by Jamie Howard
I say the only thing I can think of: “I’m sorry.”
“You and me both, Sloane,” he says, resting his cheek on his palm. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, and he looks exhausted. Probably up all night … Nope, not going to go there.
I’m just taking the left onto Poplar when she vomits all over the backseat of the car. I shift to breathing through my mouth, trying not to gag as the stench of it overwhelms the interior of the car. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I can see a trail of pink-stained vomit and saliva oozing out of the corner of her mouth, cascading over the edge of the backseat.
Luke barely moves. “Are you kidding me, Evelyn?”
If the way he looks at her doesn’t give me serious red flags about their relationship, the fact that he’s calling her by her first name sends up blatant warning signs.
I pull the car over when he tells me to and park by the curb next to a small, run-down bungalow. The porch sags in the middle, and the shutter on the front window hangs at an awkward angle, which has my fingers itching to straighten it. Despite some obviously needed repairs, the grass is freshly cut, the shutters are painted a bright periwinkle blue, and there’s even a few cheerful flowers planted around the front steps. It’s charming in its own way.
Luke scrubs a hand over his face and then through his hair. “Will you wait here for a minute?”
“Sure.”
To my surprise, he walks toward the house without Evelyn. He disappears through the front door and is back a few minutes later, at which point he hauls Evelyn over his shoulder. There’s a giant mess in my backseat that makes my stomach heave, but that’s the least of my worries at the moment. I can drop the car off to get it detailed on my trip back to the diner.
I scurry after him, the gravel driveway giving way beneath my sneakers. The floorboards groan as I skip up the front steps and push open the door. Blinking to let my eyes adjust to the dimness, I find myself in a small living room. The furniture is a little worse for wear, and the rug is threadbare, but it’s clean and neat. The walls are oddly bare and empty, with not a picture frame in sight. A door slams before Luke reappears and slumps down onto the couch. I stand there awkwardly, not quite sure what I should say or do.
He turns frosty blue eyes my way. “Why are you still here? What do you want?”
Chapter 7
Luke
I think I prefer her disgust to her pity. That, right there, is why I don’t bring people over to my house or even acknowledge that Evelyn and I are related. At least Cash isn’t home to see it this time.
Of course she had to go and puke all over the black leather seat of Sloane’s Maserati. Where the hell am I going to get the money to pay for that?
Sloane hasn’t answered me yet, and she’s wringing her hands together so hard I think she might rub the skin right off them. “You just seem very upset, and I … I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
That’s not what I was expecting her to say. “Christ, Sloane, why do you even care?”
Now she’s added biting her lip to the hand-wringing, and as I watch her, I can’t help but think about biting that lip myself. I’m thinking about devouring her mouth with mine—Sloane, the girl who thinks I’m the biggest piece of scum on the planet. Mental disorders must run in the family.
Taking me by surprise, she sits down next to me and runs her palms along the length of her legs. She couldn’t look more out of place if she tried. Even in her shorts and T-shirt she clearly doesn’t belong on my tired old couch.
“I’m sorry.”
That’s the second time she’s said that to me today. “For what?”
She rests her forehead on the heels of her hands. “For pretending that I know you when I don’t. For being an enormous bitch. For everything.” She sighs, and when she looks at me again I think she’s about to start crying. God, I hope not. “You remind me of someone.” One corner of her mouth curls up in rueful smile, and any trace of tears vanishes. “And it’s just that every time I see you, it makes me think of him, and before I know it, these nasty, horrible things are flying out of my mouth.”
I lay a hand on her knee before I can stop myself. She flinches and I immediately snatch it back. “So, does that mean we’re calling a truce?” I ask.
She laughs, and it’s as out of place in this house as she is. “Truce,” she says, and holds out a hand. When her eyes find mine, it’s like she’s letting me see the real her for the first time. The guarded wariness that always lurked there has been suddenly whisked away and is replaced with an honest openness that makes my breath catch in my throat.
