by Mila Gray
I tear the tag off the denim shorts and find the new underwear Kate bought me and get dressed, deciding that the silk shirt is too nice to wear. In the end, I ignore the sweaters, too—they seem too luxurious to wear and too tight—and pull on Tristan’s sweater instead.
When I come out of the bathroom, I find Cole complaining again about being hungry and Will helping my mom with the dinner. I hand the bags of clothes to Kate, who, as predicted, gives the first real smile since we got here and runs into the bedroom to try things on. Then I help Cole lay the table.
“Is that Tristan’s sweater?” Will asks as I reach past him for cutlery.
“Yes,” I mumble.
He doesn’t say anything, so I glance up and catch the tail end of a scowl. My face heats up. Oh God, what’s he thinking? That I have a crush on his friend?
My mom puts the food on the table, and I shout for Kate, who emerges wearing one of the new sweaters—an emerald-green one—which clings to every curve. “This is the only thing that fits,” she tells me grumpily. “Everything else is made for a miniature supermodel.”
“Actually, they’re made for Emma Rotherham,” I tell her.
Her eyes go wide. “What?”
“Tristan’s sister works as her PA. They’re her things.”
“Oh my God!” Kate squeals. “I’m wearing one of Emma’s sweaters?”
I nod. “It suits you,” I tell her.
She purses her lips. She knows it looks good, and though she’s trying to act like she doesn’t care about my opinion, I know she’s happy for the compliment.
“I thought you said you didn’t have any clothes,” Will says pointedly.
I pretend not to hear as Mom serves dinner. Cole reaches across the table for his plate and knocks a glass of water into my lap, soaking me. “Damn,” I hiss, jumping up as water cascades over the table edge.
My new shorts are soaked.
Mom admonishes Cole, who starts yelling back at her that it wasn’t his fault, and then Kate is sighing loudly and pulling out her phone and texting, her normal response when she doesn’t want to deal with any family drama.
“Cole,” Will shouts, handing me a tea towel to dry myself. “Sit down, be quiet, eat your dinner.”
Cole shuts up and, glowering, sits down and starts angrily digging into his pasta.
“It’s my last night; I just want to have a nice family meal,” Will says, sitting down. “Kate, who are you texting all the time?”
“No one,” she huffs, putting the phone away.
Cole looks angrily among us all, and Kate just stares at her phone, as though wishing she could operate it telepathically. Will raises his eyebrows at me, then pulls a face. It’s what he used to do when we were little. We’d communicate in a series of expressions and under-the-table kicks. A Morse code between siblings who early on learned not to aggravate their father. This look, the raised eyebrows and the twitch of a smile at the edge of his mouth, means Is everyone else in this family crazy but us?
Once upon a time, I’d have nodded and then kicked him under the table, but this time I just ignore him and excuse myself, escaping into the bedroom to change out of my wet shorts, but I’ve got nothing to change into, since Kate has the bag of clothes in her room. I don’t want to go back to the table and pretend to be a happy family. Instead, I wander to the window and look out. It’s dark. Anyone could be out there watching from beyond the amber halo thrown by the streetlight. My eyes land on the apartment opposite.
I wish I hadn’t been so rude to Tristan when he brought the clothes over. He didn’t deserve it. Mind you, I’m glad he didn’t stay for dinner, given how it’s turned out. The light is on in what I guess is his kitchen or living room. I wonder if he lives alone. Does he have a girlfriend? I hadn’t considered it until now, but it seems obvious that he must. He’s good-looking, there’s no denying it—sweet, funny, and smart too. He’s the whole package, as my aunt would say. I wonder what his girlfriend is like.
Just then there’s a tap on the door, and Will walks in. He sees me standing by the window and comes over to stand by me. “Your dinner’s getting cold.”
“I’m not hungry,” I say.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I nod. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie,” he says, turning to face me. “You’re not fine. How could you be with all this going on?”
I sigh. “What do you care?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, frowning at me.
I could bite it all back like I normally do. I could pretend everything’s fine between us, but I don’t. All the anger and resentment that I’ve stored up for the last few years comes rushing out of me. “You show up once every year or so,” I hiss. “You’re never around; you don’t care whether I’m fine or not!”
“Of course I do,” he answers, looking shocked at my outburst.
“Bullshit,” I shout, startling him as much as myself.
“Seriously?” he asks. “You’re going to call bullshit? After everything I’ve done?”
It’s my turn to look taken aback. I laugh bitterly, sarcasm dripping from my voice. “Okay, you came and picked us up and brought us here. Thank you. I appreciate it. What do you want? A medal?”
He stares at me for a few seconds, seeming more hurt than angry. “That’s not what I meant,” he says finally, through gritted teeth.
“Then what did you mean?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he mutters.
“No, tell me,” I demand, hands on hips. “I’m all ears. I want to know what else you’ve done while I’ve been at home for the last five years taking care of everyone, making sure there was food on the table and the bills got paid and that Cole and Kate were looked after, and that Mom didn’t fall into depression?”
Will doesn’t answer me.
“Please tell me, what have you done?” I push, and when he still doesn’t answer I take a step toward him, keeping my voice low so the others can’t hear. “You chose to leave. You chose to look out for yourself. Not for us.”
