Chaos

by Jamie Shaw

  “Are you okay?” Ryan whispers in my ear on the last hug.

  I sniffle and wipe my nose on the shoulder of his button-down shirt. “Yeah, I think I’m just a little homesick. Are you guys driving home tonight?”

  He pulls away to study me. “Yeah, why?”

  “Do you have room for me?”

  I force a reassuring smile at his worried expression, and eventually, he nods. “Of course we have room for you. Come on . . . Let’s get you home.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  ARE WE OKAY?

  In the light streaming through my childhood bedroom window, I read Shawn’s text for the millionth time.

  We’re fine, I typed back last night on the car ride home with my brothers. Ryan’s SUV was a mobile interrogation unit, and I wasn’t sure which made me feel worse—dealing with their questions, or drifting farther away from Shawn, mile by mile, minute by minute. I felt like I should have confronted him, should have called him out about everything and heard what he had to say for himself. But I wanted him to come to me. I wanted him to come clean while he had the chance, to tell me he cared about me enough to shout it to the whole world. But he never did.

  We don’t feel fine.

  You’re coming to meet my parents tomorrow.

  My thumbs punished the letters on my touchpad as I typed. I was angry with my brothers for inviting the band to a Saturday family dinner, angry with the band for agreeing to come, and most of all, angry with Shawn. For everything. When my brothers invited the guys to dinner before we left for home, I tried to object, but without being able to give the real reason, it was pointless. It was four against one. Even Kale wasn’t on my side, and Shawn said nothing. He just stared at me like I had broken his heart and not the other way around.

  I guess losing a toy can be pretty devastating.

  You’ve been avoiding me since this morning.

  “What are you doing?” Kale asks, and I look to my doorway to see my twin leaning against the jamb. I hadn’t responded to Shawn’s text last night, and I woke up this morning to one more.

  I’m sorry.

  I lay in bed with my heart pounding so hard, it threatened to throw my covers off me. He was apologizing. Too late, but he was doing it.

  For what? I typed back. My fingers were shaking, the mangled pieces of my jigsaw heart quivering as they promised to either put themselves together or impale themselves into the walls of my chest.

  For everything.

  When I put down my phone, Kale must be able to see the hurt that swallowed me whole this morning. It must be written all over my face, because he sits on my bed and frowns at me. “What did he say?”

  I hand my phone over, and my twin’s brow furrows at the text conversation he pulls up. “For everything? What the hell does that mean?”

  When his black eyes flick up to mine for an answer, all I can do is shake my head and stare at him through a blurry veil of tears, a wall that I refuse to let crumble. Kale’s hard expression immediately softens, and my voice breaks when I say, “I don’t know.”

  He’s sorry for everything. For sleeping with me six years ago? For leading me on? For never calling? For lying about forgetting me. For kissing me on the tour. For making me think we could ever be something.

  “Jesus, Kit,” Kale says as he pulls me into a hug. He shifts on the bed until I’m wrapped tightly in his arms, and I turn my face into his shoulder to dry my eyes, but I don’t break down. If I break down now—if I break down again—I’m afraid I’ll never be able to put myself back together. “Tell me how to fix this.”

  “You can’t.”

  “What can I do then?”

  “Nothing.”

  He squeezes me tighter, rubbing my arm like he’s trying to physically wipe the pain off of me. If only it was that easy. “Who do I call to cancel this dinner tonight?”

  “No one.”

  “What do you mean, ‘no one’?”

  When I sit up straight, his hand slowly slips away from my shoulder. I take a deep breath until I can see clearly again. “I don’t want to cancel. I’m not quitting the band, and you know Mase and Ry and Bryce are still going to want to meet everyone.”

  I’ve thought about it—a lot—and I want to stay in the band. I won’t be Shawn’s toy, not anymore, but that isn’t going to stop me from being the rhythm guitarist for The Last Ones to Know. I’ve worked too hard, have given too much. I’m not walking away. Not now.

  “Not if they knew—” Kale starts.

  “But they don’t know . . . They’re never going to.”