I slip my hand around hers in something that resembles a handshake but feels a lot more like I’m just holding her hand. She’s looking up at me, and I’m looking down at her, and even if I wanted to, I can’t look away. The front door flying open and bouncing against the wall snaps me back to the present, and I quickly let go of her hand.
I give myself a mental shake. Sloane just agreed to give us being friends a shot, and not five minutes later, here I am, one step away from fucking it up. Gritting my teeth together, I grip my knees. Hands to yourself, Evans.
Cash materializes from around the corner with a backpack slung over one shoulder. His footsteps drag, and there’re pillow creases all over one side of his face like he just rolled out of bed and walked home.
When he sees me, his eyes light up like he’s just come downstairs on Christmas morning and found piles of presents underneath the tree.
“Luke, you’re home,” he shouts. He hurries over, but noticing Sloane at the last moment, he skids to a halt in front of me. Holding his tiny fist out toward me, I give him a fist bump. Apparently, hugging your big brother isn’t the cool thing to do.
Cash scuffs one sneaker against the worn carpet. “Hey, Sloane.”
“Hey, buddy,” she says, the look on her face telling me she didn’t miss what just happened.
“What’re you guys doing here?”
I fumble for an answer. I’m sure as hell not telling him about Evelyn, not if it can be helped. It’s bad enough how many times he’s seen her like this already. It’ll be hours before she drags herself out of bed, so with any luck he’ll never even know what happened. “We’re just … hanging out.”
Sloane nods along with me.
Cash’s eyebrows pull together as his lower lip pushes out in a pout. “Like mom hangs out with her guy friends?”
“No,” I say, heat flooding my cheeks. “Not like that.” Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Sloane’s face undergo a series of transformations—from confusion, to understanding, to fury—as she processes the meaning behind Cash’s words.
It takes her a second to get her features under control, but in the space of a heartbeat, she’s smiling again. Cash’s stomach growls so loudly it practically echoes around the small room.
“Hungry?” Sloane asks.
Cash nods, rubbing a hand over his stomach. “Starving. You wanna make me something, Sloane?”
“I … umm … sure. I can make breakfast.”
“Awesome!” As Sloane stands, Cash wraps his arms around her legs in a bear hug and nearly knocks her back over onto the couch. She ruffles a hand through his hair, and he finally lets her go.
I shake my head at the two of them, surprised by my light mood despite the events of the morning. I give Cash a light shove in the shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s get you washed up.”
Sloane takes a few steps forward, stops, and looks around her.
“To your left,” I offer.
“Right.” She turns around and gives me a thumbs up. “Breakfast. Coming right up.”
Chapter 8
Sloane
Sometimes I really need to learn when to keep my mouth shut. Or at least to completely vocalize my thoughts. What I meant to say was, “Hungry? Let’s head back to the diner. Breakfast is on me.” What I definitely didn’t mean was, “Hungry? Sure, let me make you breakfast.”
I should’ve said something when I had
the chance, but after everything that happened with Evelyn, I wanted to do something nice for the both of them. Not that I was being completely altruistic. Mentioning that the only thing I have experience making is toast and PB & J would have been not only embarrassing, but probably would have led to snide thoughts about me being a stuck-up little rich girl. Only half of that statement is actually true.
I flip on the kitchen light and drop a hand to my hip. Okay, breakfast. Tapping my fingers against my jean shorts, I glance around the kitchen, taking in the small white refrigerator, the light oak cabinets, and the yellow-speckled Formica counters.
I cross to the refrigerator and pull it open: pickles, mayonnaise, apple juice, butter, beer, eggs—eggs! Making a grab for the gray cardboard container, I pull them out. I can make eggs. I think. It’s not like I ever tried, but how hard can it be?
Scrambled eggs seem boring though. Maybe I can at least make an omelet? Back at the refrigerator, I fish out some cheese and then rummage through the cabinets for anything else I might need.
Alright, so far so good.
