You don’t have to be able to sign to give someone a fucking smile.
“We’re here for lunch and to see Ben,” I say, getting to the point. “It would be great if you could let him know we’re here.”
“Absolutely,” he says. Then he flags down a server. Denise, I think. “Can you take Wyatt and Ivy to table two please,” he tells her. Then he looks back to me. “Glad you’re back in town. This will be a fun summer.”
I nod once, then head off behind Denise, Ivy following, her hand laced in mine.
I try not to baby Ivy. She’s twelve. In junior high. Has lots of personality and attitude. But when we’re in public, interacting with people we know, she turns into this wallflower that just wants to hold my hand and stand halfway behind me, shielding herself from everyone.
And it’s in those moments that I can’t help it. When I see her being ignored, or when people try to yell at her, as if increasing their volume will make her less deaf. It’s maddening. And it makes her feel like people think she’s stupid.
My big worry is that it makes her feel like she is, too.
Denise takes us up the stairs and out onto the deck, giving us a seat at table two, which is the only table I sit at when I come here since it has the best view of the ocean, The Strand and Pier Ave.
She leaves us with some menus and then tells me she’ll be right back with waters. As soon as she’s gone, Ivy stands back up.
I have to go to the bathroom.
Okay. Do you want me to order for you or wait?
Wait, please, she says, giving me a smile, then prancing off to the stairs.
A few minutes go by and Denise returns.
“Can I get you anything yet?” she asks, setting our glasses on the table.
I shake my head. “I’m gonna wait until Ivy gets back from the bathroom.”
She nods. “Sounds good. I’ll be back in a little bit to check in again.” Then she heads off, back inside the building and likely down the stairs to the bar area, where the servers typically congregate.
I like coming to Bennie’s this early. Glancing at my watch, I see it’s only a little bit after eleven o’clock. Having just opened, Ivy and I will be the only ones on the rooftop, at least for a little while since it looks like an oddly cool day, the morning fog having not been fully burnt away by the sun just yet.
My eyes look off to the distance, down The Strand, in the direction of Mary’s, which is a few blocks away. I can’t seem to stop myself from wondering if Hannah and Lucas are there, being chummy with my friends.
I fold a cardboard coaster in half, irritated as fuck. I can’t explain it. This seemingly irrational frustration. This overwhelming anger at the fact that she’s here and…
I sigh, remembering how she included Ivy. Thought about her in relation to everyone else. It makes the blood in my body thrum harder as it pumps through me, until I can feel my own pulse in my neck and my fingers.
Chucking the now broken coaster onto the table, I grab my water and take a sip, looking out at the beach. I just have to remind myself that I’m allowed to think she’s beautiful, and even that she’s capable of being a nice person, and still be suspect of the fact that she’s here. Sniffing around our town.
Of course, now that I’m irritated and frustrated, a chair next to mine gets pulled back.
“Morning, Wyatt,” Ben says, his face friendly but distant. Just like usual.
“Hey, Ben,” I reply, feeling even more on edge. “How’re things?”
He bobs his head once. “Could be better. Could be worse.”
I take another sip of my water.
My relationship with Ben is a little bit difficult. Tense, some might say. But those people would be the ones in polite circles.
I’d say it’s a hot fucking mess with little chance of recovery. But then again, I’ve always been the pessimist.
I’m not here for me, though. I’m here for Ivy. Because she loves both of her brothers and it’s important we both get time with her. Even if he does live only a few blocks from my mom’s.
Though it makes sense why he never visits. When you get caught fucking the yacht club owner’s wife, and a rumor flies around town that you were accepting money to dick the rich housewives of the South Bay, it’s pretty easy to understand why mom isn’t too keen on welcoming you into her home.
But that’s not why things between us are bad.
Oh no, no.
I don’t give a shit who he’s fucking, as long as it isn’t the same person in my bed. The problems we have are a bit deeper than that. Stem from years of…
Well… that’s not what today is about.
The focus today is Ivy. And making sure she gets quality time with the brother she loves but never sees, because he isn’t allowed to come home.
“Look,” I say, “I’m only home for a few months. There’s no reason we need to be anything other than friendly.”
He sits quiet, just watching me with that same fucking face of his staring back, making sure not to reveal even a crumb of how he’s really feeling.
That’s the thing about Ben that drives me insane. Nothing can ever be simple.
Easy.
Straightforward.
You’d never assume we would be these people if you knew us when we were younger. Ben was the good boy. The one who never broke rules, followed directions, listened to our parents.
I was the rebel. The one who skipped class, slept around, partied. I liked to drink and smoke and stay out late. Even more, I liked to talk back, which I think was my greatest enemy. And I guess I still am the rebel.
But I’m definitely not the black sheep anymore.
That title has definitely fallen on Ben.
And I think that’s why he harbors so much resentment towards me. Why he can’t stand to be around me. His end of the anger between us is because I did everything my entire life that he always wanted to, and he was the one who toed the line. And yet I’m welcome home and he isn’t.
“Ivy’s birthday is next month,” I say.
“I know.”
“Well, we’re probably gonna have a party at the house, and I just wanna let you know you’re invited.”
