by Tara Sivec
Moving around Mrs. Sherwood, I take the steps two at a time until I can squat down in front of them. Reaching my hands up, I run my palms down both of their heads, cupping their cheeks, and try not to break down like a fucking baby that Grace looks shocked as shit that I’m touching her. My strong girl quickly clears her throat and wipes the shock off of her face, as I drop my hands down to rest on top of my knees.
“Dad, I think we have a problem,” she informs me.
“What’s that, ba—”
The word baby gets immediately cut off when Mia opens her mouth and a stream of chunky, hot pink puke comes flying at me, hitting my neck and my chest. It proceeds to drip down the front of my shirt and pool in the crotch of my jeans.
“Mia doesn’t feel well,” Grace adds, pressing her hand over her mouth and trying her hardest to cover up her laugh.
“Thanks for the notice,” I mutter, staring down at the explosion of pink vomit all down the front of me.
I hear a clicking sound, followed by a giggle, and look up to find Mrs. Sherwood standing behind the girls, holding up her phone and snapping a shit ton of pictures of me.
“Oh, yes. This is perfect.” She laughs, dropping her arms and pressing a few buttons on the damn thing.
“What are you doing?”
“Giving you a head start on that whole groveling thing. Grace, come over here and show me how to send a text to Miss Brooklyn.”
Chapter 13
Twilight Zone Life
How many days in a row can you use dry shampoo in your hair before you officially become a disgusting human being who gives zero fucks?
I should probably also poll the audience and see how many days one can live on a box of Cheez-Its and a two liter of Mountain Dew before your stomach starts eating itself, in desperate need of real sustenance.
I’ve spent the entire weekend lying on my bed, hugging my box of crackers under one arm, and my Mountain Dew under the other, talking to the Joshua Jackson poster on my ceiling. I thought what happened in New York was rock-bottom, but I was sorely mistaken. This is it. I’m am officially in the pits of hell.
Not even the handful of photos Mrs. Sherwood sent me Friday night of Clint covered in pink puke could lift my bad mood. Mostly because that asshole still looked hot, even covered in chunks of vomit.
I hate that I didn’t stand up for myself out in his driveway two days ago. I should have shouted, and cursed, and called him every name I could think of, defending myself and making him feel like shit for the things he said to me that couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Instead, I stood there and took his verbal lashing, and I fucking cried. I let him see how much he hurt me, and I think that’s the worst part in all of this. Probably because I never thought he would do something like that to me. Sure, we have a very unhealthy relationship that revolves around picking on each other, but it’s always been in good fun. I’ve never said anything overly cruel, and the things he’s said to me were always more annoying than mean. I can’t get past the fact that he took every insecurity I have and threw it in my face. He reminded me what a liar and a loser I am in regards to my mother. And he reminded me I’m a home wrecking hussy, even if I didn’t set out to intentionally ruin a marriage. The fact that he thinks I did hurts more than anything.
Fifteen minutes ago, I got a text from Mrs. Sherwood asking if my dad and I were home, because she had something she needed to drop off. I know I should get up and do something to attempt to look human, but it’s just Mrs. Sherwood. If she’s put off by me wearing a pair of my dad’s gray sweatpants with the waistband rolled down twice, and the same pale blue Hastings Farm shirt I was wearing Friday, with my hair in a messy bun on top of my head, so be it.
There’s a knock on my bedroom door, and my dad pops his head in when I tell him it’s unlocked. He hasn’t bothered me all weekend, so at least I have that to be thankful for. When I walked through the front door Friday night and he took one look at me with my tear-stained cheeks, he turned the volume up louder on the television after letting me know there was a gallon of double chocolate chunk ice cream in the freezer. At that moment, I kind of felt bad for how much I’d been nagging him since I got here.
“Someone’s at the door for you,” he tells me.
With a sigh, I sit up in bed and swing my legs off the side, brushing some of the orange crumbs off my shirt as I stand.