Plucking out one smooth white egg, I twist it between my fingers. Is there any way to tell if eggs are bad? On second thought, do eggs go bad? The only thing that comes to mind about rotten eggs is the smell, that awful, acrid, sulfur scent. Dipping my nose toward the egg, I give it a delicate sniff.
“Are you smelling our eggs?”
Luke’s voice is brimming with laughter, and I quickly jerk my hand away from my face. “Just making sure they’re still good.”
He pushes off from where he was lounging against the doorjamb. “They’re fine. I just bought them Monday.”
As he crosses the room toward me, I crack it open, hoping he can’t tell this is the first time I’ve cracked an egg in my entire life. While my fingers fumble to keep microscopic pieces of shell from dropping into the bowl, my brain processes what he said.
“Do you … do a lot of the grocery shopping?” I flick my gaze up to where he’s leaning against the counter next to me and scoop out two more eggs from the container.
He lifts an eyebrow in my direction. “Why don’t you ask me what you really want to, Sloane?”
“Fine.” I tilt my chin up. “Is all of this on you? Cash, the house, the bills, groceries? All of it?”
His hand drifts up to the back his neck and squeezes. I hate the fact that my eyes stray to where the sleeve of his shirt rides up, his bicep bunching against the fabric. “Yeah. The whole lovely mess is all mine. Not that I really count Cash in that. He’s more the bonus I get for dealing with this clusterfuck.”
Three large yellow yolks float in a transparent puddle of egg whites. I stare at them, trying to decide what the next step is.
Apparently reading my thoughts, Luke says, “You need to scramble them.”
“I know.”
He looks from me to the bowl, and I can tell he’s starting to suspect my breakfast-making inexperience. As I reach for the fork, a nasty thought snakes its way into my brain. “You don’t … you don’t sleep with women for money, do you?”
Luke stares at me for a long moment before bursting out into laughter, and I blow out a breath. Here we are, making good on our truce, and I go and ask him if he’s a freaking prostitute. High five, Sloane. You nearly blew it.
He shakes his head at me. “No, Sloane, I don’t pimp myself out to make sure that Cash and I can eat. I do well enough at the bar, and if all else fails, I do some odd jobs here and there to make up the difference. Honestly…”
I gesture for him to keep going, waving the fork in the air. “Honestly?”
Drumming his fingers against the edge of the counter, he stares down at the floor like he’s examining it for cracks. “Well, when I’m…”—he shoots a lopsided grin my way—“enjoying myself with the ladies, it’s one of the only times that I can forget about how fucked up my life is. There’s no worrying, no guilt, nothing. For a few minutes, all of this—it just goes away.”
“A few minutes, huh? I guess it’s a good thing you don’t charge for your services.”
Oh, damn, did I just say that? Out loud?
“Was that a joke? From you?” he asks.
Yes, a joke, because I’m witty and sarcastic. Not because whenever I’m around Luke my mouth starts spewing out words without checking in with my brain. I’m sure my cheeks are flaming, but if he calls me on it, I’m blaming it on the stove. “What? I’m funny.”
He snorts. “Sure you are.”
I open my mouth to ask another question but snap it back shut. I don’t want to pry, and I get the feeling that he’s already opened up more to me today then he has in a long time.
“What? C’mon, just ask. You know you want to.” He offers me a smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
I dump the eggs into the pan. “It’s just, I’m surprised Evelyn had two children.”
“You mean because she knocked the ball out of the park the first time around, and you can’t imagine why she’d try to top that?”
I let myself laugh. My heart is hurting so bad for him right now, but I know he doesn’t want to see that. He doesn’t want my pity, and even though that’s not what it is, that’s how he’ll take it. “Yes, that’s exactly what I meant.” I stab the spatula into the pan, where my baby omelet is starting to crackle.
He sighs and his smile fades. “I’m sure it won’t come as a surprise to you that neither Cash nor I were planned. Why she decided to keep us is probably as much of a mystery to you as it is to me.” He tips his head back and his eyes search the ceiling, like he’s counting the tiles. “I was twelve when she brought Cash home. I was already thinking up all the ways I could get the hell out of here, planning my escape.” His eyes drift shut and he takes a deep breath. The eggs pop in the pan, and little pieces splatter against my wrist, but all my attention is focused on Luke.
