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Scott finally closes the door, his self-satisfied smile the last view I see. The injustice of it all bleeds my brain front to back.
“He deserves to die,” I say, hot tears building again. “He deserves to go to jail and rot.”
Lo glances between the two houses. “Then let’s try to put him there.”
Connor releases Ryke again, who ends up kicking a floodlight on our walk back.
“As much as I despise Scott,” Connor says, “murder isn’t going on my resume.”
“I meant jail,” Lo says.
“I meant murder,” I cut in. I doubt I could go through with a crime of any kind, but I’ve never been one to think small. My mind pushes extremes while Connor stays in the limitations of reality. It’s why he’s not screaming until his voice dies. He finds it pointless and detrimental to his own self. He knew that yelling at Scott would do no real good, so he kept his mouth shut.
The three exceedingly tall men stare down at me, and I just now feel the dried tear-streaks, iced as the wind hits me. I wasn’t crying because I was sad. I was crying because I felt violated all over again, and this time, Jane was thrown into the mix.
“Imagine a world,” I tell them, “where our children grow up without any privacy, surrounded by people like him.”
“That won’t be our world,” Lo says adamantly.
I wait for Connor to agree. When he doesn’t, I stop in the middle of the road, a lamppost bathing us in orange light. I face my husband, halfway to our house. “You’re not going to say anything?” Tears sting. I skim his masculine features and spot the blunt, no-nonsense look that denounces any fantastical, illogical concepts that we all construct to pacify ourselves.
I wish he would lie tonight. I wish he would make me feel like we have a chance instead of serving me the honest, bitter truth on a gold platter.
“I don’t make promises that I can’t keep,” he reminds me. “Our children will meet terrible human beings, just as everyone does. I can’t change the world for anyone, not even myself.”
His confession is brutal, and it hits the three of us hard. We all step back once, Ryke scratches his unshaven jaw. I inhale sharply, and Lo stares haunted at the starless sky.
“So we must assimilate,” I retort, “and blend in and pretend to be okay.” My chin quivers in disgust. “I hate your world.”
“It’s the world we fucking live in,” he says coldly. “It’s not my world. It’s everyone’s.”
Ryke begins to shake his head. “I can’t have a fucking kid,” he’s realizing.
Lo’s breath plumes, his cheeks red from the chill. “Don’t say that shit. You want a family.”
Ryke lets out a low laugh. “I’m never bringing a child into this, Lo. I fucking can’t…” He rubs his mouth and curses under his breath again.
It’s the same conclusion I’ve drawn. I can’t have more children if we can’t keep them safe.
Connor’s deep blue eyes ping from each of us, all spread in an uneven circle. “We can’t protect our children from every evil in the world, but what we can do is protect them from a specific group of people.”
“The media,” Lo answers.
Connor nods. His gaze lands on me, silently reminding me of our plan to enact this. Our six-month test.
I blame no one for my choices, but I still believe our kids deserve to be treated like human beings and not monkeys in a glass cage. They shouldn’t lose their basic human rights when they can’t even speak for themselves.
Cameramen can follow us, but they don’t need to follow them. They don’t have to.
Connor breaks the silence. “Let me remind the three of you how this works.” He points to Ryke. “You go to jail, Scott wins.” He looks to me. “You scream at him, he smiles, he wins.” I swallow this sour taste as he turns to Lo. “You sign on to a second season, he wins.”
“We do nothing just like last time,” Lo says evenly, “and he wins.”
“Let me figure it out,” Connor tells us. “I’ll take care of Scott, but for now, don’t give him what he wants. He likes inciting all of you, and tonight was practically his wet dream, so please just calm down.” Connor rubs his lips and drops his hand. “You do know what Lily calls the three of you, right?”
We stare between each other, confused. I would’ve known if she had a nickname for us. She’s my sister.
“She mutters it under her breath,” Connor says off our silence. “The hot-tempered triad.”
My lips twitch upward. Ryke actually laughs, which causes Lo to laugh. My little sister can be clever without realizing.
And then Connor makes this declaration, “Scott isn’t winning this time. I promise.”
I inhale strongly, mixed strangely with fear and confidence.
I promise.
Translation: Only one of us will be left standing.
[ 12 ]
CONNOR COBALT
“Are you the reason why Rose dyed her hair back to brunette?” a cameraman asks me as I approach a Manhattan high-rise, a coffee in my left hand. With the other, I hold Jane beneath her bottom, her arm on my shoulder and eyes curiously searching the men surrounding us.
I take note that of three photographers and one cameraman, they’ve only asked about Rose’s hair color from last week, nothing about Jane.
I sip my coffee, heading straight to the revolving door.
He rephrases the question. “Did you like Rose’s new color or do you prefer her as a brunette?”
“She could be bald, and I’d still be attracted to her.” Flashes blink right before I enter the revolving door, and Jane murmurs a collection of sounds, her big blue eyes widening at me. Before Rose left for work, she laid out Jane’s outfit: a gray and blue checkered dress, ivory Dior tights, and a gray headband, her short brown hair just brushing her ears.
We imparted our sophisticated sensibilities on her since she’s too young to choose for herself, but when she’s older, she’ll pick what she likes best.
I watch her eyes, often noticing the light behind them that neither Rose nor I possess. The laughter, the innocence that I have trouble believing once existed in me. I can’t remember ever being joyful as a child. I was calculated. I was straightforward and honest.
I wasn’t light. I was the gray haze after a puff of a cigar.
Before I slip into the elevator, I toss my coffee in the trash and press the
thirtieth floor. The quiet cloaks us for a moment, and Jane smiles into a laugh, clapping her hands together. Children laugh for no reason at all. They laugh because they’re alive and they’re in your arms.
It’s senseless, but this senseless moment pounds against my heart more than a sound fact.
“We’re going up, Jane,” I tell her, pointing at the ceiling.
She giggles and looks up, her headband sliding back. I adjust it and she pats her head. She says a word that’s very close to da-da and points up too. When she swings her head to me, I cover my eyes with my free hand.
“Where’s Jane?”
She gasps, and I remove my hand, her face breaking into the fullest, purest smile. She claps at my reappearance. I hide my eyes once more, and her gasp pulls my lips higher. “Where’s Jane?”
I drop my hand. “There she is.”
Jane giggles and touches her cheeks, discovering her own overwhelming smile that accompanies joy. I kiss her forehead, and she tries to speak but ends up babbling certain syllables and sounds again.
“One day, Jane,” I whisper, “you’ll surpass me in all ways. I hope you do.” I think about more children, a fog of a future. “I hope you all do.”
The elevator beeps.
“Now, let’s see Frederick. He has some information I need about your Aunt Daisy. How does that sound?”
Jane points at the ceiling and tries to form the word that I once said.
“Up,” I repeat, always in my usual voice. “We’re going straight now, Jane.” I point at the hallway. “Straight ahead.”
Her eyes blink in confusion.
“In time,” I smile. “You’ll understand in time.”
* * *
Frederick collapses in the leather seat adjacent to the couch, a coffee mug in hand. He dyes the gray strands of his hair by his temples, only in his early forties, his jaw square and his nose proportionate to the rest of his features, a born-and-bred New Englander. He could’ve sailed the Mayflower with Christopher Jones and jumped into a time machine to reach present day, if you’re a believer of the ridiculous.
