by Shen, L. J.
The crowd surrounding us was thickening. People murmured and nudged each other in awe. The unshakable, imperial West St. Claire was having his ass handed to him—and by Toastie, no less. Next thing they knew, pigs would be able to fly, too.
“No one manages my business other than me.” West flashed me his teeth.
“Think again. I do. I care, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”
My spine was ramrod straight, my voice stoic. Broken promise or not, I couldn’t let him kill himself for money.
“You’re my boyfriend. I have a say.”
The room sucked in a collective breath. I’d outed us without his permission, but rather than feeling embarrassed and shy, all I could feel was the blazing flame of anger.
I smiled serenely, pretending like the gasps and shocked glances didn’t hurt.
“Yup. That’s the truth, folks. West St. Claire is my boyfriend. Who would have thought, right? Different folks, different strokes, I guess.”
I turned back to West. “I told Max you can’t do the fight.”
“I can.” He took another step in my direction, an ugly sneer smearing across his gorgeous face. “And I am. You have no pull with me on this, so I suggest you go back to your little play, Gracie-Mae.”
Did he just call me Gracie-Mae? Like Grams did?
I took a step back, feeling my expression collapsing. But West, apparently, wasn’t done humiliating me. For some reason, it was important for him to shatter everything we were and leave nothing but broken pieces.
“And to make shit clear: you’re not my girlfriend, sweetheart. You’re just another notch in my never-ending belt. Just because I slept with you more than once doesn’t mean you’re going to wear my ring on your finger. The facts don’t care about your feelings, and fact is, you mean nothing to me. I screwed you because I’m screwed-up, yes.” He half-shrugged, letting all our time together roll off his back. I couldn’t breathe. Easton, behind him, buried his face in his hands, but even he didn’t stop West from saying all those things to me. I had a feeling he knew if he stepped too close, West was going to rip his head off.
“Wanna hear the truth? The big secret?” West air quoted the words with a chuckle. “Fine. I’ll humor you. When I was seventeen, my sister, Aubrey, died in a fire. The fire was my fault. She died because of me. For a while, when I looked at you, all I saw was redemption. I thought fooling around with you would give you the little pick-me-up your self-esteem had needed. But you were never more than that. There, I said it. Now get off my fucking case, Shaw.”
He turned around and left, leaving me with the flashes of phone cameras, chortles, and laughter.
All eyes were on me.
No ball cap. No boyfriend. No pride left.
Easton and Reign ran after West, trying to catch his step. Through my shock, I could see Karlie shouldering past the crowd, making her way toward me.
“Get out of my way! Out! I’m coming, Shaw. Stay put. Oof! Passing through! Make way!”
I was too numb to move.
I stood there, frozen in place, while Karlie stomped on feet and elbowed ribs to get to me in record time.
Tess was the first to snap out of her reverie. She was still standing closest to me. She jumped forward and placed her body in front of mine, covering me completely. She put her hands on her waist, huffing haughtily.
“Jesus, jerks much? Give the girl some space. What the hell are you looking at? Never seen a couple fighting before? Shoo! Shoo!”
I didn’t feel anything.
Not gratitude.
Not sadness.
Not anger.
Nothing.
“I’m going to make sure y’alls fancy iPhones are going to be smashed, or worse, if you don’t take a hike right now!” Tess’ voice boomed.
The dense ring of people finally shuffled sideways. Karlie snatched my arm, pulling me away from the throng.
“We have to make sure these videos don’t leak,” she barked at Tess, who nodded, biting down on her lip. She looked guilty, her cheeks flushed pink. As she should be. She wanted to hurt me. She just hadn’t been sure how far things were going to go.
“I’ll talk to Reign and East right quick. They’ll throw their weight if need be.”
Karlie nodded. “Text me.”
“I will.”
“Come.” Karlie wrapped her hands around me. “Let’s take you home.”
West
Then.
