by Allen, Dylan
The woman is beautiful. Certainly, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Her cocoa skin glows like she’s walking with a ray of sun over her. She’s tall, dressed all in black and has a silver streak of hair that cuts through her dark tresses like a flash of lightning. Her eyes are a startlingly dark… and familiar. But in them, her beauty disappears. The anger that lurks in those eyes, the tight set of her red painted lips is scary.
“Morgan. You are not welcome here. Don’t bring your trouble and mess to my doorstep.”
I’d know that voice anywhere.
It’s snakehead.
Remi’s mother. Of course, they have the same eyes, except hers have something terrible in them. It’s more than anger, there’s sadness swirling there, and… something else I don’t recognize, but that I know isn’t good. I look away from that terrifying glare, and only then do I notice that the two men are burly, scruffy bearded giants in dark suits wearing flat, menacing expressions. They eye my mother like she’s a wild animal they’re trying to decide how to trap.
My heart feels like it’s going to fly up my throat and out of my mouth, and I tug on my mother’s arm. Not to get loose, but to try to pull her away from them. She gives my arm a sharp, impatient tug in return. I look up at her and her eyes are full of warning. I clamp my mouth shut and stare straight ahead.
“Thank you, Ms. Wilde, I’m just leaving,” she says haughtily and tries to step around the trio.
“It’s Mrs. Wilde. I know you’ve had trouble recognizing that distinction before so, I’ll excuse your oversight. And yes, you are leaving,” Snakehead hisses. “Scott, James, please escort them out, through the back of the house.”
“We can leave on our own.” Mama’s voice has got a pitch of fear in it that only amplifies mine.
“I’m sure you can. I just want to make sure none of my silver leaves with you.”
“As if,” she gasps in affront.
“As if nothing. Everyone knows about that con man you’re dating. God only knows what or who you managed to get your hands on before I saw you.”
“You’ve got nothing I want.” My mother’s words are muted by the tremor in her voice.
“Good. Now, get out. Take your love child with you.” Snakehead slings these malicious words with the cruel carelessness of someone who knows they’ve got the upper hand.
The blow they land is brutal. Each one of them changes the way I see myself, my mother, my future. She sweeps her eyes over me. If I were made of anything less than flesh and bone, her gaze would have incinerated me. I shrink underneath it and then even more when my mother’s only response is to say, “With pleasure.”
One of the men grabs my mother’s arm. She wrenches it out of his grasp and we both stumble backward. “Don’t you dare touch me,” she says and then, with my arm still in her grasp, she walks down the stairs.
The long hem of her sequined green dress hisses as it drags behind us on the marble floor. When we reach the bottom of the stairs, she finally drops my arm. She runs nervous hands over her dress and looks down at me and gives me what I think is supposed to be a brave smile. But I can see the humiliation in her eyes. “We will leave through the same door we came in through,” she says and then walks toward the front of the house.
“No, that door is for guests. Take them out through the back,” Snakehead calls from her dais at the top of the stairs. They grab our arms. I try to shake loose and my mother grabs my hand and squeezes it.
“Let’s not make a scene. They aren’t worth it.” She nods toward the small crowd of people who have gathered outside of the huge ballroom to our left. I nod and we allow ourselves to be turned and marched down the hall in the opposite direction.
Once we’re outside and alone, I finally find the voice to speak.
“Mama, what happened?”
“They think they’re better than us. That’s all. Let’s just go.”
We’re both silent on the walk down their seemingly endless driveway, back to the street back to where we parked her car. Halfway there, I look back at the house that looms over Rivers Wilde from its perch at the top of the hill. In a second-story window on the left side of the house where the library is, I see the shadow of a boy watching us leave.
Remi.
And it’s only then I realize my arms are empty. I start to tell my mother I left my notebook, but I know that would only annoy her and that there would be no going back to get it. But then when I think that maybe he’ll find it and keep it… a part of the knot that has made a permanent home in my gut unfurls.
Just a little.
I’m not sure I’ll ever see him again, but I know I’ll never forget him. And just thinking that he might have a piece of me makes me feel like someone sees me. I’ll write both of our happy endings as soon as I get a new notebook. And I know he’ll be in the version I write for myself.
2
BAE WATCH
REMI
Four Years Later
“Remington, wake up.” My mother’s not so gentle nudge shakes me out of a deep, dreamless sleep. I sit up slowly. “What time is it?” I grope my bedside table for my alarm clock and groan when I see the time.
“Get your brother and sister up and tell them to be downstairs in fifteen minutes. I want to have a family meeting before your grandfather wakes up.” My mother draws the curtain and sunlight floods my room. She doesn’t say another word as she stalks out, and she doesn’t wait for me to respond. She knows there’s only one answer I’d dare give.
I stumble down the hall, bleary-eyed and wake my twin sister, Regan, up first. I tell her Mom wants to see us in five minutes. Regan can’t do anything in five minutes, but maybe if I tell her five, she’ll actually be down there in fifteen.
I get my brother Tyson out of bed and wait until he’s walking to the bathroom before I head back to my own room and get ready. I dress for the day because I know that whatever else happens, I won’t be going back to bed. I have a delivery to make in an hour, anyway.
