Couture Love

by Fields, MJ

  “You left.” She points at me.

  “Yeah, but I’m back now.” Thank fuck I came back. I would have been pissed at myself had I not kept my promise to her.

  “I wanna go back to Mom’s. I hate that woman. Hate her.”

  I don’t even have to ask who, knowing it’s Suzy.

  “Okay, but you know you can’t. You know we have a few things to get squared away before you can go back; electricity and food being two of those things.”

  “Shelby, you and I need to talk.”

  I look toward the open doorway as Father walks in with her bag. Then I look at her and see her face is turning bright red and she stiffens. I know immediately that there is shit in the bag that shouldn’t be.

  Her stiff back is toward him when she whispers, “This is your fault.”

  I look up at him. “That’s mine.”

  “This purple backpack is yours?” He gives me an exasperated look.

  I nod. “It is.” I look at Shelby. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Now you wait just a minute,” he says to me, not her.

  I don’t reply to him. “Go pack your shit in your room. You can hang out there.”

  “Eric, you are overstepping, son.”

  Shelby’s eyes fill with tears as she looks at me.

  I ignore him and tell her, “Go. We have plans for the day.”

  “You’re leaving.”

  “No, Shells, not until we get things square. I’m a man of my word.”

  And a fucking adult.

  As soon as she leaves, I turn on him, take one step, and point a finger in his face. “You need to get this house straight for her, for the others.”

  He points back at me. “My house is straight. Her mother—”

  “No, fuck that. She’s your daughter. She’s—”

  “Stealing from Suzy’s jewelry chest.”

  “Well, maybe if Suzy had less jewelry, Shelby would have electricity and fucking food. And that, old man, is on you.”

  “That, son, is on her mother. That bitch has had ample time to get her shit straight. We’ve been divorced for ten fucking years and—”

  “Her mother had a child by you. Got pregnant when my mother was still alive. That child is screaming for help that you aren’t giving her. She didn’t ask for this shit, and she sure as fuck didn’t ask to live in squander while you live high off the hog. You’re failing her, just like you have me.”

  “Listen, you self-righteous little shit, when you have kids someday—”

  “Apparently, I have one. Now get the fuck out of here, put that bitch on a leash, and leave Shelby the fuck alone. I’ll handle it. And don’t you think while I’m cleaning up the mess you’ve made for her that I have forgotten that you and I have some shit to settle. I want full access to anything my goddamn name is attached to so I can’t straighten out my house.”

  “Your shit will be straight as soon as this board meeting happens tomorrow morning and I get my fucking bonus and, God willing, the position I deserve.” He clutches his chest. “You need to relax. I’ve had your ass covered for twenty-one years. You damn sure owe me a week.”

  When he storms out, I grab my phone from my pocket and hit Autumn up on Snap for the twentieth time in the three hours and twenty-seven minutes I’ve been awake.

  StixandStars1:

  - I know I said I was coming for you, but instead, I’m dealing with an asshole and a rebellious teen. Not something a boy would do, Autumn. You feel me?

  I watch the screen change to read and give her a second.

  StixandStars1:

  - Dammit, Autumn, I need to know you’re okay.

  I watch the screen. Her bitmoji pops up, then the three blinking dots in the cloud say she’s typing, and then … she disappears.

  StixandStars1:

  - I know you have a meeting tomorrow.

  Again, I watch the screen. It says she’s typing then … nothing.

  I toss the phone on my bed and head into the bathroom.

  * * *

  I’m exhausted and sick to my fucking stomach after dropping off a cooler full of food to the shitshow that Kimmi has Shelby living in, and even more pissed at my father for allowing it.

  Shelby doesn’t want to go back to Father’s. I told her she would be doing me a favor if she did.

  For whatever reason, it works.

  We have dinner and a nice, long chat about not taking shit that doesn’t belong to you. I tell her that I understand the reasoning behind it, but now she has options. She has me.

  Thank God that I have a credit card that Father doesn’t know about, or I wouldn’t be able to do shit for her.

  We discuss her staying with Father until her mom, my step-monster number one, Kimmi, gets her shit together. She is adamantly against it.

  “Not your job to take care of her, Shells.”

  “I’m not,” she lies. Not sure if it’s to me or if she truly believes it, making that lie to herself.

  “Can’t live like that, Shells,” I tell her.

  The place wasn’t actually that bad in the grand scheme of things. The fact that it was a third-floor walkup worried me for Shelby, who seems to be running amuck without proper supervision. Hell, she doesn’t even have someone there who gives a fuck, to ask her about her day, to make sure she is fed. She has the opposite, and not even lights or AC. Aside from that, the furnishings are sparse, but at least she has a bed.

  The location is what had me tripping. One foot over the invisible line between lower-middle-class to the hood.

  It needs to be rectified. And it needs to be done quickly.

  “Can’t live with him either.”

  This is the part where you should tell a kid that her father loves her; he just doesn’t know how to show it. And I do so … while bile rises in my throat.

  “Until the lights are back on, you stay in the pool house.”

  She glares at me and crosses her arms. “She needs me.”