He stares at me silently, then shakes his head. “You’re right,” he says. He stares at me for another few seconds before he turns on his heel and walks toward the door. He stops and looks back at me. “I’m sorry,” he says so quietly I barely hear him.
It knocks the wind out of me to hear him say it, but one measly apology isn’t enough, and I have so much anger toward him I can’t act like that suddenly makes it okay. He left us. He left me to deal with Dad by myself. I can’t forgive him for that.
Will’s looking at me as if waiting for me to say something, but when he realizes I’m not going to, he turns away and walks out the door.
TRISTAN
I glance up at the window and sense rather than see Zoey, watching us. I wonder what she and Will argued about. He won’t tell me.
“Just keep an eye on them for me, okay?” Will says to me.
I turn back to him. “Of course, bro.” He doesn’t need to ask. That’s a given.
“I’ll try to keep watch on my dad,” he mumbles, “speak to his parole officer, but it’ll be difficult from over there.” He frowns, frustrated, and I put my hand on his shoulder.
“It’s going to be okay,” I tell him, realizing I said the exact same thing to his sister a few hours ago. Will gives a vague nod in response. He doesn’t believe me either. It’s like he and Zoey are prisoners on death row who’ve given up any hope of reprieve.
Will nods his thanks. “I’m sorry,” Will says. “To put this all on you.”
I shake my head. “Hey, don’t be stupid. You’d do the same for me.”
He nods. “Luckily, you don’t have a psycho for a dad, so I don’t need to.”
I smile. “Fair point,” I answer dryly.
“I gotta go.”
I nod. This part is always the hardest. “Take care over there. Don’t be a hero.”
He gives me a wry smile at that. It’s our catchphrase, what we’ve been saying to each other sin
ce we were kids and I climbed into a tree to rescue a cat, followed by Will having to eventually call the fire department to come rescue me and the cat.
“No chance of that,” Will answers.
I raise one skeptical eyebrow. He likes to act modest, but the truth is he’s been cited for bravery. When it comes down to it, Will might not be a natural soldier, but he’s not a coward, either. He’d put his family—and in this case, his fellow soldiers—first in every situation.
He kicks up the stand on his bike and revs the engine.
“Hey,” I say to him just as he’s about to pull away. “Why did Mickey Mouse get shot?”
He shakes his head, already groaning and rolling his eyes.
“Because Donald ducked.”
“Can you work on your jokes while I’m gone?” he asks.
“What’s wrong with my jokes?” I call after him as he drives away.
ZOEY
I hear an engine roar to life outside the apartment, and suddenly it hits me: Will’s leaving tomorrow. And I just let him go without even saying good-bye. What if he doesn’t make it back?
I shove the thought aside. Of course he’ll make it back; he always does. But I can’t let him go like this. I sprint to the window just in time to see Will revving his bike. I bang and bang on the window with my fist, but neither he nor Tristan hears me, and then he’s gone and it’s too late.
Tristan watches him drive away too, then turns and looks up at my window, frowning, before walking back to his apartment and shutting the door. Will must have told him what a bitch I was.
Kate and Cole are both exhausted, the events of the last twenty-four hours starting to catch up with them, and for once it’s easy to get Cole into bed. He and Kate are going to share the small room with twin beds, much to Kate’s annoyance, and my mom and I will share the double, though I’ll probably end up sleeping on the sofa as I usually do. I prefer to sleep near the door so I can be sure to hear if someone ever tries to break in. Even after my dad was sent to jail, that didn’t change—the fear has never gone away. It’s ingrained in me too deep, and now, following the fire, I think it’ll be even worse.
My mom has just taken her nighttime pill and is getting ready for bed. Another layer of sadness has descended on her because of Will’s leaving. She’s wringing her hands as she sits on the edge of the bed. “Will said he’ll send us some money,” she tells me.
“I’ll get a job tomorrow,” I tell her, not wanting Will’s money.
“What about school?” she asks me.
“I’ll call tomorrow and get Cole and Kate registered.”
“No,” she says, still chewing on her lip. “I meant your school. What about college?”
“We need money,” I say gruffly.
She sighs but says nothing because she knows I’m right, and yet it still hurts that she doesn’t try to argue with me. I haven’t said anything about her getting a job because I’m not sure she’ll be ready to look for one. She isn’t good with new situations. She suffers from anxiety. I wish I could shake her by the shoulders and tell her to get it together because I’m tired of being the grown-up, but I can’t. She’s too fragile. It would be like shaking a child. It’s not her fault, I remind myself for the millionth time. My dad did this to her.
“Did you hear anything?” I ask. “From the parole officer?”
My mom swallows and nods. “Yes, just now. Will texted to say he’d heard back. He said … your father … he’s in Scottsdale. As far as the parole officer is aware, he hasn’t left town. He just checked in on him, and he’s there right now.”
A boulder lifts off my shoulders. But then I realize that though it means we’re safe for tonight, it doesn’t mean he wasn’t in Vegas last night. He could have driven there and back in time. He isn’t wearing an electronic tag. They don’t know his whereabouts 24/7.