“You want some fatherly advice?” he asks, as I walk across the room and pause in front of him.
“Not really.”
“Good. Because I don’t know how to do that,” he mutters.
For the first time all weekend, I have to fight back a smile.
“Listen. Clint has—”
“Blah, blah, blah, Clint has had a hard time,” I cut him off, with a roll of my eyes. “I don’t give a shit. So have I.”
“Can I finish what I was gonna say?” he asks in annoyance.
I glare at him, keeping my mouth shut for him to continue, getting ready to cover my ears like a toddler.
“As I was saying, Clint has behaved like a goddamn asshole. He’s a good man for the most part, and I like him, but if he makes you cry again, I’m gonna load up my shotgun and pump his ass full of lead,” he informs me, my mouth dropping open in shock. “If you don’t wanna work out at the farm anymore, I wouldn’t blame you. Don’t worry about money. I got plenty of money for whatever you need. But just saying, I didn’t raise you to back down from a challenge, or to let someone walk all over you.”
What in the shit is happening right now?
“How do you even—”
“It’s rude to let company wait around on the front porch,” he cuts me off, when I start to ask him how even knows what the hell happened on Friday.
With that, he turns and walks down the hallway, disappearing into his room.
Shaking my head in complete confusion, I quickly head in the opposite direction as my dad. I have no clue why he didn’t just invite Mrs. Sherwood in. Sometimes he can be such a pain in the ass. A sweet pain in the ass who offered to shoot Clint for me, but a pain in the ass nonetheless. Flinging the door open, I can’t help but smile when I see Mia and Grace standing on the front porch.
Who knew that after only a few weeks, a couple of kids would actually make me happy, instead of making me want to run in the opposite direction, screaming my head off to get away from them?
“Hey, girls! Mrs. Sherwood brought you with her?” I ask, confused when I look over their heads and don’t see her standing behind them on the porch.
I squint, trying to see if she’s somewhere out in the yard, but it’s too dark to see much farther than the bottom of the porch steps.
Before they can respond, I hear a few thumping footsteps, and Clint suddenly appears from the shadows to the right of the door. He moves to stand behind the girls, all three of them spotlighted by the bright porch light.
My smile instantly falls when I see him, even though my traitorous heart starts pounding in my chest. At first glance, I want to stomp my foot that he has to look so good in his typical uniform of well-worn jeans, a flannel tucked into them, and cowboy boots, while I look like complete asshole. But then I take a second to study him, and I see stubble on his face, dark circles under his eyes, and his hair is all askew from where I’m sure he’s been incessantly running his hand through it.
My first instinct is to slam the door in his face, but I can’t do that. Not with the girls smiling up at me. I’m pretty sure that’s exactly why he’s standing behind them, with his arms around them and his hands tightly gripping their shoulders. The look in his eyes is one full of sadness, with a touch of nervous fear as he uses them as a shield, like I might try to kick him in the nuts.
Which sounds like a fabulous idea, but again, the girls. Damn him!
I force myself to look away from him, since it hurts too much to look into his eyes and see any kind of worry or pain there. He doesn’t get the right to feel any of that shit after what he said to me.
�
��What are you girls doing here?” I ask softly, forcing myself to keep my eyes on them and not let them stray back up to Clint.
I don’t realize they’ve been standing here with both of their arms behind their backs until they pull them around in front of them, clutching tightly to huge bouquets of flowers that they hold out toward me.
“Dad said these used to be your favorite flowers, and they’re mine too, because they’re pink and I love pink and Grace hates them because they’re pink, but I don’t care because they’re so pretty, so here you go!” Mia rambles, as I take her bouquet with a soft laugh.
Shooting Star flowers have always been my favorite; it’s true. They’re wildflowers that grow at the far edge of the Hastings fifty-acre farm. They can grow to be around sixteen inches tall, and the bright magenta petals flare rearward around the pointed, yellow center, resembling the tail of a shooting star. I not only love them because they look like a shooting star, but because I’m probably the only person in the world who hates the smell of flowers. They always make me think of being at a funeral. The Shooting Star doesn’t have a floral smell at all.
