by Staci Hart
“We haven’t heard from you in a while, Dillon. How are things with you?”
He shifted in his seat, not wanting to talk. But he’d been in the group for years, built a level of trust with Lovell and his peers even though the group had grown and diminished and grown again. He knew it was a safe place. That didn’t stop him from remaining withdrawn unless it was absolutely necessary.
So he took a breath and sat back in his seat, the small coffee cup in the circle of his hands. “Owen met someone the other night after a fight, and things are … complicated.”
A few people nodded.
Lovell’s face was still. “Owen dating hasn’t ever been easy for you.”
“No, I guess not. He’s been hurt, mistreated, and we all know that’s my trigger. My biggest trigger at least.”
He nodded. “What makes it complicated?”
Dillon scratched the back of his neck and shook his head. “I think she’s dangerous, a risk. I see him with a good girl, someone who’s like him, someone who will take care of him. But I know I can’t choose for him. I can’t make that decision, and I can’t stop him from doing what he wants. It’s just …” He looked at a spot on the carpet in the center of the circle of chairs. “It’s like this; I’ve spent all this time and energy growing a garden, and eventually I know I have to let it go, give it to someone else. How do I know they’re going to care about it like I do? How do I know they won’t just let it go to ruin?”
“You don’t. That’s where you have to trust Owen.”
“I want to, but …”
“You’ve spent your life focused wholly on giving him the life you feel he deserves, and giving up that control is hard. You’ve been his keeper since you were a child.”
Dillon’s throat tightened, and he swallowed to force it back open.
“And it’s scary to think that, when he finds someone to love, you won’t be his keeper anymore, not the same way you’ve been. So what will you do with yourself? Therein lies your fear. But therein also lies your freedom.”
He met Dr. Lovell’s eyes but didn’t speak.
“What about you? If Owen finds someone, do you think you might want to too?”
Kat’s face flashed through his mind, but he shook his head. “I can’t. Doesn’t matter if I want to.”
“Can you tell us why?”
Dillon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his coffee cup hanging in his hands. “What if we fight? Can I be with someone and keep my cool, keep calm when I’m angry? What if I hurt her? What if I’m too jealous, too possessive? Because I don’t know who I am with someone else. I don’t know how much I can give.”
“It’s a lot to assume with no data to back it up one way or the other. But there are ways to try without putting yourself or someone else at risk. Take it slow. Remember that the people who care about you aren’t your enemies. Be honest about how you feel and about your past.”
“That’s the hard part. How can I be honest and talk about what I talk about here with someone I don’t trust?”
“Let someone in enough to earn your trust. It doesn’t have to happen all at once. Step one is opening yourself up to the possibility.”
Dillon nodded, and Dr. Lovell moved on to another member, leaving him with his thoughts.
He looked into the black depths of his coffee, thinking about what had been said, wondering if it was possible. He hadn’t been open to it and wasn’t sure why he was even entertaining the possibility. Kat had affected him even though she shouldn’t have, even though she seemed to hate him — and with good reason. He’d pushed her away, hurt her, bitten her like an abused dog that spent its time waiting for another swinging boot, another angry word.
There was no chance for him there. Not with her.
And anyway, he barely had control. He didn’t know how to change. He didn’t know if he could. Because his beast was his father’s, and his father’s had been untamable, wild.
His father’s was a murderer, and Dillon would never stop believing his would be too.
Thunder boomed, rattling the windowpanes, and Owen scooted closer to Dillon on the worn, tweed couch. The dark living room was lit only by the flickering television and the occasional lightning that would cast white light and black shadows across the room.
Their father had left an hour before, drunk and possessed. One minute, he’d been sitting in his armchair, staring at the television with a drink in his hand, and the next, he had risen, mumbling to himself while he pulled on his boots. He’d left as the first drops of rain fell, and within minutes, the sky had opened up.
