometimes have nothing to do with her, and everything to do with my fear of the pain when I push her away. I’ve had broken bones. A busted skull. A bone that
protrudes straight out of the side of my leg – thanks, thigh bone. I’ve had a replacement heart, and fluid in my lungs. I’ve taken my fair share of beatings in this lifetime, and still, I’m terrified of the pain of taking her to bed and then having to let her go.
It’s too much. Far too much to expect of a mere mortal.
I open my door in the silence. Close it again with a soft snick. I leave my apartment dark, make my way through the small living room, and toss my hat onto the plastic ice cream statue that lives in the corner and acts as a coatrack and hat collector.
The statue used to belong to this bitch that tormented everyone over the years. Miss Dixie, the lady who owns and runs the local ice cream parlor, had what was rumored to be a romantic relationship with the six-foot-tall statue. But since she’s a bitch and no one likes her, certain people stole him in the dead of the night.
Lucy’s aunt did it. She’s the thief.
She and her friends replaced him with another statue – a llama in a polka dot bathing suit – and now this statue is rehomed every year or so in our quest to never let Dixie have him back.
It’s probably cruel in some ways, but we’ve come too far at this point. Plus, he holds hats like a champ.
My apartment is cold. So fucking cold that white fog precedes my steps as I walk across the living room and stop in the kitchen. I dump my phone, wallet, and keys, and though I tap my phone screen in hopes to find a text from Lucy – one that says come back and bring me with you – the screen remains empty.
Because I didn’t say I love her back.
Tonight, she’ll go to bed wondering the one and only thing that’s as certain as death and taxes. I do love her back. I’ve always loved her back. And the bigger sin, bigger than taking her to bed would be, was not telling her.
Walking toward the hallway, ready for bed, ready to finish this day and start a better one tomorrow, the pain of regret throbbing in my chest is enough to spin me back to the counter. I snatch up my phone, open the text app, find her name, and because I can’t let her sleep tonight wondering if she’s loved, I type it out.
