by J. A. Little
“Do you think if you talked about your shit more, you still would?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, Bray. Maybe? But we’re not talking about me. What’s your plan after graduation?”
“I was thinking I’d go to school for IT stuff.”
“Computers?”
“Yeah, why not? That Bill Gates dude is fucking loaded.”
“Ha!” I bark.
“You think it’s stupid?” He looks a little dejected.
“No, Brayden. I don’t,” I say seriously. “What about housing?”
“Logan and I have been talking about getting a place this summer, but I don’t know.”
“About what?”
“Nothing. Never mind,” he mumbles.
What Simon said about Logan is weighing heavily on my mind. I hate putting Brayden in the position of having to narc on his friend and foster brother, but I have to do what I have to do to keep these kids safe.
“I need to ask you a serious question, and I need an honest answer.”
Brayden looks at me. “What?”
“Is Logan planning to run away with his girlfriend?”
He makes a coughing, choking noise, putting his hand over his mouth. “Why would you think that?” he rasps when he finally gets his throat clear.
“Just tell me, Bray. If he is, he can get in big trouble. If he turns eighteen and she’s still underage, we’re talking felony. Jail time.”
“No. Shit, I don’t think so. If he is, I’ll tell you.”
“Good. It’s fine to protect your friends, Brayden, but not if it’s going to end up hurting them in the long run.”
“I get it,” he insists.
Pulling up in front of the school, Brayden starts to get out, but I stop him. “One more favor?”
Brayden lets out an irritated breath, but turns to face me anyway. “Yeah, sure.”
“Talk to Logan about seeing Dr. Cooper. Maybe if he hears it from you, it’ll make a difference.”
He nods. “Okay.”
* * *
Kayla sends me three text messages throughout the day, asking if I’m okay. I finally answer that I’m fine, just busy. It’s not a lie. I’m doing quarterly reports on the boys. It’s the first time I’ll be doing them for Logan and Matty, so I need to focus. At least that’s what I tell myself.
I’m avoiding her. Because that’s what I do when I don’t know what to say to people. I feel guilty for leaving the way I did, but the more I thought about her calling me her fiancé, the more my anxiety began to unravel the threads that were holding me together. Doubt crept in and has now settled itself comfortably in my mind. This relationship and the feeling of attachment I’m developing toward her can only end in heartbreak. And my freak-out is just further proof of that.
Saturday, she calls while Bill and I are in the middle of fixing a busted pipe in the basement. I’m so distracted that I don’t even look at the phone before answering it.
“This is Dean?” I shout, holding it to my ear with my shoulder. Bill is banging on the pipe.
“Dean, hold this part here,” Bill yells.
“Hey, it’s me.” Her voice is drowned out by the loud banging, but I’d know it anywhere.
“Uh, hi.” I wince as another series of bangs echoes loudly.
“Dean!” Bill shouts. I reach over, grabbing the bit of pipe he wants me to hold. It’s heavy, and I almost drop the phone attempting to balance them both.
“You’re still busy?”
“Yeah. I’m…shit.” The pipe slips, making a slew of profanities fly from Bill’s mouth. He looks at me, obviously irritated. “I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you later?”
“Sure,” she says. I can hear disappointment in her voice. I know that I caused it, but I still hate it. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do right now.
It takes us all afternoon and two trips to the hardware store before we get it fixed. I take a shower, make dinner for the boys, and am dead on my feet by nine. I collapse onto the couch next to Logan. I’m surprised that he and Brayden are staying in tonight. When I ask them why, they both shrug.
“Caity’s hanging with her pops tonight. I think his girlfriend broke up with him or something,” Brayden says.
I look over at Logan.
“I don’t know. Family shit. She couldn’t escape.”
“You make it sound like she’s in prison,” I try to tease. Except Logan doesn’t laugh.
“Something like that,” he says under his breath.
His statement makes me nervous after what Simon said, but I don’t say anything else because Matty’s watching the exchange. The last thing I need is for Logan to lose it and say something he doesn’t mean again. Matty’s been doing really well at school and he seems to trust me. He doesn’t shy away when I goof around with him or put my hand on his shoulder or head. He’s obviously still dealing with whatever is affecting his relationship with his brother, but the improvements outweigh the setbacks.
At ten o’clock I head to bed, but I don’t sleep well. My nightmares return full force. The dreams start out fine—amazing, even. I’m making love to Kayla, her body soft and yielding to my touch. She’s moaning and whispering dirty things in my ear, and then suddenly I’m driving. I look beside me and Kayla’s begging me to stop. I should be looking at the road, but instead I’m looking at her. I lose control. My head spins. I feel the heat of fire, hear the screaming and Kayla’s crying beside me. I wake up and reach for her, but she’s not there. I’m officially mind-fucked over this woman.
On Sunday, Emily and I take the boys to the mall. Every single one of them needs new clothes. Shopping with six teenage boys is like being pulled in different directions by a pack of wild dogs. They all want to go to different places—or the same places, but at different times. Then, at least a couple of them get distracted by a group of pretty girls who are laughing and giggling as the boys try to show off.