His eyes fly to mine. If I’m judging his expression correctly, I’d say he almost looks surprised.
“I’ll work on mom. See what I can do.”
His shoulders sag, as if realizing his presence will have to be excused rather than welcomed.
“I’ll make sure to stop by and talk to Ivy before you guys leave,” he says. Then he stands, without saying anything else, and heads back inside the building, effectively ending our conversation.
When Ben first bought this place, I was jealous. He was my older brother, even if by barely a year, and he seemed larger than life. So sure of himself. Knowing exactly who he wanted to be. He worked hard, got his degree, and then did exactly what he said he wanted to do.
He told me once that his goal was to own the best restaurant in the South Bay. He wanted everyone to want in, and for him to be able to decide who was welcome.
Looking back, I can see now where that desire stemmed from. He might have been the good one who always obeyed our parents. But he was also always on the outside. Never really included in the circles of friends at school that held power and popularity.
I’ve never understood why he didn’t seamlessly slip into those groups like I did. He grew up with the same kids. Went to school together. Played sports together. Went on trips with families together.
But he just never fit.
And I guess, in his mind, the ultimate revenge for never being welcomed into those cliques is somewhere between creating an exclusive place where those very people will have to cater to him to get in, and sleeping with those individuals’ moms.
But back then, when he was first talking about creating Bennie’s at the Pier, he represented something I wished I could be.
Certain.
Because money can buy you most things. But being certain of what you w
ant isn’t one of them.
So now, he hides behind this place. He’s here because he doesn’t really have anywhere else to go.
And that makes me sad for my brother.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hannah
The next week is a lot of work, which I should be happy about. The operative word being should be.
But with most of the servers being bristly at best, and the fact that Lucas is out with friends when I get home most evenings, I can’t help but feel a little lonely.
It’s not a new feeling. A lot of people assume that being in foster care means you live in basically a kennel full of kids. Loud noise, too many to a bedroom, no personal space and no true belongings. And that’s true, to some degree.
The thing that isn’t thought about is that not all kids play well with others. Not all foster parents know how to encourage appropriate behavior, or even have the time to start.
So when you’re bounced around from home to home – because, let’s be honest, who wants to adopt a twelve-year-old kid when they can take home a baby – you learn to handle things in one of two ways.
The first is to be the loud, aggressive one that gets all the attention. The whole ‘the squeaky wheel gets the oil’ thing.
The second is to be quiet and avoid everyone. Stay unnoticed so you don’t become the target for any of the louder ones. Or any of the parents that fall at the abusive end of the scale.
When I was fifteen, I made the mistake of getting on the bad side of one of my foster fathers, though I loathe the idea of ever calling him that. The foster mom, Renee… she was okay. Though she drank a little too much. So did her husband, Rob.
Sienna and I had plans to spend the night at her older sister’s place after the Winter Formal dance at Sienna’s high school. We’d had a few drinks with some of her friends in the parking lot, and were a little giggly. But her dad was the one who showed up to pick us up, because her sister had gotten into a fight with her boyfriend.
One look at us and he knew we’d been drinking. He did the good dad thing. Gave us a talking to. Expressed his disappointment. Sienna looked like she might cry. But then he told her she was grounded and that he would be taking me home.
I wish it had been a situation like you read about. Where something is so scary, the person instantly sobers up. But that wasn’t the case for me.
Sienna’s dad dropped me off, making sure I made it inside okay, and then left.
And I’d been left to deal with Rob, finding me stumbling into the downstairs bathroom, drunk, at eleven o’clock at night.
“What do we have here?” Rob asks, leaning against the doorway as I try to pull off my heels.
I startle at the sound of his voice, afraid of getting into trouble if he realizes I’ve been drinking. But my slow reaction time prohibits me from catching myself when I start to tumble over.
Rob just watches me as I hit the ground with a thud, his eyes dropping to my legs, which are now spread awkwardly as I flounder and try to right myself.
“Is that dress a little short?”
He squats down, examines me as I scramble back, tucking my legs underneath me and away from his wandering eyes.
I might have had a few shots of Jäger in the parking lot with Sienna, enough to make my vision swim and the downside of life seem right-side up. But that doesn’t mean I don’t see the gleam in his eyes.
He leans forward and puts his knees on the ground, getting more into my space, placing a hand on my knee.
My stomach revolts, though I do my best not to throw up everything I drank earlier.
“Had a few drinks tonight, Hannah?” he asks, shaking his head and making this weird tsk-ing noise. “Such a bad girl.”
“I was just hanging out with some friends. I’m sorry.” My words are a jumble, I’m sure. I scoot away a little bit more, my back hitting the wall, and I realize I have nowhere else to go.
“Sorry isn’t enough,” he says, his own words coming out slightly slurred, and when his face gets closer to mine, I can smell the liquor on his breath.
“I won’t do it again,” I say, shrinking back as much as the wall behind me will allow.
But that doesn’t stop Rob from getting closer, his body bowing over mine, his hands reaching for the hem of my dress and beginning to push it up.
“Stop,” I whisper, trying to push his hands away.
