by Unknown
Sure as shit, the room looks a whole lot brighter in white.
Once everything’s dry, he picks up some sheets at IKEA, plus a soft, piled area rug and a new light fixture to take the place of the ancient ceiling fan. Then he goes back for some new curtains and a fancy roll-up blind. Then back again for a new duvet. He leaves Maddie’s antique scroll mirror—it matches the four-poster and the armoire, neither of which Nick’s intending to replace—but folds away the triangle quilt from when they were newlyweds. It joins the square of wallpaper in the dresser, roses with roses. Nick sits on the end of the bed and surveys the final product.
He doesn’t feel any different. Not yet.
“Wow,” Taryn murmurs when he first shows her. She’s still in her jacket, how quick and impatient Nick was about dragging her up here, bright purple rain boots kicked off on the stairs. Her stocking feet curl on the newly sanded hardwood. “You’re going to be finished with the whole house in no time.”
It’s true. The downstairs is done, plus three of the guest rooms. Atlas has taken to sleeping upstairs, jumping in and out of the empty beds. Nick is thinking about turning the fourth bedroom into an office.
But. He doesn’t want to talk about that now. “Yup,” he says, sliding Taryn’s coat off her shoulders and nudging her toward the mattress.
Taryn giggles and lets him get her on her back, strip off her jeans. Spring has finally arrived in earnest, a stiff, bright breeze blowing through the open window. “Oh.” She laughs, wiggling out of her underwear. “It’s that kind of christening, is it?”
It is. Nick spreads her open and licks until she’s whimpering, only crawling on top after three orgasms—today has him wanting to prove something, maybe, or possibly just hide his face. Taryn’s legs are boneless when he finally bends them up to sink inside. Even then they go molasses-slow, his mouth fused to her neck and aching, drawn-out thrusts. Falvey scritches her fingers through his hair and tells him she loves him, like maybe she knows there’s something fragile about this moment, this room. Outside the window, a robin peeps impatiently.
It feels different then. Even lost in his own pleasure—yeah. It feels really, really different.
Afterward, getting ready for work, Taryn mentions that it’s her sister’s birthday. “Twelve,” she mutters, like it’s a dirty word. Nick watches as she braids her hair quickly and efficiently, a thick tail down her back. “Twelve is old. Plus it’s a big deal. I want her to have a nice party, but the house is just—” She waves a hand. “Even without Rosemary there. I never brought anyone home when I was her age either.”
Nick raises his eyebrows, picturing it, a younger version of Falvey celebrating every birthday alone. She might not have discussed Jesse with him yet, but she’s definitely still sharing other secrets. Nick tells himself that for now, that’s enough. “You could always use the diner,” he offers, fully expecting to be turned down. “One of my nights, I mean. When Alexandra and Ioanna aren’t there.”
Taryn brightens. “Really? Are you sure? She only has a couple friends, really, she’s such a bookworm, and they’d basically only need one pizza, and—”
Nick laughs, surprised. “Yeah, Falvey, it’s fine.”
Which is how he ends up with a gaggle of preteen girls at the front booth on Friday, Mikey and Connor playing soccer outside on the grass. Falvey herself is parked at the counter, eating a basket of steak fries and smiling in a way that suggests she’s going to pay him back big-time later. Nick tugs on the end of her ponytail and grins.
The diner doesn’t do cake, but Nick serves up a giant brownie with twelve candles on top instead, and it works about just as well. Caitlin puffs up her pink cheeks and blows out all but one. Her presents are all practical, hand-knit mittens and a bunch of gift cards to the same clothing store. Nick wonders if she asked, if she told her friends she needed the new clothes. He hopes so. He wants that kind of bravery for her.
After all the girls are picked up, Nick gets in the Tahoe and tails Falvey and the kids back to their empty triple-decker for a movie night. As soon as Taryn unlocks the door, Mikey and Connor thunder off ahead to get the best seats—on the floor, right in front of the TV—while the adults and Caitlin take off their coats. Nick’s just unwinding his scarf when there’s a commotion from the living room.
“Tare!” Mikey screams. “There’s glass on the floor!”