“Promith to make me waffles tomorrow morning?” Aubrey stood in the kitchen doorway, pouting. I poured a Costco bag of tortilla chips into bowls. East was setting up red Solo cups on the kitchen island after lining up bottles of liquor. My girlfriend, Whitley, was hanging up a stupid birthday sign on the wall.
Happy 17th Birthday, West!
Honestly, I thought it was exceedingly lame to have a birthday sign when I was the one throwing a party, but I let her have her way. Figured if I played my cards right this evening, I could get a blowjob out of it.
Birthday plus being an agreeable boyfriend? That equaled more than good sex. Getting head was nothing. I should think outside the box. Ask for anal. Or maybe a threesome.
“Westie?” Aubrey was tugging at my shirt now, pulling my horn-dog brain from the orgy I was throwing in my head. I looked down at my six-year-old sister. We had a huge-ass age gap, but I loved her to death. She blinked up at me with her big green eyes, smiling her partly toothless grin. Her two front baby teeth were gone now—I’d pulled them out myself when she was too chicken to do it—and she looked adorable. Aubrey was self-conscious about her teeth. When I took her to the carnival the other day, I had to blacken my two front teeth for solidarity purposes. The grin on her face was worth all the shit I got afterwards from the football team who saw me there.
“Yeah, Aub. I said it before and I’ll say it again—you keep inside your room all night, and I’ll make you waffles in the morning.”
“Wiv chocolate chips and apples on the side. Freshly cut.”
“Yupsters.”
“And chocolate milk.”
“Bet on it, lil’ sis. Just don’t come out of your room.”
My parents had gone to visit Aunt Carrie, who lived about forty minutes south. They were supposed to have a relaxing poker night, but they drank a little too much and called to ask if I could watch Aub until tomorrow morning, when they were sober enough to drive. It was the first time they’d left us alone together. I said it was cool and, of course, picked up the phone immediately to summon a spontaneous birthday party.
East and Whitley were coming in and out of the garage now, busting more snacks open, dividing them into bowls and clearing the large furniture from the living room to make space for the people who were going to be here any minute.
“Pinky promith?” Aub asked, wiggling her tiny finger up in the air.
I put the tortilla bag aside and turned to face her, crouching down to her eye level.
I took her pinky in mine and squeezed.
“Pinky promise, Aub.”
She threw her arms around my neck, squeezing me close. She smelled like green apple candy. She was addicted to that shit to a point our parents wouldn’t let her have anything sweet anymore. I knew she hid a stash of apple candy sticks under her bed and nibbled on them when nobody was looking.
I knew, because I was the one who gave them to her.
“We’re going to have the best morning ever!” she exclaimed.
It was the last time I saw my sister smile.
It was the last time I saw my sister at all.
“Westie? Westie, wake up.”
I groaned, rolling from my back to my stomach in my bed, my eyes shut. I was shirtless, with only my boxers under my quilt. That wasn’t an issue. Aub had seen me shirtless plenty of times. But I knew Whit, who slept right beside me, was shirtless, too. And that was something Aubrey had never seen before. I wanted to open my eyes and see exactly what my little sister was seeing, if Whit was at least covered by the quilt, but couldn’t
for the life of me crack my eyes open.
I shouldn’t have drunk so much last night.
Things got wild fast. The strip poker had turned into shots poker when all of my friends were butt naked, and after consuming at least seventeen shots—one for each year of my life—I passed out. Luckily, it was after Whit and I went for a quickie in my room. But I didn’t remember either of us bothering to put our clothes on.
“Westie? Puh-leaseeee,” I heard Aubrey’s little squeaky voice.
“Not now, Aub,” I managed to croak out.
“But you promithed!” she whined. I stirred in my bed, trying to pry my goddamn eyes open and look at her, but failed. My eyelids felt like they were fifty pounds each. My body ached like every motherfucker within town limits had walked all over it. Back and forth.
“Yeah, well, I’ll make you pancakes in an hour.”
“Waffles!” she shrieked at my blasphemy. “And it’s already ten o’clock! Mommy and Daddy should be here any minute, and you know they don’t let me eat waffles.”
