by Mia Kerick
Renzy shakes his head.
Morning interrupts. She plops down on the bed beside Renzy and suggests, “All three of us should learn American Sign Language together, then. I think there’s a support group for the deaf at Heart Aflame. We could get them to help us.”
But Renzy just keeps shaking his head. Back and forth…. I’m mesmerized by the movement of his silky brown hair. I want to touch it.
I want him to let me touch his hair more than I want him to explain, in words, the reason he’s shaking his head.
“Morning, he doesn’t want… or need… a formal language of any kind.” I’m not sure how I know this. I just do. Renzy stops shaking his head.
“Is he right, Renzy? Do you want to interact with the world the way you do?”
A single nod confirms that Renzy has no need for any official means of communicating. Now I understand that this little silence quirk is part of who he is, as much as my arrogance is me and the paradox of sassy fragility is Morning.
I turn away from the couple on the bed who mean more to me than I’m comfortable with, and I say what needs to be said. It needs to be stated, not in a text or on a phone message, but by me, in person. “I screwed up with you when I forced… well, you know what I did.”
Why can’t I verbalize aloud that I forced Renzy to speak when he wasn’t ready, willing, or able?
“It was my warped way of trying to help. I know I fucked everything up and I fucking hate what I did and I’m… I’m sorry.” I turn around to face my judge and jury, who are staring up at me… like smooth pale masks with hollow eyes. “Can we move past this?”
I appreciate the fact that they don’t need to exchange glances before they nod at me. Morning gets up, steps to my side, and throws her arms around my waist and squeezes. “Glad you saw the light before I had to morph into the Ice Queen.”
“Are you trying to tell me that last week you weren’t the Ice Queen?” If my memory serves me correctly, Morning had been pretty damned cold.
“Nope… she was merely the ice princess. I sincerely hope you never have to meet the Queen.”
Over Morning’s head, I catch a glimpse of Renzy’s eyes. They are once again cloudless and trusting. I can tell I have been forgiven for my sin, and I wonder if I could forgive so easily. Morning pulls me to the bed and we sit beside each other on the edge. Without thinking, my hand moves to his thigh, just above his knee. I squeeze the flesh there, both thrilled and relieved to be welcomed back into the unconventional petite famille the three of us have created.
But before I’ve had nearly enough time to luxuriate in the warm glow of reunification, Renzy slides the thin stack of letters he’s been carrying in between my hand and his leg. I take them and examine the names and addresses on the outside of the envelopes. It seems to be a correspondence of some sort between Cassandra Callen, who I assume is Renzy’s mother, and a “Mr. Alexander.”
And then Renzy is pointing. To be exact he is tapping the envelope and pointing to the return address on one of the letters to his mother.
“Mr. Alexander, 1415 Cherry Street, Lingerlost, Missouri.”
After I read, the pointing and tapping start up again.
Finally, Morning takes the letter from my hand and examines it. “Is this address important, Renzy?”
In a complete change of pace, Renzy stops tapping the card in Morning’s hand and starts to do that charades game thing he does every so often, when he’s trying to get his point across. And right now he’s driving a car. An imaginary car, that is.
“He’s driving,” Morning states the obvious, and Renzy nods enthusiastically. Then he points one more time to the return address on the envelope in Morning’s hand.
That’s when it hits me. “I think it really is time for that road trip.”
Chapter Fifteen: Renzy
IT’S NOT that far of a drive to Lingerlost from here—three hours, tops—but it’s already late when we head out.
I guess I’m supposed to have questions for “Mr. Alexander” and, who knows, maybe I’ll think of some. Morning and Seven want to talk to him too. We’re not going to get answers banging on this guy’s door past midnight, though. Civility will take us miles farther, and I don’t mind waiting until tomorrow. I’m just along for the ride, road tripping with my friends.
It’s like we’re running away, except I’m already nineteen and the siblings’ parents aren’t around to notice they’ve taken off. But it’s epic fun to pretend.