“Why don’t we just give them the money and let them do it themselves?” Emily groans as we sit in the waiting area of Hollister.
“Because if we did, they’d come back with bags of video games instead of clothes to last them through the summer.”
“Oh, yeah.” Emily leans her head against my shoulder. “So did Aiden tell you what happened with Madison at the gala?”
“No, but I hear Mom’s pretty pissed. What happened?”
“After you left, the bitch got plastered. Started stumbling around, running into people, talking about wrinkly old cocks, and insulting pretty much every woman in the room. Your mom was having a complete meltdown.” Emily grins. I chuckle. “She made such a scene, Dean. Best gala ever.”
“Yeah,” I mumble. “It was.”
“How’s Kayla?” she asks quietly, making sure neither Logan nor Matty are within hearing distance. Logan’s trying on a pair of cargo shorts, and Matty and Eric are messing around, spraying each other with cologne.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Emily laughs, but stops when she realizes I’m serious. “But I thought you guys—”
At that moment, Matty comes crashing into me in an attempt to get away from Eric and saves me from having to respond.
* * *
Four hours later, we shove all the bags into the suburban and then head back into the mall to take the boys to see a movie at the adjoining theater. When I look down to check the time, I realize my phone is dead.
When we get home, I shout at the boys for dropping their shit and fighting to get to the Xbox. I plug in my phone and find another message from Kayla.
Whenever you’re ready, give me call
I stare at the message. A huge part of me wants to call her, but at the same time, I have to figure this “relationship” out. I need to go to her knowing what I want. I’ve been avoiding the what-are-we conversation, but she deserves to know the answer. Until I can offer her one, it’s better for me to just stay away.
Chapter 41
Dean
The first h
alf of the next week is agonizing. On Monday, I have to pick up Eric from school in the middle of the day. He has a fever of 102 degrees, and by the time I get him home, he’s vomiting. Luckily, he makes it out of my car. I put him to bed, and Emily hovers over him for the rest of the day. Then my father shows up for the first time in months and goes over Wyatt House with a fine-tooth comb, checking every lightbulb and flushing every toilet. He even gets down on his hands and knees in the kitchen checking spots where we occasionally get ants.
“Health inspector’s coming tomorrow,” he explains after an hour of this fucking bullshit.
“You couldn’t have told me that last week?”
“I didn’t know last week. I got the phone call this morning. Have the boys clean their rooms and the bathrooms tonight.”
“I know, Dad. I’ve been through this before,” I answer flatly.
“Okay. How are you doing?”
I shrug. How do I answer that? I’m shitty because I’m a fucking douchebag who doesn’t know how to treat a good woman? “Fine. How are you?”
“Good. Your mother is still reeling about the scene at the gala. She’s so angry at Madison Badeau that she’s erased them from the guest list for any future events. I’m assuming your brother filled you in on what happened?”
“Emily did,” I tell him. “Can’t say I’m sorry she’ll be gone.”
My dad chuckles. “She didn’t try very hard to hide her attraction to you. I’m glad you never crossed that line.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
My dad goes over a few more things as I follow him. “So, how’s Kayla?”
My chest tightens at the sound of her name. “Um, I haven’t seen her since last week, but I think she’s okay.”
My dad glances at me. “I like her, Dean. I think she’s good for you.”
“Dad, don’t.”
“No pressure, son. I’m just telling you. Your mother likes her, too. She won’t admit it yet, but she does.”
“Okay,” I say, not wanting to get into it. “Thanks.”
My dad sticks around, helping Edgar make dinner and sitting down with us to eat. He talks to the boys and asks a lot of questions. They laugh when my dad tells them a few stories about Aiden and me as kids. I think he misses being here at times. My mother was never quite comfortable here, so she stayed away, and the amount of time Dad spent at Wyatt House put a really big strain on their marriage for a long time.
When he leaves, he hands me a list of things that need to be done before the health inspector comes tomorrow at two o’clock. While Eric is feeling much better by bedtime, I’m up half the night with Curtis, who suddenly comes down with the same stomach bug.
The next morning, I make it back from church just as Bill shows up to the house. We spend the whole morning scrambling around. There aren’t any major improvements to be made and I’m sure we’ll pass inspection regardless, but it’s better for them to be done. You never know what kind of inspector will show up on your doorstep, or if he’ll be having a bad day.
We pass despite the fact that the stomach flu seems to be making its way around the house. By the time Simon gets here for night shift at seven o’clock, I’m fried. I don’t even remember the drive back to my place. I’m just suddenly home, walking in my front door to a cold, silent apartment.
I have the entire next day off, but I lie in bed all night, not sleeping. I should sleep—I’m fucking exhausted—but I don’t want to dream about Kayla anymore. I may not know exactly where this thing with her is going, but I do know one thing. If I don’t call her, it’ll go nowhere. I have to fix the damage I’ve done.
In the morning, the second it’s a reasonable hour, I send her a text.
Call me.
I stare at my phone while eating Pop-Tarts and drinking coffee. By noon, I’ve sent her two more messages.
I’m an asshole. I know that.