I knew damn well they wouldn’t. Aub had cavities in her milk teeth from all that green apple candy, so they were taking extra precautions to make sure her new teeth weren’t going to rot. That was why waffles were a big deal for her. And I fully intended to make her those goddamn chocolate-chip waffles with fresh apple on the side. I just needed another hour or so to feel human again. Was that too much to ask?
“Give me thirty …” I mumbled, my eyes still closed.
“They’ll be here by then!”
“Then I’ll take you to the diner tomorrow. Promise. You’ll get a milkshake out of it, too. We’ll say we’re going ice skating.”
“I want waffles now. Not tomorrow. Besides, what’s a promith anyway, if you don’t keep it?”
“A lie?” I creaked sarcastically. I was nasty when hungover. I laughed at my own lousy joke. My mouth tasted bitter. In all of Aubrey’s six years, every time we did a pinky promise, I always delivered. I never broke my promises. But I couldn’t for the life of me fulfill this one. I was too hungover to move.
“You’re such a … a … butt sniffer!” Her voice broke midsentence. I knew what she sounded like when she was about to cry, and she was definitely heading there.
“C’mon. Aub …” I tried opening my eyes again. I couldn’t—again. I heard her little feet thudding quickly on the carpeted hallway. She probably went back to her room to hate me privately. I tried to reassure myself. It was fine. I’d take her tomorrow—no, fuck it, this afternoon—and make it up to her. We’d hit the ice rink, then go to the Pancake House, and I’d let her order enough waffles to clog every artery in her body.
“Babe?” Whit moaned from beside me, throwing an arm over my pecs. “Was that Aubrey? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. Go back to sleep.”
We both did.
The way I remembered it, about two hours had passed before I woke up, but in reality, it couldn’t have been more than forty minutes. The scent of something burning filled my nostrils. Food burning.
Or plastic burning?
Fabric burning.
Flesh burning, like at the butchers.
No. It was all of the above.
I blinked, trying to sit up. It felt like my head weighed a ton. I wanted to punch my own face for drinking so much. Whit was still asleep beside me.
I sniffed, looking around. Everything looked fine. Normal. Well, other than the smoke skulking from the hallway and into my room.
What the …?
That was all the adrenaline rush I needed to sober up. I jumped out of bed like my ass was on fire, charging down the stairs, taking them three at a time. Something clearly was on fire. It just wasn’t my ass.
“Aub? Aubrey? Aubrey!” I screamed so hard and loud, I didn’t even wait for an answer. The smoke was racing up the stairs as I descended them. By the time I reached the landing, I was standing in a thick cloud of black-gray smoke. I grabbed a shirt I’d thrown on the lamp yesterday night and pressed it against my nose. The air was scorching, and I couldn’t breathe without coughing.
The heart of the fire was in the kitchen, so that was where I went.
“Aubrey!” I kept calling, shouting, begging. There was no answer. When I got into the kitchen, I had to stumble back. The fire almost reached the living room, and since there were carpet and wallpaper, it spread fast.
“West? Oh my God! West!” I heard Whit behind me. She was running down the stairs.
“Get out. Now. Whit!”
“West, I’m naked!”
“Out!” I ran into the fire, not giving a shit if I burned to death if it meant saving Aubrey.
“Where’s Aubrey?” I heard Whit ask. I didn’t reply. I fanned the smoke with my arm, trying to recognize anything beyond the curling flames.
Once I did, I wished I were smart enough to never think I’d stood a chance to save her.
There was an exposed hook on one of the cabinets in our kitchen. It used to be a door handle, but I’d yanked it out accidentally weeks ago and never bothered to fix it. My mom gave me grief about it, saying it was a health hazard. That someone could get injured.
“My pants get stuck in this thing on a weekly basis, Westie. You have to do something about it. Aubrey can get a nick.”
I hadn’t listened.
I should have.
The toaster was placed right above that cabinet with the hook.