The rain fell in sheets against the windows, and the thunder and lightning had kept the boys from attempting to sleep. And through it all, Dillon knew something was so very wrong. He felt the whisper of it across his skin, in the air around him, in his bones and brain and soul. So he kept vigil, eyes on the screen, heart on his brother, mind on his father.
Headlight beams swung across the wall through the window. The brothers shared a look in silent agreement before switching off the television and running to their room, hearts banging, fear mounting. The feeling of wrongness amplified in the echo chamber of his mind. Owen climbed into Dillon’s bed, waiting for him, but Dillon closed the door but for a sliver, watching. Waiting.
The front door opened, and his father’s bulk filled the frame in shadows, the world behind him shining in the driving rain. Lightning flashed, and that was when Dillon saw the blood.
It wasn’t a drop or a smattering. It was a wash, staining the once-white undershirt from hem to collarbone in splashes and strokes, like a painting of an end, of death and rage, dotting and streaking his arms, his hands, his pants.
Jimmy stepped inside and slammed the door, his boots tracking mud through the living room. The kitchen light flooded into the living room when he clicked it on. His shoulders were wide and sinewy, the wet tank clinging to his broad chest as he turned to the sink, starting the faucet to rinse the gore from his arms and hands.
Dillon watched, rooted to the spot, his breath coming in bursts, as Jimmy gathered an armful of towels from the linen closet and disappeared outside. There were too many questions; Where had he gone? Who’s blood was that? Why had it happened, whatever it was?
But the question that burned brightest and hottest was this: Where’s Ma?
He couldn’t connect the questions in his mind, couldn’t admit what he suspected, unable to comprehend how it could be possible. There had to be another reason Ma wasn’t home, some explanation why Jimmy was covered in crimson. Jimmy got in fights all the time; that was nothing new. It had to be that. It couldn’t be more.
When Jimmy came back a few minutes later, he stripped down in the kitchen until he was naked, hands stained red, harsh light casting his body in shadows and light, sharpening every angle. Everything he touched went into a trash bag.
Owen sat in Dillon’s bed waiting, the covers gripped in his fists. “Dillon,” he whispered.
Dillon’s heart shot into his throat.
Jimmy froze in the kitchen, his hand stilling in the midst of tying a knot in the top. He looked back over his shoulder at the boys’ door and turned, his eyes as hollow as his soul.
Dillon shot away from the door and into bed, throwing the covers over him and Owen, pressing his mouth to his brother’s ear. “Pretend you’re asleep,” he whispered with numb lips and danger ringing in his ears with his pulse. “Freeze.”
The sliver of light from the door opened into a wide rectangle, and their father’s shadow stretched long in the center. Dillon heard the footsteps on the hardwood, and he closed his eyes gently as he tried to slow his racing breath, tried to melt his face into a mask feigning sleep. The smell of whiskey grew as Jimmy came closer, his breathing loud in the silent room, towering over the bed for what felt like an eternity.
“Fecking queers,” he spat. He turned to leave, closing the door solidly behind him.
Only then did Dillon take his first real breath since his fat
her had walked through the door. And the gravity of it all pulled him down into himself, dragged down by the weight of fear and premonition.
Something had shifted, and his life would never be the same.
“Can I sleep in your bed?” Owen whispered.
Dillon hugged his small body, pulling it into his chest. “Course, buddy. Just try to get some sleep.”
After a little while, Owen’s breathing slowed, his body relaxed and heavy, his face soft with the peace of innocence. But sleep never found Dillon. He lay in bed and stared at the square of twilight on the rug until it turned from blue to purple to yellow, wishing for things he’d never have, holding onto the one thing he always would with both arms and his entire soul.
The world was silent until Owen woke, bleary-eyed and yawning.
“Sleep okay?” Dillon asked with a rough voice.
Owen nodded. “M’hungry.”
“All right,” he said, wishing they could stay locked in their room all day, terrified of what leaving would bring, what it would mean. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
Dillon kept Owen behind him, quietly slipping out of their room, his eyes scanning and ears alert.