“Do you think it was him?” my mom asks me, her voice barely a whisper.
I don’t answer straightaway. I’m weighing what I believe against what I think she needs to hear. I remember the strange phone calls last night, and I think about Cole, too. In the end, I shake my head and say, “No.” It’s what she wants to hear, and the truth is I really don’t know.
After she’s fallen asleep, I take our dirty clothes and head outside to the laundry room behind the condo. Knowing my dad is in Scottsdale, that there’s an actual confirmed sighting of him there, makes me feel brave enough to venture out into the dark, but I make sure to take a kitchen knife anyway.
After sticking my still-damp shorts in the dryer, I think about heading back to the apartment, but then, without warning, I find myself bent over the washer, sobbing. I let it all out: my fear and my exhaustion and my upset at fighting with Will. I’m pouring out hot tears, and my lungs feel like they’re going to burst inside my chest. As I struggle to catch my breath, I hear a sound just outside the door—a footstep. I grab for the knife on top of the washing machine and spin around.
Through my tears, all I register is someone blocking the door, silhouetted against the light.
“Whoa, it’s just me. It’s just me,” Tristan says, holding up his hands and staring at me like he thinks I’m crazy. “Do you want to put that down?” he asks, nodding nervously at the knife. “I’m kind of attached to my limbs.”
I realize I’m thrusting the knife in his direction and quickly drop it to my side, wiping my nose with the back of my sleeve, which I realize too late is his sleeve because it’s his sweater. Then I remember I’m not wearing any shorts either and his sweater is only just covering my underwear.
“Sorry,” I mumble. Is it possible to die of embarrassment? Because if so, then I think I’m pretty close to flatlining.
“It’s okay,” he says.
I stare down at the ground, and Tristan takes a step forward and slowly reaches for the knife, prizing it out of my hand and setting it down on top of the dryer. He must think I’m a total psychopath. My shoulders start to shake again. I don’t want to cry in front of him. I forbid myself from crying in front of him, and I swallow hard to stop myself, which feels like I’m swallowing the actual knife. But then Tristan takes another step forward, and just like when I was eleven and he was fourteen, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me against his chest.
I think about protesting, about pulling away, but even if I made up my mind to, my body wouldn’t let me, not just because it feels so good to be held but because it feels so good to be held by him.
I’m pressed against his chest, my head resting just below his chin. I can’t even remember the last time someone held me like this. And then it dawns on me. It was him. Back when I was eleven. My hands are flat against his stomach, and I can feel the topography of muscle beneath his T-shirt. With my ear pressed to his chest, I can hear his heart beating, strong and steady beneath my ear. I can feel the warmth and strength of his arms, and his hands, one on the center of my back and the other on my shoulder, holding me tight, pulling me closer.
Over my sobs I can hear him saying, “Shhhh,” and his lips brushing the top of my head, sending a shiver down my spine that I don’t fully understand. It’s not a shiver that ends when it reaches the soles of my feet, but rather it turns and travels all the way back up my spine.
Eventually, my breathing starts to calm down, to fall into sync with his, and I become acutely aware of other things, like how good he smells. I breathe in deeper, a great heaving breath that manages to calm me even further. I know I should probably pull away because I’m no longer crying, but I don’t want to. I feel safe in his arms.
He mumbles something I can’t hear, so I have to lean back a little. When I do, his arms drop away, and I feel like I might sink to the floor. I wipe my hot mess of a face with my sleeve.
“I hope you’re going to wash my sweater,” he says.
Mortified, I glance at him. He’s grinning at me, revealing the dimple in his cheek. “I’m joking,” he says quickly, seeing my expression.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble.
I nod. Though the truth is I’m not as good as I was twenty seconds ago. I feel bereft, if that’s the right word to describe what I’m feeling. No, it’s not bereft. That would suggest a much greater loss. He held me for a few minutes. Why am I making such a big deal out of it?
He’s looking at me, though, really studying me, and I grow even more self-conscious under his scrutiny. I wipe my face again, trying not to imagine how red and puffy I must look.
There’s a moment where we both stand there looking at each other and I feel as if he’s inviting me to step into his arms again, as if he’s actively fighting from pulling me toward him, but I know I can’t get used to that feeling. It’s false. There is no safety anywhere, and it’s dangerous to kid myself otherwise.
The washer beeps, letting me know the load is done, and relieved, I rush to open the door and take out the wet clothes.
“Here, let me help,” Tristan says.
“No, it’s fine,” I say, getting in his way.
He backs off. “Oh, right,” he says quietly. “You don’t like help.”
My head whips around. “What?”
“You don’t like help,” he says, daring me to contradict him.
“That’s not true. I …” I trail off. It’s true, so why am I bothering to argue with him? I’m just annoyed because what does he expect? I’ve had to do everything on my own for the last five years. I pull my shorts from the dryer and stuff the wet clothes in. Tristan moves to turn it on, but I push in front of him and do it myself. He laughs under his breath.
“Okay, maybe it’s a little bit true,” I say grudgingly.
TRISTAN
Um, do you mind …” She does a twirling motion with her finger, and I wonder what the hell she means, but then she holds up a pair of shorts.
