I think their daddies do.
MELODY
TEN YEARS OLD.
I plop onto the soggy ground with a huff, annoyed, cold, and hungry. It doesn’t take my best friend long to notice I’ve stopped running through the knee-high fields that border our family homes. He was holding my hand right up until the stage I decided to quit. I’m tired of the drills my father makes us do every weekend. I just want to watch movies and eat popcorn like a regular kid.
“Mellowy, what are you doing?”
The pain in my chest lessens at Brandon’s purposeful incorrect signaling of my name. He’s still learning his Ds, so he leaves them out while communicating with me via sign language. A bug made my mommy sick when I was growing in her tummy, so my ears didn’t work when I was born. There’s a special thingamabob the doctors can put on my ears, but since it costs a lot of money, I haven’t got one yet. Daddy says I’ll get one soon, but I’m not worried. Brandon can understand me, and that’s all that matters.
Brandon taps my shoulder to return my focus to him before signing, “We have to keep going. He is coming for us.”
“Let him come. I am tired.” The slow movements of my hands reveal the honesty of my reply. I’m zonked.
Brandon shakes his head. “We can’t give up. Giving up isn’t an option.” He bends down until his big hazel eyes meet mine. He had a growth spurt this year, but I’m still exactly an inch taller than him —not that he’ll ever admit it. “Just a little bit further, okay? I can see the fort we built last month just over there.”
My eyes stray in the direction he’s pointing. Although I can see the fort made out of sticks, branches, and mesh camo material, I still want to stay put. This isn’t normal. Mrs. Sprigs, my school guidance counselor, told me so, and if you take Brandon out of the equation, none of my friends think this is normal either.
I don’t want bad men to hurt my mommy like they did five years ago, but I don’t want to keep remembering either. The nightmares make me wake up in the middle of the night with soaked clothes. I don’t know if my sheets are wet because I sweat so much while running away from the bad men chasing me, or if it’s from the tears I cry when they catch me. If the wet patches that circle Brandon’s shirt every time he wakes me from a nightmare are anything to go by, I think tears are to blame.
Before the bad men broke into my house, my daddy was a fun man. He taught me how to ride a bike and didn’t care that the men in his barracks didn’t like his bedazzled duffle bag. I made it for him, so he loved it.
He still uses the duffle bag I prettied up for him, but I haven’t seen his real smile in a very long time. He gives us the fake one he gave Grandma whenever she visited. I know why he gave her his pretend smile. She was mean and a big ‘O’ word I can’t pronounce much less sign. My mommy said it meant she thought she was better than my daddy. I think that makes my grandma a cow. No man is better than my daddy except perhaps Brandon. But he’s not really a man. He’s just a boy. A very handsome boy who pretends he’s bigger than he is when we do our fathers’ drills.
“Hop on my back. I will piggyback you,” Brandon signs, smiling when he demonstrates the sign for piggyback.
My heart goes bang, bang, bang against my chest when he glances at me, waiting for my response. It does the same thing anytime his big, chubby cheeks turn the color of the roses my daddy buys my mommy. My mom says boys who blush are boys worth fighting for. I don’t know what that means, but I think it might have something to do with the time I pushed Tania Rich off the swing because I didn’t like the kissy faces she was giving Brandon. Brandon is my best friend, so he can’t be her friend too, can he?
When Brandon’s snow-white brow disappears into his hair, I sign, “I am bigger than you, BJ. You can’t carry me across a sloshy field.”
He pulls a face like I’m silly. “Yes, I can. Hop on. I will show you.” He twists around until his back is facing me, then he gestures for me to climb aboard.
I tap his shoulder to gain his attention before asking, “Are you sure?”
I could walk, but I’m so interested in discovering how strong Brandon is that when he nods his head assuring me he’s tough, I leap onto his back like a frog.
A grunt rumbles through his body before he magically stands to his feet and takes three hesitant steps forward. He can’t see my face, but I make sure my hands are in front of his before signing, “You are doing it, BJ!”
I’m so proud of him, I want to plant a sloppy kiss onto his cheek like he did to mine years ago, but before I can, the man who made Brandon pinkie promise to protect me for eternity snatches me off his back.
BRANDON
SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD
“Y es, Brandon. Keep going.” Sweat glides down my cheeks as I move around the frayed boxing ring in the shed at the back of the Greggs’ family ranch. Mr. Gregg and I have been working out for the past two hours. The first hour and a half was the standard workout we do three to four times a week when he’s not deployed, but things were switched-up half an hour ago when Melody arrived home with a handful of her friends.
They’re supposed to be catching the rays of an early spring on the field between the house and the shed, but I’ve noticed their eyes straying my way more times than not. Their attention has me prancing around the boxing ring in a manner my father would approve of.
Mr. Gregg… not so much.
I’m not showboating because I like Melody’s friends’ attention. It’s because I love the way Melody’s eyes slant the longer they ogle me.
The kiss we shared eleven years ago, that innocent, inconsequential cheek peck that made me feel like a hawk soaring above the highest mountain is the only kiss we’ve shared. I wouldn’t necessarily say I’ve been friend-zoned by Melody—we’re as flirty as we are friendly—but I sure as hell have been placed in the penalty box by her father.
He wants me to protect his daughter, not drool over her.
For years, I despised Mr. Gregg for his somewhat overbearing fathering. It was only when I learned the reason for his manic obsession did I understand his desire to protect his wife and daughter.
