Frost (EEMC)

by Hunter, Bijou

  Maybe my mom sees what I do because she backs off for the night. I make the rounds, finding the men—Bronco, Anders, and Lowell—in weird moods. Or maybe I’m misreading shit just like my mom was with Monroe.

  “You’re still coming on Monday, right?” Topanga asks for the third time tonight.

  “Why are you bugging me?” I mutter and gesture toward her husband. “He’s the one with the bug up his ass.”

  “I’m fine,” Lowell grumbles.

  Bronco frowns at his friend but says nothing. My uncle doesn’t get how Lowell can be so dismissive of his blood. But I’ve never met anyone in the extended Sinema family. Lowell views blood relations differently than the Parrish clan. My mom is close to her sister because they shared parents, not because they get along.

  Lowell, though, made the club his family. Years later, he added Topanga and then Dunning. Monroe being blood doesn’t mean anything to him. With her, Lowell doesn’t see a kid needing a dad. Monroe is just a mistake he didn’t know he made.

  “We’ll be there, and we’ll have fun,” I tell Topanga. “But once that shit doesn’t work, you have to stop trying to make it work, okay?”

  “Don’t talk to her like that,” Lowell bitches at me.

  Ignoring him, I look into Topanga’s eyes. “You get how he doesn’t care, right? No matter how much you try to force things, you can’t change how he feels. That doesn’t mean you can’t be friendly with Monroe. But you also need to accept reality.”

  Topanga glances at her husband and then frowns. “No, it’s only been a week.”

  “Well, maybe one day when Monroe and I have kids, he’ll pretend to care for their sake.”

  “Asshole,” Lowell growls at me. “I’m not the bad guy here.”

  Bronco ignores his VP’s bitching and focuses on me. “Kids, huh? That serious?”

  “She’s the one. A man knows.”

  Glancing at Lana nearby, Bronco nods. “Yeah, he does.”

  Topanga pats my chest. “You and Monroe are two sides of the same coin. You both beat down assholes and dance poorly.”

  Sharing her smile, I glance at Monroe listening very intently to Pixie explain something likely hippie related. My guess is they’re discussing hair removal. Monroe already warned me that she isn’t big on shaving during the winter months, so I better be ready to snuggle with Snuffleupagus once January comes along.

  “He was my favorite character from that show,” I told her, using my love of “Sesame Street” as an excuse to spend another hour in bed together.

  Those leisurely moments hanging out and talking about random shit—what zodiac sign is most likely to ruin our day—comforts me in a way nothing else has before. I’ve been restless for so long. Monroe settled me right down, though. I no longer wake up, ready to board a flight to Indonesia. Driving around Elko doesn’t inspire me to keep going until I hit the coast. Monroe is my safe space. With her, I feel the stress fade, and the noise fall into the background.

  Despite what she said at the party about not caring, Monroe wants to settle down in this town. That’s how she’s programmed. Once she finds a home, Monroe hunkers down for the long run. She only left Minton when the people she loved were gone. Even then, she waited until she felt in danger.

  Elko offers friends, safety, and me. The only thing it can’t provide is Needy. New friends can be made, but there’s only one mom. I’m thinking about that the next day while she works a shift at Bambi’s Bar & Grill. Monroe rarely mentions her mom, but I catch her looking at their pictures quite often.

  “She loved me in a way that made the world better,” Monroe once said before changing the subject.

  My honey doesn’t like to cry. I don’t blame her. I never cried when my father died. Crying feels as if I’m exposing myself to a hostile world. Better to shove the pain deep inside where it can fester and grow into gnarly traumas. That’s how I prefer things.

  Before I head over to pick up Monroe, I decide to ask for help with the Needy situation. I dial up my sister, knowing she’ll do what others will talk me out of.

  “What’s your frequency, Kenneth?” Aja asks over the din of background noise.

  “Are you in the middle of something important?”

  “Always. My life involves an endless tsunami of importance.”

  “Can you make time to do me a favor?”

  “Always. Well, assuming the favor doesn’t involve anything too kinky. I’m very vanilla,” she says, and I hear laughter in the background of her call.