When Clint was old enough to drive one of the tractors, Ember and I would beg him to give us a ride out there at least once a week, so we could pick them and put them in vases all over the house. Clint would tell me my ugly face would make them wilt and die within an hour, and I would tell him his dragon breath would kill them long before my face could.
Dammit. Stop thinking of things that make you smile. This is not the time to smile.
“Dad also wants you to know he’s sorry for being a big dummy,” Mia chirps with a huge smile on her face.
“And for being a jerk, an idiot, and… what was the last one?” Grace asks, turning to look back over her shoulder and up at Clint.
“A jackass. But don’t say that one,” he tells her in a quiet voice.
The sound of his voice sends shivers up my spine, and once again, I’m cursing myself for being such an idiot when it comes to him. And for the tears that pool in my eyes and the lump in my throat that won’t seem to go away, as Grace looks back at me and hands me her bouquet of flowers.
Clutching the stems of at least two dozen flowers tightly in my hands and hugging them to my chest, I finally lift my eyes and look at Clint again. He looks as miserable as I feel, and that almost makes things a tiny bit better.
“That’s really low, using your kids, Hastings. Really low,” I whisper.
“Gotta pull out the big guns when necessary, Manning,” he replies with a crooked smile.
“Do I hear my girls out there?”
My dad’s voice echoes from behind me, and as soon as the girls hear it, their eyes light up and they practically shove me out of the way to go racing into the house.
“Papa M! Papa M!” Mia yells, as my dad squats down in the hallway, and both girls throw themselves at him.
He wraps his arms around both of them, and I start to wonder if I’m hallucinating. Maybe Shooting Star flowers are poisonous and I never knew. Maybe touching them is the equivalent of having a really bad acid trip, and I’m high as fuck right now.
Speaking of flowers and acid trips, there was this flower that grew all around White Timber High called a Moonflower. They were called that because they only bloomed at night. Senior year, someone dared Joey Phillips to eat one during the last home football game of the season. In the final play of the game, Joey came running out onto the field, bare-ass naked, screaming that there was a kangaroo chasing him.
Please don’t let me start stripping and running around the house screaming about kangaroos.
“What in the hell is happening? Did I accidentally take drugs?” I mutter, watching my dad throw his head back and laugh… laugh at something Mia whispers in his ear.
All of a sudden, I feel the heat from Clint’s body when he steps forward on the porch, the front of him pressing up against my back as we both stand in the doorway looking down the hallway. He bends his head down close to my ear and—
Seriously, fuck you, body! Stop losing your shit, just because you can feel his warm breath against your ear. We hate him, remember? Just because he’s sorry, and looks all sad and pathetic, and picked your favorite flowers for Mia and Grace to give you, doesn’t mean we forgive him.
“Yeah, so I guess the girls have been here a bunch before with Mrs. Sherwood. As soon as I pulled into the driveway, they got all excited when they realized you live here too. Apparently, Mrs. Sherwood and your dad have a thing,” Clint explains softly.
“A thing?” I reply in shock.
“It could be a sexual thing, or it could be a friendship thing. I haven’t really put my finger on it yet.”
“Never, ever say sexual thing again when talking about my dad,” I warn him, which makes him chuckle.
Which makes goose bumps break out on my arms.
Which makes me want to claw my skin off and throw it in his face for doing this shit to me.
“Did they seriously call him Papa M?” I ask, still watching my dad laugh and carry on with the girls.
“I’ve been told he asked them to call him that,” Clint responds, and I can feel his chest slide up and down against my back as he shrugs.
“Can we go in the garage and play with the Barbies?” Mia asks my dad.
Uh, what?
My dad finally looks up at me with a sheepish look on his face.
“I got a box of all your old toys out there. Keeps them occupied when Mrs. Sherwood stops by.”