  “So you’re just going to—”

  “Let Shawn come.”

  Kale studies me for a long time, his lip twisting and disappearing between his teeth before reappearing an entire shade brighter. “Kit . . . ”

  I just sit there staring flatly at him, resolute despite my own apprehension. It’s probably a terrible idea to let the band come tonight, but Kale and I both know I’m right—my brothers will insist on meeting them sometime, and if I cancel dinner tonight, it will only trigger the alarms in their heads. It’ll only make things worse.

  Kale sighs when he realizes I’ve already made up my mind. “What are you going to say to him?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing. It’s done.”

  “Bullshit,” he says. “You guys are never done.”

  “We weren’t ever not done.”

  “You’re stupid.”

  With my legs crisscrossed and my hands curled around my shins, I furrow my brows at him. “You’re stupid.”

  “At least I’m not delusional,” he argues with his legs crisscrossed and his hands on his shins, my mirror image.

  “Oh yeah?” I’m about to throw Leti in his face, about to call Kale delusional for thinking he’ll be able to keep him while still hiding who he is from the rest of the world, but I bite my tongue.

  Hurt flashes across his face anyway, and I realize it’s too late. He’s done that annoying twin-telepathy thing again, and I’ve already said too much.

  “Well, whatever,” I say to end the conversation, hating my quick tongue and even quicker temper. I let myself collapse back against my pillows to avoid having to acknowledge the damage I’ve caused in the person I care about most.

  “I know Leti and I are done too,” Kale says. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “I didn’t tell you,” I counter without conviction.

  “You might as well have.”

  When I say nothing, Kale sighs and stretches out on my bed. My feet are by his head and his are by mine. “You could fix it, you know.”

  He doesn’t argue, and he doesn’t agree. Instead, he considers what I said for a moment, and then he presses his gross-ass sock against my cheek. I knock it away, and he counterattacks by rubbing both sets of funky toes all over my face. I yell and scramble to push him away, he laughs and accidentally kicks me in the eye, and all hell breaks loose. Kale and I attack each other with toes and heels and ankles—until he gets a bloody nose and I get a throbbing knot on the back of my head from falling off the bed. We’re both laughing hysterically as we nurse our wounds when Bryce walks in, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and scowling at us.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you two?”

  With his head tilted back and his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, Kale mutters, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  And then, I laugh so hard, I can’t breathe. I laugh until I snort, which only makes me laugh harder. I laugh until this morning almost seems to not matter, and this evening almost seems far enough away.

  Almost.

  “Are those two up?” my mom yells from the bottom of the stairs.

  “They’re bleeding all over Kit’s comforter!” Bryce shouts back, and I sneer at him when he rats us out.

  “WOULD EVERYONE SHUT THE HELL UP,” Mason hollers from behind his closed bedroom door. A split second passes before he quickly amends, “NOT YOU, MOM,” but my mom is already trumping up the stairs, and I’m alr
eady laughing myself breathless again.

  There are the familiar sounds of her feet pattering down the hall, Mason’s door squeaking open, and my brother grunting while my mom smacks the crap out of him. The whole thing is punctuated by Kale’s socked feet thudding past Mason’s room to get to the bathroom, because he’s laughing too hard to keep the blood from spurting from his nose. Bryce continues rubbing the sleep from his eyes like all of this is normal—because it is, and the tears that wet the corners of my eyes are only partly from laughing so hard.

  It feels good to be home . . . safe—bloody noses and all.

  “Kit,” my mom says after she nudges Bryce out of my doorway. She crosses the distance to my bed and wraps me in her arms. “You’re in so much trouble, young lady.” She rubs her hand up and down my spine before pulling away and capturing my chin in her hand. She turns my face from side to side to side. “What have you been eating? Have you lost weight? You look like you’ve lost weight . . . ”

  “Kale kicked me in the face,” I snitch, and she huffs at me.

  “Come downstairs so I can feed you something.” She pats Bryce on the shoulder before she leaves my room, and from the hallway, she scolds Kale. “Don’t kick your sister in the face.”