“That first week was a nightmare. He cried all the time, wouldn’t sleep. Evelyn was … Evelyn—drunk or absent. And all of a sudden there was this tiny person who needed me, who depended on me. As much as I wanted out in a bad way, I couldn’t leave him behind.” His lips pinch together and his gaze snaps to my face. “Bottom line: things have never been pretty here, but I do the best I can. I try like hell to make sure Cash will never have the memories that I do. I never want him to feel like someone’s mistake. And if that means living in Evelyn’s shadow and putting the things I want on the back burner for now, then so be it. I’d take a whole lot worse to make sure that he’s happy.”
The eggs start to sizzle in earnest now, and the silence keeps expanding between us. I don’t even know what to say to that. I’m not sure I’ve ever misjudged a person so badly before.
“If you don’t flip that, it’s gonna burn,” he says, his eyes searching mine like he’s not sure that I’m still there.
“Right.” I dart my gaze to the pan and hold out the spatula indecisively, trying to get my brain functioning again. How in the world am I supposed to do this?
“You’ve never done this before, have you?”
“I…” Tapping my foot against the floor, I give the pan a little shake with my hand. “No. I’ve never made an omelet before.” I wait for it—the derisive look, the You’ve got to be kidding me eye roll, but it doesn’t come.
“Here,” he says, and wraps his hand over mine around the pan’s handle. At least this time he’s focused on the eggs and not looking so deeply into my eyes that it’s like he can see the broken pieces of my soul I like to keep hidden. Talk about unnerving. “We’re gonna flip it.”
“Flip it? Are you sure?”
“Trust me. I do this all the time.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so.” He grins down at me. “Ready?”
I nod.
Twisting his wrist, and mine with it, he gives the pan a flick. The egg revolves in the air, as though in slow motion, before splatting against the side of the pan and folding in on itself.
“That was definitely your fa
ult,” Luke says.
“My fault?”
“You didn’t flick with me.”
“Sorry. I never flick on the first date.”
He chuckles, and I can feel the vibration of it where his chest brushes against my back. “M-hmm.”
“Just so we’re clear.” I tilt my chin up so that I can look at him. “This messed-up one is totally yours.”
Chapter 9
Luke
“Cash!” I glance at the time on the microwave. “You have thirty seconds to get your butt down here, or we’re leaving without you!”
“One sec!” he shouts back.
I roll my eyes and cross my feet at the ankles, leaning back against the edge of the table. He’s been saying the same thing for the past ten minutes. A grin drifts across my face as I take a good look around the kitchen. It’s been two weeks, and I still can’t stop myself from smiling every time I pass by this room. Who’d have thought I’d ever have any good memories of this place?
We wasted an entire carton of eggs trying to make a perfect omelet, but in the end, we’d settled for a cheesy egg scramble. Cash didn’t mind, and I sure as hell didn’t, either. If I’d had another carton, I’d have kept at it all day if only to keep Sloane laughing in my kitchen. She’d laughed so hard with each failed attempt—the kind of laugh that doubles you over and makes you feel like you’ve done a thousand sit-ups. It was contagious, infectious even, until I’d been laughing right along with her.
The day had been perfect, the best day I’d had in I-can’t-remember-when. Right up until I ruined it.
We’d been washing dishes, cleaning up. Sloane had taken towel duty while I washed. Running the towel along the edge of the last plate, she’d set it in the drying rack and turned back toward me. There’d been a chunk of egg stuck in her hair, hovering just above her ear.
I reached up to brush it away, but unlike when I touched her on the couch, this time she let me. My fingers may have lingered a few seconds too long; my head may have dipped slightly toward hers. Maybe neither of those things happened, and I was just thinking so loudly about wanting to kiss her that she could hear it. I’m not entirely sure, because my body and my mind were working at opposite purposes.
