Page 79 of Creeping Beautiful

“Which is why I’m bringing up the option to go freelance.”

“With you as our… what? Coordinator?”

Donovan does one of those open-palm shrugs, huge shit-eating grin on his face that says, Aw, shucks. What else can we do? You know the look. He’s a fucking snake-oil salesman right now. “There are a lot of people like us, Adam. Lots of teams who have nothing to do now. They need guidance. We could… provide that guidance.”

“Or,” I counter, “we could quietly slip away into obscurity and hope Indie…” I know it’s never going to happen, but I say it anyway. “Adjusts.”

“McKay just said he doesn’t want to do that. And you and I both know Indie goes with McKay if he leaves. She’s not staying here with you.”

I glare at McKay but he’s already got his hands up in surrender. “I’m not going anywhere. And neither is Indie. She’s happy here, Adam.”

“Of course she is. She’s got her little boyfriend next door.”

Hmm. I didn’t mean for that to come out so… venomous. But it does. And everyone hears it. I backtrack a little. “What do you propose, Donovan? Spell it out for me.”

So he starts talking.

And a few years later I was the leader of the most ruthless private army to walk this Earth since the Ten Thousand brought terror and fear to Ancient Greece.

But I’m getting ahead of myself…

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - McKAY

PRESENT DAY

Adam is not here. That becomes very clear once we enter the house and find it utterly silent. There are white sheets covering everything. I’m talking tables and chairs—even the paintings on the walls.

Indie looks around like she’s never been here before, fingertips gently trailing across a white sheet covering the foyer side table. She pauses on the edge of something hidden beneath the sheet.

I know what it is. I remember every detail about this house. I’ve memorized every squeaky floorboard. I know which chair to sit in if you want some morning sun. I know there are four doors in this house that swell up in the summer so you can’t close them without a good hard shove. I know which windows gather condensation in the winter. I know where Indie likes to throw her jacket when she comes in out of the rain. I know where Adam sits when he wants to think and I know where Donovan likes to write in his notebook.

And right now, Indie’s fingertips are tracing the outline of the little stone dish where we all used to drop our car keys when we came inside.

She pulls a sheet off a large portrait of the four of us hanging in the hallway leading to the kitchen and TV room in the back of the house. She pauses at the painting, frowning and squinting at our faces.

Adam commissioned it. We took a photo first, then had it digitally painted. He hired some photographer friend of Misha’s from New Orleans to come up for a photoshoot in the gardens between the house and the lake. We have tons of framed photos from that shoot hanging in the house, but this one was our favorite.

We were all in the pavilion and it was night. It was summer, hot and sticky. Indie was wearing an off-white dress with cotton lace. Cotton because she complained that regular lace was too itchy. Adam had this dress made for her. Hired a fucking seamstress and everything. She had a flower crown on her head made of buttercups and columbines that Adam had made special by a florist in Baton Rouge. Her hair was very blonde that summer and her skin was tanned bronze from long days sitting out at the pool, her childish afternoons of swamping long over by this time. She was a little over sixteen, I think.

Adam was wearing a full-on summer suit. Tan coat and slacks. Off-white shirt. Light blue tie that set off his eyes. His hair was too long and, like Indie’s, very blond. He wasn’t very happy when I shaved his head after the brain surgery so he let it grow for almost a full year before he cut it again.

I was wearing faded blue jeans and a white button-down. No tie. Sleeves casually pushed up my forearms. My hair was cropped short to help alleviate the summer heat and I had stubble on my jaw that was probably two days too long.

And Donovan was wearing gray slacks and a light blue shirt. No coat, but he had a gray tie on. His dark hair was styled, and his look was more sophisticated than Adam’s, even though he was underdressed.

We were all piled on top of the bed swing I built for Indie. It still hangs from the long dark beams under the pavilion’s pitched roof. I saw it out of the corner of my eye when we pulled up. Though the comfy pillows and blankets aren’t there anymore.

I was in the middle, sitting a little farther back on the swing with Adam on my right and Donovan on my left.

Indie was sitting in front of me, between my legs. Leaning against Adam’s shoulder with her hands in her lap. My arms were around her in a protective embrace and I had both of her hands in mine. Donovan has one arm draped casually around my shoulder and the other one was holding onto the chain that supported the swing.

We looked like a family.

And we were, I guess. Kind of.

Indie had strung white fairy lights around the perimeter of the pavilion and there were dozens of candles of various heights surrounding us so that our faces were lit up with the glow of flames. And we didn’t notice them at the time, but there were fireflies in the background. We only saw that when the proofs came back. And this was the only one they showed up in, so it was our favorite.

We looked magical. Like everything was right in the world.