by Angel Lawson
I take my hoodie—black and emblazoned with the crimson Preston Prep Swim logo—and pull it over her head. She quirks an eyebrow at me, but ultimately pushes her arms through, allowing me to tug it down straight.
“It’s cold,” I feebly explain. “It’d suck a bag of dicks to get sick again.” It’s ridiculously oversized on her small frame, and I feel a hot spike of possessiveness at the sight of her swimming in it. It doesn’t have my name on it, but anyone with two brain cells to rub together would see that it’s a guy’s hoodie. Despite that, she still has the element of validity on her side, were anyone to ask. She is on the swim team, after all.
If she realizes any of this, she doesn’t say so. She just nods, burying her hands into the hoodie’s front pouch. “I’m ready if you are.”
It’s a loaded statement. It’s obvious that neither of us want to go home, to part from one another. I slip an arm around her waist, sweeping her hair back from her neck to press a kiss into the sensitive skin below her ear. “Sure we can’t just stay here?”
She laughs, squirming away from me. “You need to shave, and yes. I’m pretty sure if we don’t go home, they’ll come looking for us at some point.”
I cling to her in a last-ditch effort to hold on to what we’ve got. Once that door opens, either everything changes or it goes back to normal. I want what we have here—now—even if it is impossible.
“Hey.” She cups her hand at the back of my neck and nudges my face downward. “It’s going to be okay.”
She doesn’t clarify what ‘it’ is. She doesn’t need to.
I search her eyes. “Are you sure?”
“We’re the two smartest kids in the class,” she says, smiling, “and you’re easily the most nefarious. We’ve gone this far with no one finding out, and at the very least, we can buy some time to come up with a plan for how we want to handle... you know. Going forward.”
I return her smile, some thread of tension deep in my chest suddenly unwinding.
There is a forward, and we’re going to it.
I kiss her once more before giving in, slinging my backpack over my shoulder and grabbing her bag off the bed. What she says makes perfect sense. We’re smart, and I’m the lead Devil. They’ll fall in line, or there will be consequences.
But figuring out what the consequences would be, and for whom, is what makes me so nervous.
H: How’s it going?
G: Brayden ate the last piece of pie, Micha forced us to watch three musicals, and Michaela has already typed up her Christmas list. #sendhelp
My lips twitch in a smile, more than a little jealous of the silly chaos in her home, but it almost feels strange to do that here—smile. I’ve been trapped in this oppressively quiet house all day with nothing but my parents, a great aunt and uncle, and some distant cousin who I’m pretty sure is old enough to have lived through Prohibition.
I can probably count on one hand the amount of words I’ve said after walking through the door. Dinner is over now. The house is tastefully decorated to reflect the season, warm-colored flowers placed in the foyer, a centerpiece on the table so enormous that it was almost impossible to see who sat opposite me, even if there were conversation. It all feels empty and pointlessly festive. The house is too big for the three of us and we seem to just roll around like rubber balls, every now and then bouncing off one another before rolling in different directions.
H: I wish I could. Two more days, right?
G: GTG. We’re leaving in a minute to go to the shelter downtown.
H: Of course you are.
G: Hey! I’m not being a goody-two shoes. It’s a family tradition.
H: I know you’re not. You’re just being you, and I like you.
More than like, my mind supplies.
G: Later?
H: Later.
I slide my phone into my pocket and glance down the hall. My father’s probably locked up in his office by now. My mom is likely carefully planning all the ways she’s going to micromanage the staff into the ground for the post-Thanksgiving, crack-of-dawn Christmas decoration prep tomorrow. My aunt and uncle already took the ancient cousin away, so it’s just me now, enveloped in the empty silence of my bedroom.
I’m struck by the lack of close family—of Hollis, of laughter and questions and life.
An idea pops into my head. I head into the kitchen where Renata and another woman are cleaning up from dinner. I feel awkward as I enter, like an intruder, suddenly struck with the strange instinct to knock, or apologize, or start washing pans.