Fun to stop for snacks.
Fun to listen to Morning and Seven sing along to the radio—on the rare occasion either of them let loose and actually sing.
Morning has her travel app pulled up, scrolling through page after page of reviews. She’s trying to find somewhere to stay for the night. From my place in the back behind the driver, I can see the look of disgust on her face in the front passenger seat. The glow of the cell phone screen illuminates the crease in her brow.
“All these hotels are… awful.”
It’s not the first time she’s said this. In fact, since Seven announced we should find a place for the night, she’s been moaning about the limited options. It took us about 3.5 seconds to realize there isn’t a single hotel or motel in Lingerlost, so Morning expanded her search, landing on a few locations just outside of Columbia, Missouri.
“Chain hotel, chain hotel, chain hotel…. Listen to this, mon frère nommé Seven. Amenities—free Wi-Fi, community pool, printer access, and continental-style breakfast.”
“Be still my heart,” Seven murmurs dryly.
I laugh. The Moreau-Maddox siblings are such snobs—but it’s definitely part of what I like about them. They have refined tastes, which really just means expensive as hell, but at least they know what they want. I’ve always been satisfied with a continental-style breakfast, but maybe I should want more and I don’t realize it? I can’t help it. I laugh again.
“I’m going to see if any of these places have honeymoon suites.”
That won’t look odd at all, will it? Teenage siblings who could be twins and me in tow, checking in to the honeymoon suite because the brekkie and basic cable just don’t cut it at other places.
“Oh, here’s something,” Morning says brightly. “Cottage rental.”
“Do you really think we need a whole cottage?”
“Well, it’s a cottage suite,” she continues. “King-sized mansion beds, Seven, prestocked fridge with chef-prepared breakfast, private hot tub on the veranda, two flat-screen televisions, a masseuse on call—”
“You had me at king-sized mansion bed, Morning.”
“I’ll get two.”
“Rooms?” Seven asks.
“Beds. We could all fit in one, but I want to stretch out.”
If she stretches out, that means Seven and I are sharing. My cheeks burn.
So, about that whole thing back at my house where Seven carried me to the bathroom and took care of my bleeding feet. When he put his hands on me and apologized and we had an entire month’s worth of conversations with our eyes? Well…
I’m not angry at him anymore and that’s… dangerous.
Maybe.
Seven and I, sharing a mansion bed. (What the hell is a mansion bed, anyway?)
I look down at Mom’s letters, stacked neatly in my lap.
After we left my house, we went to a café, sat in the back, and read the letters together. Morning and I had sat on one side of the table while Seven quietly read each one aloud to us. I thought he might put on airs and make fun of the letters, but he was actually really respectful. And fuck if that doesn’t make me like him hella more.
I don’t know why that’s so hard to admit, even in the safety of my head.
I like him.
I mean, twenty-four hours ago I didn’t. I really didn’t. Never thought I would again.
But that was twenty-four hours ago, and now we’re here and I’ve got a crush on Seven Moreau-Maddox. It’s fine. It’s not a thing. About damn time I get my flirt on
, right?
But I’m still blushing.
It’s just the whole sharing a bed thing.
“—right, Renzy?”
I lean forward and draw a question mark in the air.
“I was saying that’s plenty of room for you and me to sleep comfortably, and then Seven can have his own bed,” Morning repeats, and I sigh with relief. Well… no, not exactly relief. Disappointment.
What am I? Nineteen going on twelve?
He and I kissed. Once. Plus, it was the world’s shortest, most innocent kiss. It’s not like we’re going to christen a mansion bed when we’re not even going out, especially with Morning in the room.
I run my thumb over the envelope.
I should be embarrassed by the stuff inside these letters. It’s pretty sexual. And it’s all about my mom and what this Mr. Alexander wants to do/has done with her. It doesn’t exactly take a genius to figure out from the postmark that the really, uh, explicit stuff in the letters was written after my parents were married.
I get it, you know.