Taryn rolls her eyes. “Well, did somebody break something?” she calls back, heading toward the sound of their voices. Nick’s just following her into the living room when she stops short. “What the fuck?” she says.
Nick looks. Mikey wasn’t kidding. There’s glass on the floor and everywhere, in the couch cushions and on the coffee table, gleaming shards sitting on somebody’s discarded breakfast plate from this morning. The side window is completely shattered, damp April wind whistling in. It doesn’t look like anything’s been stolen—the crappy TV is completely unscathed—but there’s a brick sitting neatly in the middle of the living room rug.
“Fuck,” Nick echoes, before he can stop himself. Puts an arm out to keep Cait from getting any closer.
Taryn’s silent for the length of a heartbeat, and in that time Nick can see how frightened she is, all her color draining out and her chest moving with the force of her breathing. Then she rolls her eyes and recovers. “And this, children,” she says cheerfully, an overblown schoolteacher voice like she’s putting on a play, “is what happens when you live in a neighborhood full of lamewad troublemakers.” She shoos the boys out of the way, picks up a couple of the biggest shards with her bare hands. “Watch your feet, Con. Scoot back so I can clean this up, all right?” She motions with her chin back in the direction of the foyer. “Hey, there’s popcorn in the kitchen—why don’t you guys go put it in the micro, okay? We’ll watch the movie in a bit. It’s fine,” she promises Caitlin once they’re gone—Cait’s watching with big eyes, still holding her polka-dotted gift bag. “Run and get me the dustpan, will you? And then bring down Jesse’s laptop. Let’s pick out what to get you with those gift cards.”
Caitlin nods and follows the boys into the kitchen, comes back a minute later with a whisk broom and then disappears upstairs. Taryn digs the mittens and the tissue paper out of the shiny gift bag, dropping the glass inside. She lets Nick get close enough to help her, but when she sees him opening his mouth she holds up a hand. “Don’t,” she says, shaking her head and picking a couple of shards out of the carpet. “I know what you’re thinking, and I just—please don’t.”
Nick does anyway. “You should call the cops,” he tells her, using a well-thumbed Victoria’s Secret catalogue to sweep some of the glass off the table and into the bag. His heart is jackhammering away inside his ribs.
Taryn sighs. “And tell them what, exactly?”
“What do you mean, tell them what?” Nick’s baffled. “Tell them some punk fucking kids threw a brick through your family’s window, and you probably know who, and—”
“I do not know who,” she retorts. She’s got that cornered-animal look about her, same as she had the night he took her to dinner in Stockbridge, like she’s got a fucking secret and she’s gonna guard it with her life. “And neither do you, so quit looking at me like that and help me figure out what I’m going to do about the window, will you?”
“I’ll fix the window.” Nick takes a breath. “Falvey, if your brother is into something with those guys who came by that day, then—”
“Now you want me to call the cops on my brother?” Taryn snaps. She’s down on her knees with the dustpan, getting the glass along the windowsill. “Jesus Christ, maybe I should just start sending everybody in my family away when I don’t feel like dealing with them anymore. Next time Con’s got an attitude on I can just bundle him in the car and drop him off at juvie, maybe take a vacation.”
“That’s not what I said.” Nick concentrates real hard on not rolling his eyes. “Listen to me. That’s not what I said.”
Taryn exhales. “I know.”
Nick sighs too. He knows she knows—which, of course, begs the question of why they keep having this same conversation. For a long beat, neither of them says anything. The pop-pop-pop of the microwave pours into the silence, Mikey and Connor’s excited voices bubbling up underneath. Outside the bashed-in window, a car squeals by.
Nick rubs hard at the back of his neck, recognizing when it’s time to quit. They can talk about it later, maybe, when the kids are in bed. In the meantime, he’s more worried about that gaping hole in this neighborhood. “You got any of those big garbage bags?” he asks, bending to start pulling up the sofa cushions. “Maybe a vacuum?”