A wide assortment of uneaten desserts sit on the counter, and I clear my throat, asking, “Can I have this?”
Renata turns to me with an easy smile. “Whatever you want, sweetie.”
I duck my head, feeling like I’m eight years old, all over again. “Thanks, Nata.” I pick a pie up to carry it out, but she stops me, hand on my arm.
“Hold your horses, now.” She takes it from me and covers it tightly in foil, handing me a small container of whipped cream to take with it. “There you are.”
“Thank you,” I say again. There have been a lot of times I’ve dismissed Renata as just the help—simply someone paid to do things for me and my family—and though she’s the only source of warmth here, I’ve often discounted it as likely artificial. But that’s unfair. She’s also always going the extra mile to do nice things for me. I take it for granted. “I hope you have a happy Thanksgiving.”
She gives me a strange look, and then smiles, straightening my collar. “You be good,” she says, going back to her cleaning. “And don’t you go eating that all by yourself. You’ll make yourself sick, you hear?”
I smile. “I won’t, promise.”
No one notices when I slip out of the house, and once the pie is secure, I head out. The drive isn’t long—I’d even venture to call it nice, considering the lack of traffic. I fleetingly wish that Gwendolyn could be with me right now. She’d probably know what to say or how to handle what I’m about to walk into. Her first reaction is to be positive. Mine is to be combative. Although she definitely knows how to fight, she also knows how to defuse, disarm.
I get off the highway and make my way to an apartment complex in an industrial area that’s turned mixed-use residential. Five years ago, this area was a certifiable shit-hole. High crime, graffiti-covered facades, burned-out buildings. Back in the day, Ansel used to drive down here to buy weed and other goodies. All of that has changed, now. There are coffee shops and restaurants dotting the old buildings, along with renovated houses here and there, new construction.
I double check the address. I’d gotten it years ago, procured on a whim from an old family friend who had apparently kept sparingly in touch with her. I have no way to be sure if it’s still her place, but I park the car in front of the old bungalow and grab the pie. The walk down the long driveway is a little confusing. Her place isn’t the bungalow, but instead the carriage house in the back.
I climb up the stairs and hear music coming from inside. Shit. If it is her place, then she has company. A part of me is a little hurt at the idea of Hollis celebrating Thanksgiving on her own. Like it’s just proof that she’s built this whole different life outside of us—outside of me—and is enjoying it, is all the better for it.
But I know it makes sense. She should have that. I shouldn’t expect her to stand still like the rest of the Bates clan.
I take a steeling breath and knock.
I consider making a break for it while I wait, but the door opens and Hollis stands before me, her wide gray eyes matching my own. Her hair is twisted in a complicated knot, and even though she’s not a Bates anymore—not in spirit—the threads of our genetics have held strong. She’s still got that same elegant and effortless beauty. She’s wearing some kind of hippie floral dress that our mother would absolutely loathe.
She looks amazing.
“Hamilton?” she says, totally shocked.
“Hey, sis,” I say, dumbly. I remember the pie and hold it
up, a weak offering. “Thought I’d drop by and bring you some dessert.”
She eyes the pie and her lips curve upward. “Did Renata make that pie?”
I scratch the back of my neck. “Yep.”
She grabs the dish in one hand and pulls me into a tight embrace with the other. I’m instantly assaulted with the spicy scents of cinnamon and sage. She leans back and looks into the apartment. “Hey, everyone!” she shouts. The living room is filled with a small collection of colorful people, all vaguely around Hollis’ age. “This is my baby brother, Hamilton. He brought pie!”
I’m greeted with a wave of welcoming, celebratory cheers, and for the first time in a long while, I feel like I’m home.
As it turns out, my sister has made her own family. They’re an eclectic mix of students, professionals, and hourly workers. One girl, who raved over Renata’s pumpkin pie, works at the bakery down the street. Another guy, covered in a wide expanse of colorful ink, is an artist at a tattoo shop. There’s a lawyer, a girl getting her MBA, and someone whose pronouns I’m not quite sure of turns out to be the owner of the bungalow out front. No one is like anyone else. That the idea of this confuses me really nails home the fact that I live in a tightly protected bubble, surrounded by nothing but clones of myself.