Jimmy sat in his armchair, staring at the wall, in fresh clothes, his hair neatly combed. He didn’t register the boys as they walked through the room and to the kitchen, but Dillon was so aware of him that every sense focused on his father. He was a predator, and they were his prey, weak and exposed and at his mercy.
Dillon climbed onto the counter for the bowls and cereal and busied himself with the task of making them both breakfast, though he didn’t think he could eat — his stomach was a wasteland. But he made it all the same, taking a seat next to his brother with his eyes on his father, who hadn’t moved other than the slow rise and fall of his chest.
The doorbell rang just as Owen took his first bite, his eyes darting to Dillon’s. Their father stood, unfazed, as if he was expecting someone.
When he opened the door, it was to two policemen.
“James Malloy?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“May we come in for a moment?”
Jimmy nodded once and moved aside. Dillon’s heart beat faster. He was otherwise perfectly motionless.
The cops glanced around, their eyes landing on the boys.
One of them asked, “Is there somewhere we could speak in private?”
Jimmy acknowledged them for the first time that morning. “Go on. Go play in your room.”
He jerked his chin toward their bedroom, and they slid out of their seats and away, though Dillon didn’t close the door all the way. Instead, he stood in the spot where he’d been last night, watching and listening.
The policeman who seemed to be in charge took off his hat and smoothed a hand over his dark hair. “You might want to sit down, sir.”
Jimmy sat obediently with his hands in his lap, and the dark-haired cop took a seat in the chair next to him.
“Did you hear from your wife after she left work last night, sir?”
He shook his head, offering nothing else.
The cop took a breath and let it out. “She was assaulted last night on her way home. It happened near where she worked. Sir, I’m sorry to bring you this burden, but when we found her, she was already gone.”
Dillon’s world spun away from him until it was small and far away, like he’d looked through the wrong end of a telescope.
“Moira’s dead?” his father asked in vain.
“Yes, sir. We found her ID in her wallet — it was cleaned out, but they left her license. She was … she was beaten very badly. We’ll know more within a few days.”
Jimmy was eerily still. “Who did this?”
You did! Dillon’s mind screamed. Sweat dotted his brow, fingers clutching the doorframe.
The officer shook his head. “We don’t know. The rain washed away any evidence we might have been able to collect.” He ran a hand over his mouth, the dark shadows under his eyes deep. “We’ll do our best to find who did this to her. Be sure of that, Mr. Malloy.”
“Thank you,” he answered calmly. “Can I see her?”
To the police, Jimmy sounded like he was stunned, in shock. But Dillon knew him. He could hear the murderer lying in the low spaces of his voice.
“Yes, sir. We’ll need you to come with us to identify her and to answer a few questions. Is there someone who could watch your boys?”
“Aye. I’ll take them to the neighbor’s. You’ll excuse me while I care for me sons?”
He nodded. “We’ll wait for you outside.”
When the officers stood to leave, Dillon darted to Owen’s side, sitting next to him where he played with Hot Wheels on the floor between their beds.
The door swung open, and Jimmy stepped in, subdued. “Somethin’s happened to your ma. I’m to go with the police. You’ll go to Mrs. Killion’s until I’m back. I’ll come for you then.” His words held a strange, restrained calm.
Owen’s eyes bounced to Dillon. “Can I bring my cars?”
Dillon watched his brother for a breath, torn between relief that Owen had no clue what was going on and desire to tell him, to share the burden.
But instead, he said, “Sure, buddy.”
Jimmy’s glare was like flint as Owen gathered his cars into his arms. “Don’t be makin’ trouble or you’ll have me to answer to.”
The boys stood, and Dillon guided his brother out, wishing he could find comfort in something as simple as toys or an afternoon in a safe place. Their mother was gone, gone forever, the one who had always given him comfort when all seemed lost, the one who had loved him without condition, without question. The one who had protected them from their father. And somehow even as a child, Dillon knew he’d never find it again. Never would he be protected.