People can be shitty. They lie, they cheat on each other. Why should my folks be any different?
Maybe I’d care more if I, well, cared more. But I’ve been a ghost haunting that house for years. Nothing more. But then I suddenly remember my fourteenth birthday. Dad found two crates full of vinyls at a garage sale, and he got them for me. I didn’t just find them in my room either. He actually sat down with me and we looked through them together, alphabetizing them. If he had a story about one of the albums, he’d tell it—always relating it back to his life. It was awesome. For that moment, we were more alike than we’d ever been, before or since.
Jesus.
I wish I hadn’t remembered that, because remembering it makes me think how craptacular Dad will feel if he finds out about Mom.
I swallow and try to convince myself I don’t care.
“I need a break,” Seven announces suddenly. “Anyone else want to stretch their legs?”
“Me,” Morning says with a yawn. “It’s been trees, trees, and more trees. When it isn’t trees, it’s just… nothing.”
I move my hand in a wave across the air.
“Right. Hills. There’s hills too.”
“So we break.”
We stop at a gas station, and Seven fills the BMW. There’s a fast-food place next door and a dollar store across the street. A grin spreads across my lips. One hundred dollars—which I don’t have—says Seven has never been to a dollar store before. God, see, that’s what you miss out on when you have “discerning tastes.”
The only thing better than a dollar store is a thrift shop. There’s something magical about all things off-brand. The “Realistic Military Action Set” and crumbling watercolors, the It’s Beer-o-clock Somewhere! Shirt and the one-size-fits-all slippers that don’t fit anyone.
I practically skip over to Seven and tug on his arm.
He turns away from the pump and studies me. For half a second, I’m caught off guard. I really want to take him into the magic underworld of the dollar store, but his blue eyes on me feel heavy somehow. He’s a bit disheveled from the drive, tired-eyed, and pale in the fluorescent glow of overhead lights that would have been replaced with LEDs anywhere else. But he’s still attractive. He’d be attractive in any light.
“Yes?” he asks softly, only taking his eyes away from mine to look at my hand, which is still on his arm.
I let go, but he catches it before it falls to my side. He laces our fingers.
“Is this okay?”
I nod dumbly and then motion with my head over toward the dollar store. He raises an eyebrow, and I grin, nodding at him slowly. You want to, Seven. You definitely want to.
“Do you need something from that store?”
I shake my head no and with my free hand, poke him gently in the chest and nod.
“Either you’re telling me I need something from that… interesting-looking place, or you’re telling me you need me.”
That’s Seven for you—suave.
I should tell him he had it right the first time, but… what if he didn’t? What if I really do need him? At the very least I want him, to think anything else would be total bullshit. He’s stroking my thumb with his and suddenly it’s just the two of us. There’s nothing but him and me in this little time bubble. It doesn’t matter that we’re at a gas station in rural Missouri; I wish we could hang out here for a while because it feels so nice.
But then…
Pop.
That’s the sound of our little bubble bursting.
“Can we get going?” Morning snaps as she walks up. Her heels make clipped noises on the concrete that perfectly matches the look on her face.
“What’s wrong?” Seven asks, slowly letting go of my hand and turning toward his sister.
“Nothing. It’s fine.”
“No, your voice, it’s tight.”
“Can we just get in the fucking car?”
She yanks on the passenger side door, but it’s locked.
Seven gives her a look and she glares at him. “It’s nothing.” She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. When Seven refuses to drop his gaze, she shrugs dramatically. “I just didn’t like the way the man behind the counter was leering at me.”
Seven’s demeanor changes and concern etches his face. “Did he do something to you?”
She tries to wave him off, which is like trying to calm down a charging rhino by swatting at it with a rolled-up newspaper. “He was just… watching me. It made me uncomfortable and I want to go.”
I reach out for her, place a hand on her arm. She looks at me and smiles, but the light doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I know I’ve got to be less scared to be around men, but, it’s like… after I got out of that hellhole they call a restroom, he wasn’t behind the counter anymore. He was at the end of the hall, sort of… blocking my way.”