Except for her, of course.
I feel smaller here. Unimportant. Everyone is older than me, more experienced, smarter. It’s not exactly a bad feeling. It’s hours before everyone leaves, but I hang around until the place clears out and her roommate disappears into her bedroom.
Hollis slides a beer across the kitchen counter to me and says, “Not that I’m complaining, but to what do I owe the pleasure of you showing up on my doorstep?”
“Other than the promise of a long night spent alone in my room, so as to not disrupt Mother’s Christmas decoration planning?” Hollis laughs, knowing exactly what I’m talking about. “So, I’ve been talking to this girl—"
“Ahhh right, it’s always a girl, isn’t it?” Her eyes are full of bright humor. “No hate. I know the feeling.”
“Well, this girl is different,” I start, fidgeting with my beer cap. “But like, she has this big family.”
“A Preston girl?”
“Yes, but.” I take a breath, unsure of how to get across the essence of Gwen. “Not like the other Preston girls.”
“Is that even possible?”
I smirk. “I wouldn’t think so, but this one is. And not... not just because she’s hot.” I give Hollis a look. “I mean, she is hot. But the thing is, there’s five kids in her family. They’re all adopted, like... in this big, open, hippie kind of life. They’re all about helping others and community service. Two of the kids are bi-racial, one is flirting with transgender stuff. The oldest brother works for a mechanic and the other sister…” I chew on my lip for a moment, at a loss for how to describe Skylar. “Well, she’s been through a lot.”
“Okay, you’re right.” Hollis takes a sip of beer. “That is different from the normal Preston fare.”
“Exactly.” I nod. “Anyway, I was texting with her, and just hearing about the chaos made me crave some. And we’ve been at a deficit for that since you left home.”
“You’re saying I remind you of chaos.” Her lips twitch in amusement.
“In the Bates house?” I scoff, tipping the bottle to my lips. “You’re a fucking hurricane.”
“Speaking of unstoppable natural disasters, how are mommy and daddy dearest?” It’s the first time she’s brought them up so far. I’m surprised it took this long.
I swallow a gulp of beer, shrugging. “They’re the same. Elitist. Controlling. You know, same old, same old.”
“Yeah, I do know.” She leans over the counter, hair hanging around her face. “I also know that, the last time I checked, you were all-in on their bullshit narrative.”
I meet her searching gaze. “People can change.”
“Sure.” She eyes me warily. “But it’s because of the girl.”
I stiffen, but don’t respond.
“The girl with the family and the alternative lifestyle, she’s shown you there’s more out there than Ivy League, secret societies, fraternity keggers, and the perfect internship.” She grins. “Oh, I bet Daddy just hates her guts.”
I pull at the corner of the beer label. “Yeah, he doesn’t know.” I reconsider. “About us, I mean. But yeah, he does know who she is, and he definitely doesn’t approve of anything about her or her family. Truthfully, no one knows about me and Gwendolyn. Except you, now.”
Her eyebrow arches. “Gwendolyn, that’s a fantastic name.”
“Shut up,” I mutter.
“I’m serious! So wait, back up. Are you saying you haven’t told your Devils?” The Devils have always been a thing. Hollis may have even dated a few herself, back in the day.
“Nope.” I tear off half the label.
“Huh.” That seems to have surprised her. “So, like, how do you plan on making this relationship work?”
I exhale loudly, admitting, “I don’t know. But I really want to.” I look up at her with a cautious, beseeching grin. “Any advice?”