He pauses. “Did you just say something to me?”
I choke on my own words at the look on his face now, a hint of anger appearing where there wasn’t any before.
“I… I said stop.”
“Tough shit. You wanted to be a bad girl tonight. You’re gonna see exactly how whores like you deserve to get treated.” And then he’s shoving the dress up with one hand, his other groping at my breasts.
I shout out. “No! Rob, stop it. Stop!”
I twist my body. Try to wrench myself away. To use these long ass fucking legs that always have everyone’s attention for something useful, like kneeing Rob in the balls.
But he’s practically laying on top of me and I can’t seem to do anything but shout out. Cry for help.
I know there are other people in this house. Other kids. Ones in bedrooms right around the corner. But no one comes. No one does anything.
He shoves a hand between my legs, makes me cry out in pain, holds me down and calls me a slut and a whore and a cunt. Tells me I deserve it. That I was asking for it, with how short my dress is.
When he starts to unbuckle his pants, I’m able to free an arm and I smack him hard, in the face. Hard enough that his nose starts to bleed, the blood dropping quickly onto my chest and my dress.
“Fucking bitch!” he shouts out, pulling back and holding his palms to his nose.
I pull a leg back and kick him right in the stomach, and he goes down on the ground, on his back, a loud oof noise coming out of his mouth.
Just as a pair of sneakers comes into view.
I look up and see Renee, my shoulders dropping, relief coursing through my body.
Finally. Someone’s here. Renee’s home from work.
I burst into tears, shift my clothes around to cover my breasts and pull my dress back down.
“What the hell is going on!?” Renee shouts, her eyes wide as she takes in the scene. Me, sobbing and covered in a slick of blood. Rob, sprawled on his back, one hand wrapped around his stomach, the other clutching his bleeding nose.
“She came home drunk, and when I confronted her about it, she attacked me.”
“What?” I say, disbelief heavy in my voice.
“She started pulling her clothes off, begging me not to tell you,” Rob says, looking at Renee. “And when I told her no, she punched me in the face and kicked me.”
“That’s a lie!” I shout, then look at Renee. “Ask anyone else in the house. He attacked me. I’ve been screaming for help for the past five minutes.”
“Obviously, if she’d been screaming, like she said, someone would have come to help. But that’s not what really, happened, is it Hannah?” Rob says, shaking his head at me, like I’m a child that’s been caught lying.
I can’t believe what’s happening. And when I look at Renee, I can see it in her eyes. She knows. She knows I’m telling the truth. I can tell because she looks pained. Like it sickens her that Rob would do what I’m accusing him of doing.
But I can also tell that she’s going to choose to believe what Rob says instead.
“Go to your room, Hannah,” Renee says, and I see her face harden, a glare creeping into place. “We can deal with all of this tomorrow.”
I sit in stunned silence for just a second, my mouth open in surprise.
“Go!” she shouts, and I scurry up to standing, even though I’m still slightly drunk. Then I slink off to my room, skirting Rob, his eyes still following me with lust even after what just happened.
It takes me hours to fall asleep that night after I take a shower to clean Rob off my skin, the blood that spattered on my chest maki
ng a pink hue as it washes down the drain. I scrub between my legs, along my hips, down my legs, across my breasts. Anywhere that he touched I make sure to clean as well as I can.
Though, try as I might, I can never manage to erase the mark he left on me.
My dress is ruined, though the only reason that actually matters is because I saved up for six months to buy a nicer dress from the mall for this dance. Even if the blood wasn’t all over the light green fabric, I still don’t think I’ll ever want to wear it again. Not after Rob’s hands were all over me, pulling at whatever he wanted.
I don’t cry though. I cried right after it happened, and it got me nowhere. Renee saw me, sobbing, assaulted, my entire body feeling like a raw open wound. And it did nothing. So I force myself not to cry again about it.
Because no one will care.
The following morning, my caseworker shows up at the door and tells me to pack my things.
She tells me with a disappointed face that I was reported for being violent, lying, and having substance abuse problems.
It only occurs to me for a second to tell her the truth about what happened. But I just can’t imagine why she would believe me. Not when the case against me has already been made.
So I just follow along with her instructions. Move to a new foster home. A new place to hate. A new space that never really feels like a place I belong.
I never told Sienna. Never told anyone, actually. Because no one wants to know these things. No one wants to hear that the children in the system are abused, assaulted, neglected, ignored.
It’s why I’m going to be a foster mom someday. I want to make sure that the kids who stay with me feel loved and welcomed and cherished, even if they’re only with me for a few days. I want them to feel safe. It’s the one thing I can promise them and really deliver on.
Because in the world I come from – that they will be coming from – promises don’t mean shit.
And maybe my own experience should mean I’m unable to trust anyone. Ever.
But it doesn’t.
If anything, it makes me wish even harder to find someone someday that I can believe in. That will love me because they love me. That will prove it to me with their actions, not just their words. Someone that sees me as more than just a paycheck, or a body to fuck, or any other thing that I can be used for.
Promise Me Nothing (Hermosa Beach Book 1) Page 13