  I explain the basics of who Monroe is, why her mom is in Kansas, and how contacting Needy is tricky.

  “Would you or one of your people be able to slip Needy a burner phone so she can talk to Monroe?”

  “Easy,” Aja says immediately.

  “I don’t know what the town is like or how under surveillance Needy might be. You could be walking into a dangerous situation.”

  “I’ll bring an extra gun and a rosary,” she says, snickering. “Send me the chick’s name and address. A picture or two wouldn’t hurt. I’ll start staking out the place. If I can’t get close to her, I’ll find someone who can.”

  “I owe you.”

  “I shall be repaid through flesh and candy corn.”

  “Really? That shit is gross. Let me buy you decent candy.”

  “I have my reasons.”

  After thanking Aja, I hang up and hope to be the hero who provides what Monroe needs to be happy

  PART 6: PAPA, CAN YOU HEAR ME?

  MONROE

  The night before our scheduled “double date” with Lowell and Topanga, I’m gripped by endless nightmares. Each one is worse than the last. I wake up scared but force myself to remain quiet to avoid bothering Conor. Eventually, I dream of Zella’s funeral, where I stand next to a stony-faced Needy. The frigid weather has everyone shivering. Nearby, Immee struggles not to cry over her dead baby in the white coffin.

  The McNamee family doesn’t believe in public displays of emotion—except rage. And standing next to his wife, Clive does look pissed. He glares at the coffin as if it personally fucked him over. Brian Clive and his younger brother, David Clive, look stoned. They stare at a spot in the distance while the pastor speaks.

  In the dream, my mom disappears, and I start to believe she’s dead, too. I catch Clive’s gaze, and he smiles mockingly at me. In real life, though, he hadn’t looked at me at all that day.

  I wake up, believing Clive is in Elko and planning to kill me. I even feel him outside in the Overlook parking lot, watching and waiting. My emotions are irritational. After all, my uncle wouldn’t come here to kill me himself. He has people for that. Yet, in my heart, I know he’ll soon punish me.

  Only when I get up later, do I realize I’m more afraid of Lowell than Clive. I’ve spent my life searching for male approval. And despite his cruelty, I got used to admiring Clive. I felt so special when I could make him laugh, or he bragged about my team winning a game. But then Zella died, and he turned on me. Afterward, I became an object to sell off to improve his business reach. I meant nothing to him.

  As much as Clive’s betrayal hurt, Lowell’s rejection gutted me. I pretend I’m tough and don’t care. But spending even an hour with him will tear apart more of my confidence. I consider faking a different personality with Lowell, which might gain his approval. But his affection would be based on a lie.

  With that in mind, I plan to be me today. I’ll enjoy my time with Conor and deal with any hurt feelings Lowell causes. I’m too old to run and hide.

  Conor and I arrive early at the Elko Play Center. When I’m reluctant to get off the Harley, he smiles back at me.

  “Pretend we’re on a date. Just you and me. Sure, we’ll run into other people, but your focus should be on your sexy date.”

  Smiling, I slide off the Harley. I’ve played miniature golf twice before. The first time I was too young to keep score. The second time was in high school on a date, and the guy kept laughing at how badly I did. I’ll never forget how
shocked he was when—rather than offer him a blowjob—I dumped him. What moron mocks a seventeen-year-old hormonal teenage girl and then expects to get lucky?

  Fortunately, I’m currently dating a genius. Conor might not literally be the smartest person walking the planet, but he sure seems that way to me. He knows about so much of the world while I couldn’t pick most places out on a map. So, when Conor promises we’ll have fun today with Topanga and Lowell, I trust him. He can say just about anything, and I accept his word as golden.

  As we walk toward the entrance, I admire Conor in his white T-shirt and tattered jeans. Smiling up at him, I promise, “No matter who wins today, I’ll buy you dinner.”

  “Nothing hotter than when my woman spoils me.”