She sighs and reaches across the counter to take my hand. “I’m not going to lie, Hamilton. Going against the status quo as it directly relates to our family and community comes at a cost.” She looks around the small garage apartment. “Daddy doesn’t play games, so if you’re going to take a stand, make sure you’re ready to go through with it. All the way. I’m talking building a new savings account,” she lists, “building your own connections, looking at schools, finding out who your real friends are and whether or not they’ll support you. Imagine the worst-case scenario, and plan for that.”
“Do you regret your decision?” I ask, mind whirling with all the outcomes. “I mean, you’re not even seeing that girl anymore.”
“It wasn’t really about the girl,” she replies, basically confirming what I’ve known all along. “It was about standing up for myself and getting out from under his thumb. I realized that if I caved about some girl, I would cave over and over again about everything else. School, my major, who I married. It wasn’t worth it.”
I nod. “But what about the guys? The Devils, I mean. It’s such a fucked situation, Hollis, you have no idea. She’s had run-ins with them before. We’re talking one-hundred-percent organic, pasture-raised beef.”
“She’s a feisty one, huh?” I nod again and she laughs. “I like her already. The Devils are idiots—look, no offense—they’re like every other group of bullies. It’s all about power and posturing with them. You have to decide if this is really what you want to do, Hamilton. Because if you aren’t sure, then you’re going to put Gwendolyn in a dangerous position at school. I know what Devils are like.”
Hollis is right, exposing the truth about this relationship will be dangerous for Gwendolyn. Heston is looking for an opportunity to challenge me, especially after that day I punched him. I rub my chin.
“I don’t want to give her up,” I confess.
“Then you two need to come up with a plan. Don’t make any rash decisions, but remember, sneaking around won’t work forever. Take it from an old pro. I learned that one the hard way.”
“Thank you.” I exhale, feeling both relieved and more stressed than ever. “I really needed to talk to someone who would get it, you know?”
She walks around the counter and pulls me into a hug. “No problem, baby brother. And you don’t have to be a stranger. You’ve turned out to be a way cooler person than I expected.”
I laugh. “Ouch, harsh backhanded compliment.”
“Well, I did grow up with Mother. She’s an expert at those.”
“Right?”
I hug her again and head out, feeling lighter than I have in a while. It’s not that anything’s resolved, but I do have options. And she’s right. Gwendolyn and I, if we’re really doing this, we need to come up with a plan together. Between the two of us, we should be able to figure something out that won�
�t ostracize both of us from our friends and family.
When I get to the car, I receive a text. It’s Reagan.
You coming to Campbell’s party tomorrow night? Pick me up?
I stare at the screen, and then type out a quick reply. One decision I can make is to cut things off with Reagan for good, and tomorrow seems like the perfect time to do it.
23
Gwen
Just when I think I’ve survived Thanksgiving, my mother drops a bomb.
“I have a surprise for everyone,” she says, which makes Brayden and I share an uneasy glance. The twins are still young enough to like surprises, but we both know better. “I’ve invited some special people over for dinner tonight.” Dread pools in my stomach and I know what’s happening before she even finishes speaking. Her eyes flit nervously toward me before she says, “All of your ‘moms’ are getting together to celebrate a second Thanksgiving.”
“You,” my voice is perfectly flat, “have got to be kidding.”
The twins glance at one another, their expressions unreadable to anyone but themselves.
“I know this is a lot, but I just posted something on our family group on Facebook and everyone saw it. The next thing I knew, it had spiraled.” She looks at me, eyes pleading. “Don’t be mad, sweetie. This is a season for thanks, and this is how I want to show my gratitude to them, for bringing you all in my life.” She announces, “We’re going to meet at the barbeque place in an hour.”
I hug my middle, fists clenching. “So they’re all coming.”
“Yes,” my dad says, standing up for my mom. “Bridget, Amanda, Michelle, and Kayla.”
My heart bangs hard against my chest, and suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. Kayla is my mother. I haven’t seen her since I was five years old, when I told my mother that I wouldn’t do it again. The magnitude of this betrayal is so extreme that it barely even seems real.
I shake my head, jaw clenching. “You guys can do what you want, but I’m not being a part of this.”