  “She broke my nose!” Kale shouts after her as her footsteps clack against the stairs.

  “You probably deserved it!”

  “KALE, YELL ONE MORE TIME AND YOUR NOSE IS GOING TO GET BUSTED FOR REAL,” Mason bellows from his room, and this time, Kale and I both shut up. But when Bryce winks at me and disappears, I know nothing good is about to happen.

  Bryce becomes a drummer as feverish as Mike as he pounds bloody murder against Mason’s freshly closed door, and he gets a nasty case of karma when he slips on the hardwood while trying to escape down the stairs. Mason is on him two seconds later, and by the time Kale and I descend the stairs to get to the breakfast my mom is setting on the table, Bryce is nothing but a groaning, battered heap on the floor. We gingerly step over him and take the seats we’ve had since we were old enough not to use high chairs.

  The morning is filled with my mom’s own personal brand of interrogation, which I’m guessing is where my brothers learned it. Why’d I lie about the band I was in? Because I knew my brothers would overreact. Why didn’t I tell anyone about the tour? Because I knew my brothers would overreact. Why didn’t I tell her about the tour? . . . Because I’m a bad daughter, I’m sorry.

  Did I meet anyone special while I was away? Are any of the boys in the band cute? Do I like any of them?

  No. No. Not in a million years.

  I lie by the skin of my teeth, and if she can tell, she doesn’t say anything. My brothers provide commentary after every question and answer, and eventually, my dad puts his daily paper down and tells everyone to let me eat in peace.

  “Did you at least have fun, Kitten?” he asks, and I force a smile at him that eventually becomes genuine.

  The tour was unforgettable. I’ll never forget the bad parts, but I’ll never forget the good parts either. I’ll never forget the shows, the fans, the friends I made. I’ll never forget how insane opening for Cutting the Line was, or how ridiculous rating groupies afterward with the guys felt. I’ll never forget getting my ass handed to me by Mike at Call of Duty, or nights spent taking shots with the rest of the guys every time he made a headshot. Part of me missed my brothers back at home, but the other part of me already misses the ones I gained on tour.

  “Yeah, Dad, I did.”

  “Well, good then. Now eat your eggs. You’re getting scrawny.”

  I finish breakfast thinking of Mike, of Joel, of Adam. And even though I try not to, I think of Shawn. My mom’s coffee doesn’t taste like his, and I find myself wondering what he’s doing as I sip it. I check my phone once, twice, a million times, and throughout the day, Kale mirrors my every move. He never hears from Leti, I never hear from Shawn, and as the hour hand on the clock ticks up—one, two, three, four—I type a million texts I never send.

  Don’t come tonight.

  Are you still coming tonight?

  What does sorry for *everything* mean?

  Why didn’t you want anyone to know about us?

  What the fuck does *everything* mean?

  I hate you.

  Please don’t come tonight.

  I loved you.

  I never wanted this.

  At five ’til six, I type two words and finally press SEND.

  Don’t come.

  But at 6:02, the doorbell rings and my heart plummets through the floorboards beneath my feet. Ryan answers the door, and I let the sound of voices draw me to the foyer.

  Shawn’s eyes find mine across the room, giving no indication if he read my text yet or not. His shirt isn’t faded. His jeans aren’t torn. He looks . . . nice. God, really nice. He looks like someone I could bring home to meet my mom and dad.

  I wish someone had slammed the door in his face.

  “Is this them?” my mom asks from behind me, and I silently squeeze myself against the wall to let her pass. The rest of the band is making their way into my house, all looking equally as presentable—all except for Joel’s blond Mohawk, and Adam’s black nails, torn jeans, stacks of bracelets, and . . . well . . . yeah, everything about Adam, who would probably show up at his own grandmother’s funeral wearing the same stuff.

  Shawn introduces himself first and holds out his hand, but my mom ignores it and pulls him in for a hug instead. He hugs her back, his gaze locking with mine over her shoulder. I don’t know if he wants to talk to me because of the texts I didn’t send, or because of the text I did send, but either way, I look down at my socks to keep from falling for the spell in his eyes again.