  Conor gets such a kick out of me paying for anything. I wonder if past women were more interested in his wallet than his heart. I can’t imagine anyone seeing only dollar signs when they looked at this sexy as fuck man. But people are weird and stupid, which is a good thing. My life would be much worse if any of those women stole his heart before I came along.

  As if ready for tennis, Topanga arrives, wearing a short white skirt, a white tank top, a white visor, white sneakers, and a bouncy ponytail. I suspect she wants to show off her long, shiny legs to keep Lowell from pouting all afternoon. For her gesture, I shall file away a thank-you and repay her later.

  I went with a casual look—chocolate-colored sandals, a tan T-shirt, and blue jeans. No muss, no fuss. Besides, no one’s going to notice my clothes with that baby unicorn horn growing out of the middle of my head from butting Taryn.

  “I’m so glad we’re doing this,” Topanga announces, sounding nervous.

  Lowell grunts something that sounds like a mouth fart before he wanders off to pay. Conor stretches his arms, grimaces in pain at his still sore ribs, and then rolls his eyes.

  “I’m still upset I didn’t get to finish him off,” Conor admits. “Can you imagine how calm family events would be with Wyatt in a vegetative state?”

  “Don’t say that,” Topanga admonishes. “Yes, of course, things would be better if he were mute and in a wheelchair. No one disputes that, but you still shouldn’t say it.”

  “I’m bored of pretending he doesn’t suck.”

  “He also needs a haircut,” I say, just piling on. “He wouldn’t look so feminine if he had a shorter style.”

  “That’s what Lowell says!” Topanga cries. Welp, I guess that proves my father and I can no longer deny how we’re essentially the same person in every way. Why don’t we just hug?

  “But you do say that,” she mumbles when a returning Lowell gives her a frowny face.

  “Let’s hurry up before that large family gets in front of us,” Conor says, sounding genuinely worried.

  “Fuck that shit,” I announce, grabbing my golf club. “That one kid looks like a dawdler.”

  After glancing at the ensemble of ten kids, two parents, and one grandma, we hightail it toward the course. Conor joins me as we walk in front of Lowell and Topanga. I hear her whispering about how fun this is to her husband. I almost feel bad for him. Except he could fake shit like I do. No one is forcing him to act like a bitchy baby.

  “Speaking of large families, how many do you see in your future?” Topanga asks as Conor takes a shot at the first hole.

  “I want a dog and a cat,” I reply. “One of each. Just as God intended.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “Kids are awful,” I say, gesturing back at the family waiting behind us. “Have you met Taryn’s son? What a loser.”

  “He’s seven,” Lowell mutters.

  “Exactly. That means his terrible personality isn’t from being little or not knowing how the world works. He’s willfully shitty. I don’t know if you heard, but he picks on Future, who is wonderful. I feel as if I should pick on Devil, just to make things even.”

  “He’s seven,” Lowell says again and then takes his turn. “And maybe if people stop calling him Devil, he would stop acting like one.”

  Flashing a smile at Topanga, I tease, “Bronco needs to watch out. Looks like Lowell might have a new best friend. And I heard his replacement is seven.”

  “I heard that, too. Man, that rumor has already hit its stride,” Conor says, shaking his head at Lowell’s shitty shot.

  “Look, I refuse to pick on a small child,” Topanga says and steps up to where Lowell places her ball. “I will admit his mother did a terrible job and should take a few parenting classes before he ends up burning down her house.”

  “Firestarter, huh?” I ask after she makes her shot. “Sounds about right. I never plan to let him around my dog and cat. Can’t chance him setting them on fire.”

  I hit the ball, which bounces off the course.

  “When you said you weren’t good at this,” Conor says, fishing my ball out of the bushes, “I thought you were setting me up to get smashed by your talent. I figured wrong.”

  Smiling, I take my ball and roll it toward the others. “I never lie.”

  “Never?” Topanga pushes while she prepares to hit her ball into the hole.

  “Well, I lied about having no kids. If Conor’s game, I want a son that looks just like him.”

  “I’m going to fuck you right here,” he says, wrapping his arms around me while the family behind us gasps at how he used a foul word.

  “Winner of the game gets to be on top.”