Taryn manages to find both, enlisting Caitlin to run the DustBuster over the carpet and couch. When the popcorn’s done, she makes the boys dash upstairs and put on thicker socks to be extra-careful, doubling up two layers of white athletic cotton. In the meantime, Nick tapes the garbage bags over the open window frame. Ten minutes later, everyone settles in to watch a family-friendly comedy. So, you know, Nick thinks bitterly. Just your average Friday night.
Halfway through the film, Taryn slips her toes under his thigh. After a minute, Nick circles her ankle and squeezes.
The boys go to bed a while later, Taryn walking them through teeth-brushing and face-washing and pajamas. Then, as promised, she and Caitlin settle in to pick out jeans on the laptop, side by side at the kitchen island. It’s almost midnight. Nick knows he’s being waited out, that she’s stalling on purpose, but he parks himself in front of late-night TV anyway. He can play this game too.
As it turns out, he never gets the chance.
At half past, the front door opens with a rattle. Nick knows it’s Jess because the boy ducks his head into the living room first, catching sight of Nick and rolling his pale, Falvey-family eyes. He looks fucked-up something awful, the sloppy salute he delivers ending in a middle finger. Nick isn’t even sure the damage to the window registers. On instinct, he gets up to follow the kid into the kitchen, hanging back just in case.
“Any particular reason your boyfriend is still sitting on my couch right now?” is Jesse’s opening line, trooping past his sisters to stick his head inside the fridge. Cait and Taryn look up in unison, startled. For the moment, all of the Falveys have their backs to Nick. He isn’t sure whether or not he should change that.
Taryn recovers first. “Caitlin, go upstairs,” she says, closing the laptop with a snap. Cait opens her mouth to protest, then thinks better of it, standing up and heading for the hall. She does a double take at Nick lurking there but doesn’t say anything, waggling her fingers and mouthing a silent good night. Nick waves back.
“You wanna tell me why the hell there was a fucking brick in the middle of the floor when we got home from Caitlin’s birthday party?” Taryn continues once she’s gone. “And thanks for making it, by the way, it really meant a lot to her that you showed up.”
Jesse shifts his weight. “I was working,” he counters, a whine in his voice like there’s no way this is the first time they’re having this conversation, or even the tenth.
“Working on what, exactly?” Taryn demands. That’s Nick’s question too, and he’s glad that she’s asking it—even from behind the kid looks wrecked, swaying on his feet as he stands there. Addiction runs in families, Nick reminds himself. “What the fuck is going on here, Jesse? Are we even safe in this house right now?” She glances over her shoulder and notices Nick then, gestures so that Jesse will notice him too. Neither of them look thrilled to see him standing there. “He’s saying I should call the cops, and I can’t, because I don’t know what in the hell illegal shit you’re into.”
Jesse jerks his head in Nick’s direction, all attitude. “He should mind his own fucking business, don’t you think?”
“That’s not the point!” Taryn looks like she’s two seconds away from stamping her foot. “You can’t keep making me choose between protecting the kids and protecting you, Jesse, it’s not—”
“Can you relax?” Jesse snaps. “The kids are fucking fine.” He moves to brush past her then, his skinny shoulder hitting hers harder than Nick’s crazy about.
“Don’t walk away from me.” Taryn grabs his arm but Jesse shakes it off with more force than anyone’s expecting. Taryn reels back to get her balance, and Nick takes two giant steps forward.
“Easy,” he says, in a voice that isn’t easy at all, even to his own ears. His heart’s pounding again, a heavy tattoo behind his ribs. “Hey.”
“Nick,” Taryn says. “I’ve got this.”
Nick shakes his head. Mind his own business, and maybe he should, but he’s in this now and he loves her and he cares about those kids, and everything else is bullshit. “You need to go,” he tells Jesse, quietly as he can.
“Nick—” That’s Taryn, shaking her head. Two bright, angry pops of color have bloomed on her cheeks.
Jesse snorts. “This is my fucking house, boss man.” He’s a tall guy, about Nick’s height, but his frame is teenager skinny. Nick reminds himself that he isn’t going to hurt this kid.