  “She has food, and she’s the fucking adult, Shells. There isn’t anything I can do about the lights on a holiday weekend, so you stay in the pool house until I figure it out.”

  She is as apprehensive as I am about her staying here without me, but she really doesn’t have a choice, and I promised I would be back for the weekend.

  She has cab money to get back and forth to school if she can’t make nice with Father for a ride, and if she does, she can use that money for necessities only, or save it for food when she goes back, which I hope she won’t. Not until I figure this shit out.

  When we get home, I make a big show about moving her belongings, which are few and far between. I suspect she’s been selling her stuff from here, too.

  Getting her settled in, she looks exhausted.

  “You know none of this is normal, Shells.”

  “Not everyone has a father who collects wives and kids then throws them away? Not everyone has a mother who is addicted to attention from the opposite sex and pills? You don’t say.”

  My fucking heart aches for her, but it’s not something that’s going to go away. So, I give her a dose of the truth through the eyes of someone who’s been right there, too, yet knows it can be better.

  Autumn.

  “Well, statistically speaking, it’s not as rare as you would think. But, lucky for us, we have front row seats to what the future can be, and you have me to prove to you it doesn’t have to be that way.”

  “Yeah, a brother who’s in college and lives a million miles away.” She flops down on the overstuffed leather couch.

  I should say fuck it, move back here, kick his ass out, and take care of the house that he lorded over on heartbreak, doing what I can to mend it … for them … for me.

  “Don’t,” she says, pulling me from my thoughts.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Look like you’re ready to put on a mask and save the day like Batman or something.”

  “I’m more a Peter Parker kind of guy.”

  She laugh
s. “Yeah right. With Dad, you act like the Hulk.”

  “That’s because some people need Hulking.”

  She looks at me like maybe she can trust me, and then she pulls the throw blanket off the back of the couch and covers herself while she yawns.

  “Shelby, the bed is yours.”

  “Not when you’re here.”

  “If you think I’m sleeping in a purple bed, you’re crazy.”

  “You think I wanna sleep in that color bed with stupid unicorn sheets?”

  “I think you loved purple most of your life and probably asked for that.”

  “I’m not a baby anymore.”

  “You’re still my little sister and—”

  “I was never your little sister. I was an annoyance.”

  “If I made you feel that way, I apologize. I was just trying to find where I belonged. I know where that is now. And Shells, you belong here, too, and that’s not going to change.”

  She shakes her head, fighting a smile as she looks down.

  “Now go get in that bed so I can catch a few hours’ sleep before I head out.”

  Catching sleep is like catching a Leprechaun.

  Impossible.

  Doesn’t happen.

  What does happen is I send another dozen snaps to Autumn.

  I lose my shit, telling her things about Shelby because it feels good to get it off my fucking chest.

  I hope she gets how fucking honest I am about my feelings for my father and feels less … emotional about it.

  But then I see her little bitmoji pop up. Sometimes, I see the dots, like she’s replying. Then she pops back down like a groundhog going back in its hole.

  * * *

  By Tuesday night, I am crawling out of my fucking skin, feeling angry that she hasn’t replied and a little fucking embarrassed by the fact that I’m acting like a level ten stalker, but fuck it.

  She gave me her word.

  I know that in today’s day and age that means shit, but it did when she agreed. It wasn’t just words; it was a feeling, a feeling I saw in her eyes, felt to my core.

  I’ve been at the gym for two hours now, trying to exhaust myself to no avail, when I get a tap on my shoulder.

  I pull my earbud from my ear. “What’s up, Shooter?”

  “We have that photoshoot for the fundraiser calendar in half an hour.”

  “The what?”

  “Annual man meat shoot for whatever charity that Coach came up with. I’m hoping it’s a Save the Titties campaign.” He winks.

  “Not interested.” I start to put my earbud back in.

  “You weren’t last year either. And just like last year, it’s not an option, Cartwright. Coach wants to sell more than the other men’s sports teams, and we do what Coach asks or we sit. Let’s jet.”

  “I need to finish my training.”

  He throws his head back and laughs. “You still won’t beat me for cover pic.”

  * * *

  Once back at my condo and after my shower, I look at my phone for the hundredth time when it rings in my hand.

  I hit accept. “Hey, Shelby, everything good?”

  “Uh, Fendi, Gucci, Thrasher? Seriously, you were all about generic brand foods and paper products when we went grocery shopping and then this?”

  “What?”

  “I’m not huge into accessories, but I love the Gucci bag and Fendi wallet. And shoes? Damn, EJ, you went all out. The jeans and vintage tees, though? Where did you find them?”

  “Shelby—”

  “Some of this stuff is not really my style, so I need to know how much you spent so I can get your money back and see if I can make a few bucks myself.”

  “Shelby, don’t sell any of those items or I will ground you.”

  “Newsflash, you’re not my dad. And please, how do you ground a girl whose feet never stay in the same place for more than a few minutes?”

  “I’m a resourceful individual. Don’t push or you’ll find out.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, but seriously, thank you.”

  “I’ll pass the thank you to the rightful recipient of it.”

  She laughs. “I didn’t think you’d find all this cool stuff, not in that short of time anyway.”

