The Girl In Between (The Girl In Between Series Book 1)

by Laekan Zea Kemp

  ***

  Felix told us to hang tight with our cell phones, a pair of running shoes, and a black hoodie nearby. So far his plan didn’t exactly sound fool proof but what other choice did I have?

  I sat at my desk the rest of the afternoon, loading my hard drive with a bunch of songs I’d never heard of. I was scrolling through the playlist I’d just made when I saw my uncle’s truck pull into the driveway. I watched him walk to the front door, which was unusual considering he always came in through the garage. Then he knocked, which was even weirder.

  I opened the door. “What’s with all the formalities?”

  “Bryn. Hey, kiddo. Is anyone else around? Your mom’s car—”

  “She’s out. You two still avoiding each other?” I asked, taking a step back so he could come inside.

  He leaned against the kitchen counter. “Bryn, about what happened…”

  I waved a hand. “Please. I’m over it.”

  He hung his head. “Good. I mean I’m relieved. I thought maybe you’d hate me.” He tried to smile.

  “Why? You’re not my father.”

  “He hasn’t come by again, has he?”

  I stared at the floor. I hadn’t told my mom that he’d come by. For some reason I kind of liked keeping our little confrontation a secret. It made me feel like an adult somehow, doing my own dirty work this time and sparing my mom’s feelings instead of the other way around. But I’d said things to him, things I’d never said to anyone. And as I’d said them, I’d realized that they were less of a reproach for my dad and more of a thanks to the man who’d been nothing but.

  “He did,” I finally said. “Once, while mom was out.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “I may have opened the door.”

  “Why?”

  “I just…I was angry, I guess. Everyone’s said their piece but me. Mom always sends me inside or makes me wait in the car or go to my room. I understand her not wanting me to be upset but it’s too late for that. I had things I needed to say too.”

  He cleared his throat, bracing himself. “Like what?”

  “I told him being a dad is something you earn.” I looked at my uncle. “And I told him that I already had one. I didn’t want him to ever think he was doing us any favors by just showing up here. Like we need him. We don’t. Not when we have you.”

  “You said that?”

  My throat was dry. I swallowed. “It’s the truth.”

  He gripped my shoulder, his jaw tight. “You’re a good kid.”

  “You’re a good dad.”

  He hugged me, hard, and I felt everything I’d ever needed from my dad in that hug. Only it was better because my uncle didn’t stick around out of obligation or guilt. He stuck around because he loved us, and not the easy, inherited kind of love either.

  Our relationship hadn’t been forged just by blood, it had been forged by afternoons spent out in the garage, me holding the spotlight while he worked on my mom’s car, by summers coaching my co-ed softball team and dragging little boys off the field by their shirt collars when they told me I threw like a girl. Time had forged that bond. Memories. Things that were thicker than blood. Things that were more important.

  “I’m okay,” I said, “with you and her. If that’s what you want.”

  He ran a hand down his face. “I don’t know what she wants anymore.”

  “She’s afraid.”

  They were the same words I’d told Felix about Dani. Why were the women in my family so afraid of everything?

  “You know her,” he said.

  “I do.”

  “Do you think she’ll come around?”

  “If you do. No more avoiding us.”

  “Deal, this last month was torture,” he laughed.

  The front door pushed open and my uncle grew still. My mom walked in, mirroring his stiffness as she set a bag of takeout on the kitchen counter.

  “Brian.”

  “I just stopped by,” he said. “Thought I’d check on Bryn.”

  They both just stood there, staring at each other.

  “Is this Chinese?” I said. “Smells great.” I reached for the carton with my name on it. “I think I’ll eat in my room.”

  They barely registered my exit and I was relieved. I ate at my desk, still waiting for a text from Felix but it never came.

  I finally curled into bed, jeans still on under my bedspread, and spent the night listening to Mismatched Machine. I stared at the flow of my iPod until my eyes burned, tracing the symbols from Roman’s shirt as the songs wandered between prolific concept ballads and electronic instrumentals. It was this twisted hodgepodge of South Eastern influence, contemporary street poetry, and heavy metal. One minute every instrument was grinding at a fever pitch and then the song would reach this abrupt lull, the lead singer’s voice clinging to the rhythm more like an echo while my ears tried to adjust.

  It was wild and honeyed and electric. I thought of Roman dropping the needle on that Rush album, lips parting slightly as if it was so good he’d wanted to taste it. This is him, I thought, and through whatever reconfiguration and almost drowning he’d been through, that part of him was still intact. Individual. Inherent. Maybe I hadn’t made him up. How could I have?

  I played the next track, eyes burning from the bright blue glow of my iPod. I let them flutter shut. Just for a second. Just for…

  Chapter 23

  Roman