“I think everyone just needs to cool off,” he says instead, faking calm. “Think stuff over.” Nick can’t quite stop himself from pointing out the obvious. “Who are you kidding, Jess? You’re never here. You leave your sister and the babies to deal with the consequences of your shit while you’re off—”
“Nick,” Taryn screeches, but she’s about a half-second too late; Jesse swings. It’s clumsy, and Nick sees it coming a mile off, so the punch lands on his shoulder instead of his chin. It hurts like a motherfucker all the same. Nick grabs both of Jesse’s wrists before the boy can get any other bright ideas, grip hard enough that something grinds under his palms. The bones are so fine, it almost feels like he’s holding Taryn. The whole fight is over in five seconds.
“Fuck you,” Jesse spits, struggling. His eyes are watering, the drugs or the hold Nick’s got on him. Maybe even the embarrassment. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything.”
Nick actually feels bad for him. “Like I said,” he tells the kid gently. “You should probably go cool off.”
“No, you should,” Taryn orders, insinuating herself between them like a tiny Napoleon. “Let go.” She pries Nick’s fingers up, hitting Jesse in the center of his chest when he lunges again after being released. “Sit the fuck down,” she tells him. “Right now, Jess, I swear to Christ.” She sounds near tears.
Jesse sits. “I want him gone,” he mumbles.
“Shut up,” Taryn says, but she’s already dragging Nick down the hallway. The door is at the foot of the stairs, and her voice drops to a whisper. “Get out.”
Nick feels himself blanch. “Oh, come on. I’m not leaving you alone with—”
“With who?” Taryn yells. “With my brother, Nick? For real?” She recovers herself, taking the volume down a huge bump. Her face is an angry mask. “Jesse’s right, you don’t know him. Whatever the fuck he’s into, he’s still my little brother. And I want you out of our house.”
She’s shoving his coat into his arms. Nick responds on autopilot, shaking it out and fitting it over his shoulders. He breathes. “Look, if this is because I grabbed him—”
“This is because of a lot of things,” Taryn says, brutally calm. It’s then that Nick realizes they aren’t having an ordinary fight.
“Wait a sec.” He shakes his head. This whole thing got out of hand fast, there’s no denying that. He thinks he can dial it back, he knows he can, but his head is too noisy to figure out how. “Can you just relax for a second?”
Taryn shrugs. “I’m relaxed,” she says coolly—and she is, fuck, like she’s decided this scene doesn’t bother her so now it doesn’t, like it’s just that easy. She isn’t even breathing hard. Nick feels sweat prickle underneath the collar of his jacket. “You’re the one who’s acting like a maniac,” she tells him. “And you’re the one who can go.”
“Taryn,” Nick tries again, one boot on and his coat unzipped. He reaches for her, and she sidesteps.
“Taryn.” He blinks, trying to get his brain to work, trying to figure out the magic words to get her to drop the act and turn back into herself. It feels like there’s something that just won’t compute. “Is this—are you seriously calling this off right now?” It’s so absurd he almost laughs, except for the part where he’s pretty sure she isn’t kidding.
Taryn shrugs again, an old gesture Nick recognizes from a year ago, fuck you and whatever horse you rode in on. “Looks that way.” Her expression is like a closed door.
With terrible, awful clarity, Nick remembers the encounter with Pete outside Fairview, her all-consuming coldness. Taryn has always been a person who doesn’t budge once she’s decided something is finished. Nick used to be so afraid of tripping that switch, and now he’s finally gone and done it. “You gonna tell me why?” he asks, feeling the bitterness start to seep into him already. “Read me out the full Dear John?”
Taryn doesn’t budge. “Does it matter?” she asks him, in a voice like it doesn’t. “This is my family.”
Yeah. Nick was warned, he guesses. He fucked it up anyway. He stares at her for another minute, and when it’s clear she’s good and finished, Nick feels the last of the guts go out of him. “Okay then,” he says, zipping his jacket to his chin. Then, because he’s pissed as all hell and he can, “Let’s not make this awkward at work.”
Taryn recognizes the dig, he can tell, her own words from the night of the fundraiser hurled back in her face. She doesn’t react. “Sure.”
“Sure,” Nick echoes. It feels like something behind his rib cage is cracking. Taryn looks as calm as if she were taking out the trash.