And this time, it wasn’t my mom’s pants that got stuck in it—it was Aubrey’s shirt.
I saw Aubrey’s body under the hook, the remainder of her little jacket still wrapped around the exposed hook.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I ran to her. If I could save her—good. If I couldn’t—I didn’t deserve to live either.
I got so close to the fire I felt its echo burning my skin. I grabbed her jacket, but it felt empty. Light. Her tiny body was limp in my arms. I tried to pry her off the hook, feeling my eyes stinging with smoke and tears and fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Aubrey, please!” My voice broke. “Please, baby. Please!”
I was yanked back, my fingers still wrapped around her jacket. I fought the force that dragged me back. Kicking, screaming, and clawing at the arms around me, blind with rage and hate. The hatred facing inward made me delirious. I’d made a promise to my baby sister, and I’d broken that promise. I was so busy getting drunk yesterday, I hadn’t even thought to take her into consideration. The one single time my parents gave me the responsibility of keeping my sister safe overnight while they were out, I failed them.
I failed her.
I failed myself.
I screamed until my lungs burned. Whoever grabbed me threw me on the snow and ran back inside. From my position in the front yard, I saw someone else running after them, screaming.
Dad. He saved me and went back for Aubrey.
Mom. She went inside with him to try to save someone, him or Aubrey, I couldn’t tell.
A piercing wail broke above my head. I knew it was Whitley, but I couldn’t turn around and look at her. In fact, my body couldn’t move at all.
I was no longer drunk.
I was stone-cold sober.
And facing the harsh consequences of my actions.
In the days after the fire, I found out a few things.
For instance, I discovered that the reason the toaster caught on fire was because someone had thrown bottle caps into it, and Aubrey, who didn’t know this, pushed two chocolate-chip waffles from the freezer into its jaws, trying to make herself waffles.
Afterwards, the insurance investigator (or whoever the hell he was) explained to us that she’d tried to escape, but couldn’t, because her Barbie jacket had gotten tangled in the exposed hook. She’d probably cried for my help, but I was all the way across the house, on the second floor, snoring and recovering from a bitch of a hangover.
The bottom line was this—our house wasn’t insured for fire caused by an asshole teenager wh
o couldn’t keep his friends in check and fulfill a small promise he’d made to his sister. In other words—we were screwed. We had no house to live in, because soon after my mother dragged my father out of the house, the fire spread and the house pretty much collapsed in on itself.
We were suddenly broke, poor, and homeless.
We moved in with my aunt, Carrie, for the first few weeks, while my father and his coworkers “Band-Aided” the house as much as they could to make it livable again. My father, who owned a blueberry field and a small farm, had to neglect his business and throw himself into putting a roof over our heads. Every night, he pulled himself into bed and closed his eyes without even taking a shower.
I could swear he went weeks without taking a shower.
Months, maybe.
Neither my mother nor my father could bear looking at me. They didn’t blame me explicitly, but they didn’t have to. I’d killed Aubrey. At the very least, I was responsible for her death. And not in some vague ass way—the way people sometimes blamed themselves for someone else’s death because they didn’t insist hard enough on them going to get a mammogram or whatever. I’d straight up made this happen.
If only I’d dragged my sorry self out of bed and kept my promise, Aubrey would be here. With us. Happy, partly toothless, and alive.
I broke up with Whitley a week after the fire. She cried and told me I’d change my mind, but I knew I wouldn’t. I didn’t deserve happiness, and a girlfriend definitely equaled happiness.
Once we moved back to our house—or whatever was left of it—my parents threw themselves headfirst into the arms of depression and didn’t leave the bed. They dwelled on their pain, neither of them working or trying to support whatever was left of the family. The blueberry fields were left unattended, the fruit unpicked. I quit football and took a job at Chipotle to help pay the bills. Coach Rudy begged me to reconsider, but once I explained my circumstances to him, he dropped it.
I was worried my parents and I would become homeless and neglected my social life indefinitely, but East stuck by me, even when I spent months not being able to look at his face without lashing out.