“Good, you’re all here.” My mother strides into the kitchen exactly fifteen minutes after she walked into my room.
“Morning,” we all mutter back in unison. She doesn’t say another word until she slides into her chair at the head of the table. That’s my grandfather’s chair. At least I know it’s going to be a quick talk. He’ll be down at no later than eight fifteen and he’s got a thing about anyone sitting in that chair.
“We’ve got a situation.” She takes a long sip of her coffee and then passes a sweeping, calculating gaze over me and my siblings.
Impatience makes my throat tight.
“Mom?” Regan, my twin, asks in that way she has of sounding excited when really she’s just as annoyed as I am.
“A family of criminals has just moved to Rivers Wilde,” she says and pauses to look at us as if for dramatic effect.
I share a glance with my brother, Tyson, and I know we’re thinking the same thing. I can’t believe I got out of bed for one of my mother’s gossip-fueled rants. She normally saves those for dinner.
“Okay… what did they do? Wear white after Labor Day? Put their fork on the right side of their place mat?” Tyson quips. My mother rewards him with a glare so frosty he chokes on his laughter and coughs. He drops his eyes to the table to avoid my smirk.
My mother is the self-appointed leader of the Rivers Wilde Decorum and Etiquette Committee. She takes that position as seriously as she does her role as head of Wilde World’s Restaurant and Dining Division.
“No, they broke the law,” she says and looks at us to gauge our reactions. Our blank stares disappoint her and she sneers. “Did you hear me?”
“Yeah, I just don’t know what you mean,” I say.
“It means Laryce just called and told me that David Lister sold his bookstore to a woman who ruined more marriages in this community than I can count.” She nods her head in the direction of the Lister Estate next door. I shake my head. Laryce Quincy is the biggest gossip on this side of the Rio Gra
nde. She and my mother are thick as thieves.
“She’s living with Lister?” Tyson asks in surprise. His wife and son died in a car accident last year and he’s become something of a recluse.
“God forbid, no. She’s in the little apartment above the bookstore, but they are living in our community.” She says it like it’s a crime.
“Rivers Wilde is everyone’s community,” Regan recites our pitch line sarcastically.
My mother glares at her. “That’s right, Ms. Regan. And I’d like to keep it that way. We’ve taken painstaking care in making sure that the people who live here are going to be upstanding members of our community.” She shakes her head in disgust. “She was in that foster home because her mother went to jail for identity theft and credit card fraud. Now, they’re here to sully our pristine community with the scandal she’s sure to bring along with her. According to Laryce, she’s trying to make a fresh start.” She puts the last two words in air quotes and makes it sound like that’s a crime, too.
“What’s wrong with that?” Regan asks.
My mother slams her hand down so hard that the coffee in her mug splashes onto the table. She leans forward and glares at Regan. “What’s wrong with it is that this is supposed to a safe, family-friendly community. Not a place for criminals on the run to come. I don’t know what is wrong with Lister, selling to a Greer of all people.”
“I wonder why he sold it. It’s been vacant since Jill died.” I’m thinking aloud, but my mother is ready with an answer.
“Because she used to be the most notorious gold digger in Houston. She probably slept with him even though he’s old enough to be her grandfather. Doesn’t matter. Now they’re both here. We all know the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. So, there goes the neighborhood.”
I exchange a glance with Regan. We’ve both already decided that these apples have fallen very, very far from the trees we sprung from.
“How old is she?” Regan asks.
“Your age, so, eighteen or so…” My mother waves a dismissive hand in the air.
“Is she gonna go to Lamar?” Tyson sounds excited.
My mother fixes me with one of her eagle-eyed stares. “You’re in charge of delivering catering orders from Eat!, right? What’s on your roster for tomorrow?”
“I won’t know until I go in this afternoon,” I tell her.
“Laryce told me she placed a huge order for morning delivery from our bakery yesterday. Obviously, we can’t refuse their business. That would be too public of a snub. I don’t want people to think I’m unkind.”
“Yes, it’s much more your style to talk about them in back rooms than to be upfront about how you feel,” Regan mutters and then grins at me. I don’t grin back. I don’t think it’s funny. Because it’s true. My mother is the queen of the whisper campaign and honestly, on the list of things that bothers me about her, it’s very close to the top.
My mother glares at her until Regan’s eyes drop to her coffee and her grin disappears. Then she turns to face me.
“Remington, when you make your delivery, you are not to linger. And you are in charge of making sure your brother doesn’t end up over there, too.”
“Why would I end up there?” Ty whines.
“Because, you’re girl crazy, and everyone knows it,” my mother retorts.
“True facts,” Regan chimes in. Tyson throws his toast at her.
“Please don’t behave like you were raised in a barn,” my mother snaps. “I have to get to the office. I want you both to please heed my warning.” She stands up and takes her mug over to the sink.
“You didn’t give me one,” Regan says dryly.
“You’re not good at making friends. You’ll be fine,” my mother says without even looking up from where she’s washing her hands.
Tyson sticks his tongue out and Regan gives him the middle finger.