“Please, for the love of God, don’t tell me my dad and Mrs. Sherwood have sex in here while the girls play with my old toys,” I groan under my breath, making Clint laugh softly again.
Dammit! I need to keep my mouth shut and stop saying things that bring him joy. Clint does not deserve joy. He deserves a swift kick to the crotch. Which, coincidentally, I also feel pressed up against my ass and—son of a bitch! Now I wish I really were on drugs!
“I don’t think Grace wants to play with Barbies. Grace doesn’t like Barbies. Barbies are dumb,” I say in annoyance.
I don’t know why I said this. I sound like an idiot. What is wrong with me?
“Well, obviously,” my dad scoffs. “Grace and I usually shoot some hoops with your old basketball and hoop that’s still hanging up over the garage door. Her free throws are getting pretty good.”
I have officially entered the Twilight Zone. My dad likes kids just as much as I do. Or, used to. He didn’t even pay this much attention to me when I was younger, and I was his flesh and blood. I should be jealous right now, but for some reason, I’m not. It’s kind of cute, in a weird-as-fuck way.
“Sorry, guys. We gotta get back to the farm so the girls can take their baths and get to bed,” Clint announces.
The girls groan, and my dad starts telling them some stupid dad jokes to make them feel better. Something about how he can see potatoes growing out of their ears because they’re so dirty.
Honestly, who is this guy, and what has he done with my dad?
While they’re preoccupied, I finally turn around to face Clint.
“You coming to work tomorrow?” he asks, running one of his hands nervously through his hair, which of course I find just the tiniest bit endearing.
“Of course I’m coming to work tomorrow,” I scoff. “I’m not a quitter, even if my boss is a jackass.”
“Good. That’s good. That’s great. The girls really, really like having you there. They like seeing you every day. It makes them really happy, even if they don’t act like it sometimes,” he tells me, making me wonder if he’s talking about the girls, or him.
Which is all so fucking confusing.
I don’t bother replying, because anything I say or do right now will be complete horse shit. I’ll either scream at him, punch him in the face, or drop down to the ground, rocking back and forth as I cry like a baby.
Clint’s eyes never leave mine, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t make myself look away. I hear the pounding of the girls�
� footsteps down the hall behind me, and don’t even look away when they shove past me and back outside onto the porch, scrambling quickly down the stairs and over to the driveway.
“See you tomorrow, fancy pants,” Clint says with a wink, before turning away and jogging down the steps.
Instead of standing in the doorway watching him walk away like an idiot, my brain finally wakes up. I quickly move back inside and slam the door closed, turning around and slumping against it as my dad comes down the hallway and joins me.
“Don’t give me that look. Those girls keep me young. And they’re not as annoying as most of the kids in this town,” he grumbles.
“Do you want some daughterly advice?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“Good. Because I don’t know how to do that. You still got any of that good tequila left?” I ask.
My dad pats me on the arm before turning and heading toward the kitchen. I push off of the door and follow behind him.
“It’s times like these I’m really glad I didn’t sell you to a traveling circus when you were little,” he says over his shoulder.
Chapter 14
CLINT
Cotton Candy Life
“Um, a little help here?”
I glance over my shoulder when no one answers me, to find Brooklyn and Grace still sitting in the middle of a blanket a few feet away, organizing all of Grace’s baseball trading cards into a binder with plastic page inserts Brooklyn brought with her this morning.
“You’re doing just fine. Try bribing her with sugar,” Brooklyn tells me, not even looking up from the binder in her lap as Grace hands her another card to stick inside.
With a sigh, I turn back to the huge oak tree in front of me, looking up at Mia perched on a branch that is out of my reach and entirely too high off the ground. How she even got up there is beyond me. One of the farmhands came over and asked me a question about a tractor we were having a problem with, and the next thing I knew, Mia was scrambling up the tree like a cat. A cat wearing four dresses, a whole shit-ton of plastic costume jewelry, a tiara, and a pair of pink plastic dress-up shoes with two-inch heels.