  Conor looks at where Topanga nails her shot. “Wait, do you mean her or me?”

  “Considering how close I came to banging my own father,” I say, and the man in the family behind us gasps again, “I don’t think I should screw his wife even if she defeats us in this game.”

  The large family very deliberately, and with great flair, stomps away to complain or maybe give us room.

  Lowell sees them go and snorts, “Fucking townies.”

  Maybe my dad hates local people or large families. Whatever the reason, his demeanor changes after Conor and I scare them off. Soon, he’s offering me helpful hints on how to swing the club so that I don’t hit the balls with such force. I wish I could ignore the childlike stirrings inside me. I should be savvier at my age. Yet, of course, I take his every positive comment as the biggest fucking deal ever.

  Conor doesn’t help by backing off enough to let Lowell do his bonding routine. Topanga also gets suspiciously quiet. Is this all a planned ruse to make me look stupid?

  No, no, it’s fine. Don’t panic. Conor doesn’t play those games. I trust him to never screw with my heart.

  After we finish playing, I get stuck standing in the lobby with Lowell. Nearby, Topanga chats with a lady from Dunning’s school while Conor talks on the phone to his sister.

  “Did you headbutt Taryn out of instinct, or is that a move you normally use?” Lowell asks and runs his thumb over my lump.

  “Uncle Clive claimed as a girl that I would suck at fighting. He suggested headbutts and crotch shots. Clearly, the second one wasn’t an option despite Taryn’s butch face.”

  Lowell smirks. “She does look like Rooster. Odd how his kids got their looks from the wrong parent.”

  “Conor has strong genetics. Our kids probably won’t look anything like me.”

  “You never know. Might at least have your brown eyes.”

  Thinking about where I got my brown eyes must inspire a sappy look on my face. Lowell’s body language shifts immediately.

  “I should have stepped in when they fucked with you,” Lowell says, rubbing the back of his neck as if awkward over admitting his failure. “I’m not used to trouble like that.”

  “Wyatt fucks with you a lot.”

  “Did Conor tell you that?”

  “No, but I noticed when I was waitressing at Rooster’s. That’s why I spit in his whiskey one night.”

  Lowell surprises me by leaning forward and laughing hard. I try to act nonchalant. What do I care? I’m a grown woman without any interest in my daddy’s pride. Then, I catch Conor’s gaze, and he gives me a
soft smile. Right then, I feel like a five-year-old desperate for my parent’s approval. I’m a fucking idiot!

  “Are we eating together?” Conor asks Lowell, maybe realizing my emotions went sideways. “Or are we ditching you?”

  “We can eat,” Lowell says, glancing at me.

  I keep my gaze on Conor once Topanga arrives. “You pick the place. I need to feel up Monroe before my hands revolt.” Then, he maneuvers us, so he’s blocking their view of me. Cupping my face, he asks, “Are you going to cry?”

  “I never cry.”

  “I’m sure you do sometimes.”

  “No. I barely cried when Zella died.”

  “That’s not healthy.”

  “You didn’t cry when your dad died.”

  Conor’s cool expression cracks as he asks, “How do you know that?”

  “You told me when you were stoned the other night.”

  “Oh, well, I thought you were stoned too and wouldn’t remember.”

  “Even stoned, I memorize everything you say because I’m obsessed.”

  Smiling, he leans down and kisses me softly. His lips linger against mine as he whispers, “Why do you look sad?”

  “I’m getting my hopes up that he’ll like me, but that’s a boner move.”

  “Don’t say boner when we’ve gone this long without sex.”

  Grinning slightly, I think of Lowell touching the lump on my head. Was he really concerned? Or only going through the motions? Why am I analyzing everything? I had today planned out, yet I’m an emotional mess now.

  “Lowell doesn’t know how to act around you,” Conor says, still leaning his long body over so he can speak against my lips. “He thinks he needs to behave in a certain way, but that’s too much pressure. If you’re casual, he can be casual. I bet he’s curious about you, especially with the entire club gossiping about how you took down the queen bitch and her redheaded pet. Just relax, and we’ll eat.”