“Please be productive today.” My mother dries her hands and leans back against the counter to survey us. She’s in one of what she calls her “nutcracker” pantsuits that she has a seemingly infinite supply of in her closet. Her hair is pulled back into a chignon, that streak of gray she refuses to color to match the raven-black curls she tames with her blow dryer and half a bottle of pomade every day. She looks like an army general and she runs this house like one.
“I know summer is just beginning and that you’ll all be tempted to come home and do nothing after you get off work, but I expect that list I gave you to be complete when I get back. And, Remi, no basketball until you’re done.”
“You and your fucking lists, Tina,” my grandfather’s deep rumble voice fills the room as he ambles into the kitchen.
“Oh, Liam. Your language,” she admonishes, but with an air of respect she never shows anyone but him. I used to think it was because he was our benefactor. We’ve lived in his home since my father died. But it’s not that, at all. He and my mother have been partners in the explosive growth Wilde World has experienced over the last fifteen years.
The respect they have for each other, and what they’ve built together, is soul deep. And he’s the only person she’s always nice to. Well, as nice as she’s capable of being, anyway.
“Morning, Pops,” I greet him with a smile and start to stand up and help him over when Regan beats me to it.
“I don’t need help,” he scowls at her when she takes ahold of his arm. His sky-blue eyes, a trait none of his grandchildren share, are clear and focused this morning.
“I know, Popsy, I just want to hold your hand.” She smiles sweetly at him. Regan doesn’t smile sweetly at anyone. In that way, she’s like my mother. But that’s where the similarities end. She’s got what I fondly call a Resting Fuck Off Face. Her lack of a smile is in complete contradiction to her sweet, affable nature.
My grandfather smiles warmly down at Regan, only she gets that smile from him, and lets her lead him to the chair at the head of the table. He lowers himself slowly into the chair and folds his still straight, big hands in front of him. “To what pleasure do I owe the company of all of my grandchildren this morning?”
“I suppose I should tell you, too. You’re out in the garden so much these days.” My mother walks back over to the table, this time sitting in her normal seat, beside him.
He had a minor stroke a month ago. His recovery has been slow, and he’s turned a lot of the day-to-day running of Wilde World to his executive team. He’s been outside, sitting and reading and sleeping in the chair we placed near the butterfly garden for him.
“Well, spit it out. I’m too old for suspense.” He glowers at my mother from under his heavy brow.
“There’s a gang of criminals living in Rivers Wilde. A bookstore owner and her eighteen-year-old girl,” I say and waggle a brow at him.
“Is she robbing people in their gardens?” my grandfather says, his eyebrows raised with dry mock horror.
“It’s not funny,” my mother, never one to allow light to be made of anything, says. “You all have grown up in the lap of luxury. But trust me, I know what it’s like when unsavory elements start moving in. It’s just them now, but next thing you know their friends from Third Ward will start visiting. And there goes the neighborhood.”
“Third Ward is a historically significant neighborhood and home to many of our stores,” my grandfather reminds her in that stern, disapproving way that only he can.
“Isn’t Beyoncé from Third Ward?” Regan asks.
“Yes, she is. And you can tell… Money doesn’t buy class. Breeding is important. Remember that you are Wildes. Stay away from that girl.”
“Well, this is more excitement than I can remember having in a long time. I might walk down to the town square just to catch a glimpse of our very own Thelma and Louise.”
“Liam, it’s not exciting, or funny, and I don’t want you encouraging the kids. It’s bad enough that Remi has to deliver things to that store every day,” my mother says with agitation.
“Nothing encourages a kid like telling them no
t to do something. Sounds like you got the encouraging covered. And, Remi and Regan are both old enough to drive. They aren’t kids.” My grandfather’s voice is stern and full of warning.
“They’re my kids,” she pushes back with that thread of steel she always gets when he challenges her like this.
“Funny how she remembers that, now,” Regan whispers to me, and I give her a warning glance.
“What was that?” My mother’s voice is cold and lets Regan know that she heard her and is daring her to repeat it.
Regan’s never been good at playing chicken. “Nothing. I’m going back to bed,” she says as she snags an apple from the huge bowl of fruit in the center of the too big table and shuffles out.
“That girl has the worst attitude,” my mother says and shakes her head disapprovingly.
“I thought you were leaving for work,” Ty says and walks over to her and puts an arm around her. She leans into him for a second and pulls out of his grasp. She’s always been uncomfortable with affection. Tyson, with his endless optimism, keeps trying with her.
“I am. I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page before I leave. I mean it. Keep contact to a minimum.”
* * *
“Remi, I think that’s her.” My brother nods at the window that overlooks the entire main street of Rivers Wilde. Our house was the very first home built in the neighborhood and my grandfather put it on one of the artificial hills they erected.
From the second-story family room that also serves as our study area, you can see straight into the square, even though it’s a good quarter of a mile away. It’s a perfectly designed grid, and from here, I can see how well-thought-out it is. It’s small-town America in the middle of the urban sprawl of Houston. The minute you drive through the majestic iron gates that mark the entrance, it feels like a different world.
I follow Tyson’s gaze over the pristine treelined street until I see what caught his eye. A young woman is making her way up the street that serves as the main artery of the town square.