“Stay with her,” Seven says to me in a tone that’s both lofty and furious. He strides toward the small convenience store.
“Oh shit,” Morning mumbles, pulling at her hair. She looks at me, eyes wide. “He does this sometimes. Fuck. I shouldn’t have said anything, but…. Oh Jesus. Seven! Don’t! It was nothing!”
I look from Morning to Seven, who is almost to the door, not sure what’s happening, but knowing I don’t like it. I have a feeling Seven is going to get us all in a lot of trouble if I don’t help.
I turn questioning eyes to Morning, and she nods as if she can read my mind. “Go get him, please.”
And so I practically fly across the hard ground, sneakers pounding the pavement, ripping open the wounds on my soles that had just begun to heal. Well, there go these socks. The door slams behind Seven, and I can see—and hear—him yelling at the cashier, who is now yelling back. I throw open the door and the sound overwhelms me. Their shouts are deafening.
Crazy!
Get the fuck out of my store!
I’m calling the police!
And:
Fucking pervert!
Rapist!
You prey on little girls!
I yank Seven away from the counter as the man lifts the phone to his ear. He’s making good on his threat, and if we don’t haul ass, we’re all going to be in trouble. Maybe the guy is a pervert—maybe he was waiting in the corner to grab Morning—or maybe he was just getting a roll of paper towels. I don’t know. I can’t know. But I can guarantee if the cops show up, it’ll be Seven’s threats to beat the guy up they take seriously.
He tries to fight me, but I yank harder, pulling him toward the car.
“Seven!” Morning cries. “Get yourself together and let’s go!”
We are on the road for almost thirty minutes before Seven lets out a strained, uncomfortable laugh. His sister joins in—a nervous giggle. Then they are laughing together, louder and louder, as if that dysfunctional display was so goddamn hilarious.
Chapter Sixteen: Seven
MORNING PULLS back the sheet
s on the king-sized bed and has me lift the mattress off the box spring so she can check for signs of God knows what before she agrees to stay in the Duval Honeymoon Heaven Cottage Suite at the 5-star Sterling Hills Inn, Spa, and Wedding Chapel. Maybe I’m not quite as discerning as my little sister, or likely, I’m just too fucking exhausted to be so fastidious at the moment. No, I’m more what you’d call emotionally spent. Today has been rather like a soap opera, starting with the incident involving Renzy’s mother and the bloody feet, and then our clean escape from his house—although, for the record, no one tried to stop us—and finally my tirade at the convenience store with that cashier perv.
Most trying, I will admit, was my driving need to ensure that the two people closest to me knew I was sorry for last weekend’s legendary screw-up. Plus, I had to impress this sentiment upon them without sliding my fine ass off the back of the very high horse I ride.
So maybe I had to sit sidesaddle for a while, but I remained atop the steed as I expressed my regret.
“You paid for two nights before I even approved the room, Seven.” Her statement sounds like an accusation, but I refrain from reminding her that she’s the one who found Sterling Hills during her hotel search. “And it only has one bed.”
“Chill out, Morning. First of all, remember it’s not your actual wedding night. And second, there was no room at the inn. It was the Honeymoon Heaven or the Super 8. Not to mention that we’re on a spontaneous road trip—most kids would be sleeping in the car.”
Morning wrinkles her nose as if I’ve just requested she sanitize the well-used men’s room of Snake’s Biker Bar in downtown Redcliff Hills with her toothbrush. Renzy, who’s watching our exchange like it’s a tennis match, can’t suppress a bubble of laughter. It’s so damned adorable I actually consider suggesting Morning sleep on the couch in the next room so Renzy and I can share the big bed and I can tap his fountain of innocence.
Did I say that or just think it?
For a second my blood runs cold because I fear that I’ve blurted my secret desire aloud, but neither Renzy nor Morning is gawking at me in mute horror—in Renzy’s case, literally—so I guess I kept my lips sealed.