  “Yeah, well, send me a pic of you and the box—”

  “Boxes,” she corrects.

  “—so I can pass it on with a thank you.”

  “She must really like you.” I hear the smile in her voice.

  “She does. She just doesn’t know how much yet.”

  “Don’t play her like all the others. This was seriously the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me—I mean, you. This and the food for my mom.”

  “Lights should be on in a couple days, too. But I’m coming back Thursday night, late, so I’d like to hang out with you for a while.”

  “I do have friends and a life, you know.”

  “And a brother. Don’t forget that.”

  “Fine, I’ll do my best.”

  “Good.”

  As soon as I get the picture, I download it and snap it to Autumn.

  StixandStars1:

  - Do you know anything about this?

  She reads it immediately, begins typing, then groundhog Autumn pops back underground.

  StixandStars1:

  - Fine. Whatever, Autumn. Just trying to find out who to thank and scold at the same time. It was seriously too much. And newsflash, I didn’t tell anyone else. Shouldn’t have told you. So fuck you very much.

  Seventeen

  Eric

  Leg day. The very thought of it usually makes me nauseous because I know I’m going to be hobbling around with legs that feel like Jell-O after it’s been runover by a Mac truck by the end of this. Oddly, I welcome the pain. It keeps me busy and away from that fucking phone. Plus, it’s a necessary evil. Gotta keep them strong so I can keep being a half-ass lacrosse player. And even though I may be a half-ass lacrosse player, I should win Olympic gold in restraint for not sending a snap today.

  I’m embracing the pain and loving it. I don’t want to stop, but if I don’t, I’ll pay hell while driving home after class tonight. So, I’m doing my walk-out, which is a decorative term for picking up one-hundred-and-ten percent of my back-squat weight, un-racking it, taking two steps back, and holding it for ten seconds.

  10 … 9 … 8 … 7 … 6 … 5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1 and … I’m done.

  As I’m cleaning up the equipment, I get a tap on my shoulder.

  Seriously, I’m not even listening to music, but earbuds in one’s ear means don’t talk to me.

  “What the fuck do you want, Schooner?”

  “One hell of a way to talk to a teammate, son.”

  I turn around and am face-to-face with my coach, the man who apparently took a payoff to put me on the team. I bite back my annoyance.

  “Sorry, Coach Thompson.”

  “Don’t be, son.”

  His voice, once an encouragement, now grates on my skin.

  “Gotta minute before you hit the shower?”

  I nod.

  “Great, follow me.”

  Walking behind him, I set the equipment sterilizing spray on the rack then toss the cloth into the hamper.

  Walking into his office, he points to the chair on the opposite side of his desk. “Have a seat.”

  I sit down as he turns his computer monitor toward me, and then I see my near-naked body on the screen.

  “Gotta friend who works in the industry. Saw pictures of you that the photographer messaged him. Saw you were one of my boys and wanted me to ask you how you felt about working for him.”

  I know damn well he’s not talking about lacrosse, but I’d like to make sure. “What industry?”

  “Underwear.” He chuckles.

  I’ve gotten weird-ass direct messages from some dudes in the past, so I know damn well I’m not interested. “I’ll pass.”

  “You sure about that? I mean, it’s not Calvin Klein, but they’re hoping you can take them to the
next level. He’s Duke alumni, son.” The way he delivers the news mimics that of my father—expectancy.

  I stand. “Not interested.” And I walk out.

  “Might be an offer you won’t get again,” he calls from behind me and, like before, it reminds me of my father.

  I turn and look back at him. “Let me ask you a question.”

  Leaning back in his chair, he locks his fingers behind his head.

  “Did my father pay you off to put me on the team?”

  “Now, where would you get an idea like that?”

  I look in his eyes and see the truth. “Understood.”

  * * *

  Driving home from North Carolina, I feel like I’m losing my damn mind. I’m pissed at him, pissed at myself, pissed at all the parents in the world who would pull shit like that—make their kids believe they’re better than they really are, instead of being honest and direct them to where their talents lay.

  My talents include … not fucking much. I could be a porn star, I laugh at myself, or a fucking underwear model.

  I chose this school because of the team, and they chose me because of money.

  Then I laugh at the fact that it was probably my fucking inheritance.

  Then I realize I’m losing my shit a lot like Autumn did five days ago.

  And yep, I’m a pussy because I fucked a woman for three days who clearly doesn’t want a thing to do with me, and I’m still thinking about her.

  “Man up!” I hit my steering wheel then white-knuckle grip it. “Man. The fuck. Up.”

  * * *

  At two in the morning, I pull up to the gate and hit the button behind the visor to open it. When it doesn’t open, I feel my blood begin to boil.

  Before I drive through the damn gate, I pull up and hit the code on the manual keypad. It opens.

  “That’s a good fucking thing,” I hiss at the damn keyboard.

  When I step out, I am quickly reminded it was leg day. I stretch then walk to the door, hit the code, and open it up.

  There’s a few more night lights than I had in the place, and it smells like flowers and perfumed candles. I notice it’s clean, too. I expected a bit of a mess, knowing I didn’t pick shit up that I should have when I was her age.