Now he would be the protector. Because Owen was all he had left, and he would guard that love or die trying.
When Dillon looked up, the group was dispersing. Some talked by the table of cookies and coffee as others collected their things.
Dr. Lovell moved over a few chairs to sit next to Dillon. “I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to speak to you alone before you go.”
Dillon shook his head, unsure of what was left to say. “I don’t mind.”
He watched Dillon for a moment. “I know how important Owen is to you and how much your relationship has shaped you. And I know how much you lean on him. Have you really let yourself consider what will happen when he’s gone?”
“No,” Dillon answered honestly. “It’s always been us, him and me. And I know it’ll happen. I know the time will come. I’ve just always hoped it will work itself out. That I’ll somehow be ready.”
“Standing in his way will separate you even more than distance or relationships. I’m not saying the girl he’s seeing is the girl. But some day, he’ll be gone. If it’s not a relationship, it will be his job, or some other desire will pull him away. And if you give him the room to breathe, he’ll only grow more. It’ll only strengthen your bond. In the meantime, cultivate the relationships around you. Grow them, feed them just like you would your garden. Trust that what you have to offer will be enough, and the trust you build will be your salvation in the end.”
“And what about this part of me I can’t control? What if I care about someone and let them in only to hurt them? I don’t want to end up like my father. I can’t.” Panic rose in his chest. He pressed it down.
“Your father never admitted he was part of the problem. He never sought help. He gave in, and you overcame. He wasn’t aware, and he didn’t care. You do. That alone sets you apart.”
Dillon couldn’t find any words, and none were required. Dr. Lovell stood and squeezed Dillon’s shoulder before leaving him.
Trust. Salvation. Words that only meant something to him within the context of his brother.
The fact remained that he didn’t trust himself. And with Kat, if he got angry, she would fight right back. That was the root of his concerns
. How could he stop himself when provoked? He couldn’t stop himself when he was left to his own devices. She’d be gasoline to his fire, not a salve to put the fire out.
He was intrigued by her, by the mystery of her, by her fire and spark, but he didn’t know if he could afford to be.
Maybe she would be his downfall. Maybe she was the only one strong enough to face him.
The very least he could do was apologize; he owed her that. He was the problem, and he could be the solution. He was about to face her in a race, and he had to find a way to stop himself from blowing up everything over and over again. Because it fell on his shoulders. Not hers, not Owen’s. His alone.
So he’d try to make that right. It was all he could do. And in doing that, he could make his brother happy too. Win-win.
And with that, there was nothing more to be done but prepare himself to lose. He just hoped the track was the only place it would happen.
The street was virtually abandoned. Warehouses flanked Kat’s car, and the river lay in front of her, the city reflecting off its surface like stars. The Brooklyn Bridge arched away from her to Manhattan, and music played quietly from her speakers with her windows down, the dash illuminated. She glanced in her rearview, seeing the slice of Kiki and Owen sitting on her trunk, their shadows leaning into each other. Despite herself, she smiled.
Kat had spent the afternoon tuning her car, lowering the pressure in her tires for traction, prepping herself for a fight and a race and a confrontation. One thing she’d never admit aloud — and barely even to herself — was that she was nervous. She didn’t want to see Dillon; she wanted to beat him and bounce.
All she did know was that she would win. The specs on his car were enough to convince her of that certainty, and he should have known it too, should have known better than to dare her to prove it.
Her father had given her the car on her sixteenth birthday, and she’d never forget the feeling of turning the key in the ignition for the very first time. Katsu loved cars, muscle cars especially. When Kat had been a little girl, she had fallen in love with them too, from the romanticized visions of badasses and cars to the regular parade on the strip of hot rods with bright colors and crazy paint jobs. When she’d gotten older, he’d taught her the ins and outs of an engine by rebuilding a ’69 Impala with her — a car that had become her day car, a car that had killed her to leave in Vegas — and the chance to be with her father, to share his hobby with her and only her, was one of the highlights of her childhood.