Call, text, something. I’m sorry.
I get nothing over the next few hours, so I call her. I’m not surprised when I get her voicemail.
“You’ve reached Kayla Brooks. Please leave a message and I will return your call at my earliest convenience.”
I take a deep breath. Have I completely fucked this up already? I’m about to leave a message, but hit the END CALL button instead. I need to do this in person.
At six o’clock, I head over to her house, but no one is home. I wait outside for about an hour, getting more and more frustrated, until one of their neighbors comes and asks me what I’m doing and if he can help me. I shake my head, reluctantly driving back home and picking up a pizza and six-pack on the way. After setting my wallet and keys down on the countertop, I grab a couple of slices and a beer and settle down in front of the television. At some point, the last few days must catch up with me, because I pass out on the couch.
* * *
I wake to my head pounding. Except it’s not my head, it’s the fucking door. I look at the clock on the microwave—it’s almost midnight. I roll off the cushions and push myself up. More knocks.
“I’m coming! Jesus Christ.” If this is some druggie shithead from downstairs, I’m going to blow a fucking gasket. This is the first night I’ve actually been able to sleep all week. The fucking knocking continues until I throw the door open.
“What?” My breath suddenly leaves my body as though I were just punched in the gut. Or the balls.
“Hi, Dean.”
Standing in front of me is the shell of a girl I once knew. Her hair is short, pulled back in two ponytails like a little girl’s. Her makeup is heavy and smeared, her nose pierced with a silver stud. Her clothes hang limply over a tiny, emaciated frame. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s not more than ninety pounds. She looks like shit. I can’t stop staring. Under my wordless scrutiny, she shifts her gaze.
“What are you doing here?” I’m finally able to choke out after a long and uncomfortable silence.
“Uh, can I come in?” Her voice is small and weak—nervous.
“No,” I respond automatically. “You can’t.”
She sniffs and scratches her arm. “Please, Dean. I just… I need to talk to you.”
She needs to talk to me?
“That’s what phones are for,” I blurt out stupidly.
“I tried to call,” she cries. “I’ve been trying for weeks.”
I frown. “I have my phone on me all the time, Steph. No fucking way have you been calling me.”
“I did! I called Wyatt House first and then your cellphone. You never answered. I kept getting your fucking voicemail.” I think back to all the calls I didn’t answer from an unknown number when I was with Kayla.
“Fine, you called. I never got a message.”
“I didn’t leave a message. What was I supposed to say?”
I shake my head, stunned. This is unreal. “How the fuck did you find me?” I ask solemnly.
“It’s wasn’t that hard. You’re pretty much a public guy, running Wyatt House and all.” I stare at her, not buying her shit for a second. “I have a friend who’s good at finding people. He helped me out,” she admits. “I’ve been sitting outside for three hours, trying to get the courage to come up here. Please, just hear me out?”
I debate for a second and, against my better judgment, I step aside. “You’ve got five minutes. Less if you pull any shit.”
“Thank you,” she whispers, stepping past me.
“Make it quick, Steph. I’m fucking tired.”
“You really live here?” she asks, looking around.
“Yeah. I do. Why?”
“I guess I just thought… I don’t know. After you left, I figured that, since I was the reason you didn’t talk to them, you went back to your parents. You know, and their money.”
“I didn’t.”
“Obviously,” she mutters. “How come?”
“What do you want, Steph? It’s the middle of the fucking night and I’m not exactly in the mood for chitchat.”
She nods and looks away. “I need h
elp.”
“You’ve come to the wrong place,” I scoff. “I can’t help you.”
“You don’t even know what I need. You’re the only one who can help.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You have no right to ask me for anything.”
She sits down on my couch and leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “I know.” Her face crumples. “They took my babies, Dean,” she whimpers.
I glare at her, trying not to see how young and broken she looks. “What are you talking about?”
“Abby and Zachary.”
My heart thumps loudly in my chest at the mention of Abigail. The last time I saw her, she was two years old. She had her mother’s bright-blue eyes, but the light-brown tone of her skin showed that she was obviously not my child.
“Zachary?”
“My little boy. He’s three. Here, I can show you.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a crumpled picture, holding it tightly in her hands for a second before handing it to me. I don’t want to look at it. I don’t want her to be here.
The picture is grainy, but staring back at me are two small children. Abigail looks exactly the same. Her face is thinner, her hair longer, but her eyes and her smile are exactly how I remember them. Sitting in her lap, with a big grin and something all over his face, is a little boy with messy blond hair.
Steph is fidgeting. Her feet, her hands. I know the signs. I reach for her chin. She flinches, but lets me examine her. Her pupils are huge.
“You’re high.”
She starts to shake her head no, but stops and nods. I laugh humorlessly and scrape my teeth over my lower lip in agitation.
“Were you sitting outside trying to find the courage or were you downstairs inhaling it?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Get the fuck out, Stephanie.” I grab her arm and try to pull her up. “I can’t…you can’t be here.”
Looking down at her, I see her eyes close, her whole body trembling and tears falling down her cheeks. I sigh heavily.