  “And you must be Adam,” my mom says as she begins moving through the band one by one. Shawn shakes hands with my dad, who dragged himself from the den, and I slip closer to my brothers. Kale presses his shoulder against mine, reminding me I’m not alone.

  My dad asks the guys which instrument each of them plays, and when Mike says he plays the drums, my dad starts talking about how my Uncle Pete played the drums in high school. All of the guys entertain his reminiscing as they follow him to the den, and somehow, I end up at the back of the man-parade with Shawn on one side and Kale on the other. I’m ignoring everything that isn’t front and center, but when Shawn clasps his hand with mine and tugs me to a stop, I have no choice but to stay in the hall with him or risk causing a scene. Kale stops too.

  “Can we talk?” Shawn asks.

  “Can we not?”

  “What’s this about?” He shows me his phone, confirming that he got my text, and when I meet his eyes again, I can tell it isn’t something he’s going to let me ignore. With a sigh, I nod at Kale, giving him the okay to leave us for a minute. He doesn’t look happy, but when I nod again, he reluctantly slips into the den.

  “Why’d you come here tonight when I asked you not to?” I snap at Shawn as soon as we’re alone.

  “I was less than ten minutes away from your house,” he snaps back.

  “So?” God, I sound like a child. And by the way his brows knit, he knows it.

  “So . . . what the hell, Kit?”

  Kale pops his head around the corner, since he’s obviously been eavesdropping and doesn’t like the way Shawn’s talking to me. “Are you guys coming?”

  “In a minute,” I say, and when he gives me a look and disappears again, I resume barking at Shawn. “Can we just get through this? Then you can go back to being sorry. For everything.” I practically spit the last word, and then I escape to the den before he can stop me. I ungracefully plop down on the arm of Mason’s chair, gnawing on the inside of my lip to keep my lightning-quick tongue from striking out again.

  It takes approximately two and three-quarters seconds for me to regret the past one and one-quarter minutes. I release my lip, glance at Shawn when he enters the room, and then bite down on it again. That didn’t go at all like I had planned. I didn’t keep my cool. I wasn’
t aloof or even halfway professional. God, it was like the scorned fifteen-year-old girl inside of me clawed her way to the surface and threw her little fit.

  But who was I to deny her?

  Can we talk? No, we cannot fucking talk. There’s nothing to talk about. All we’d be able to talk about is all the things we weren’t, and what the hell is the point in talking about something that never mattered and never will?

  I should have known better. I shouldn’t have expected a call from him six years ago, I shouldn’t have expected anything but more bullshit from him from the moment I joined the band, and I shouldn’t have expected this to end in anything but disaster.

  I’m sorry too. Sorry for everything.

  “She used to have this little Mattel four-wheeler,” my dad says. “Used to raise hell on that thing.”

  “Ass naked,” Ryan adds, bringing me back to the present.

  My dad chuckles. “Just her in her little diaper.”

  I look down at Mason. “Is this really happening?”

  He grins at me before turning toward the guys. “Who wants to see pictures?”

  I punch him in the arm, and he pushes me off the chair.

  “Dad,” Bryce says as I force my ass onto the cushion with Mason, “you should’ve seen her last night. She was amazing.”

  When my mom calls us out for dinner, the conversation continues as we migrate to the dining room, drawn by my mom’s dinner-bell voice and the smell of a fifteen-pound turkey. Wooden chairs scrape against the hardwood floor as everyone seats themselves at the table that my mother set for eleven—with Shawn hijacking the spot right next to me. I ignore him and look anywhere else.

  My mom is the last to sit down at the immaculately set table, her smile bright as she grins at the mess of overgrown boys stuffed into her dining room. “I just want to thank you kids for coming tonight. And for being so good to Kit. Even though I really think all of you need to eat better while traveling—”

  “Mom,” I interject, and a few snickers sound throughout the room. Joel and Adam grin at my mom like she’s the best thing since fried cheese.