Page 51
“Hey,” I say back, leaning against a pillar. “How was your date?”
“You know . . .” My brother’s mouth twists into a smile, the first one I’ve seen from him in a long time that wasn’t bitter. “It was pretty fucking awesome.”
He puffs, passes to me. I raise an eyebrow.
“Sorry, forgot,” he says, pulling it back.
“You going to let her see your face anytime soon?” I ask.
Quentin’s been talking with a girl he met online, recently moving their relationship into phone calls; not tonight, obviously, because screaming. He won’t FaceTime with her, not because he’s in a wheelchair—she’s aware—but because he isn’t ready to reveal that he’s basically Thor.
“It’s just nice to know that she likes me for me,” my brother says. “What I say, what I think—that’s what she’s attracted to. She has no idea what I look like.”
I snort. “So basically, the complete opposite of my relationship.”
Quentin grunts, shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He hates Ethan and doesn’t mind me knowing; what he hates more is that if he were able to save our family, I wouldn’t have to. Above us, the plywood covering a window rattles—Grandpa trying to get out.
“I don’t want to tie him down, but I will,” I tell Quentin. He winces, takes another drag.
“He’ll tell her, if he gets out again,” I say. “It was damn close last time.”
“He can’t tell her,” Quentin argues. “He can’t talk.”
“Yeah, but Grandpa’s pretty fucking good at charades,” I snap.
We’re both quiet for a minute, looking out across the yard as darkness falls. Quentin sighs, pinches the ember out, rests his head against the back of his chair.
“How are you okay with this?”
“Because nobody chooses a Wagner,” I say.
I got right with our family legacy long before my brother did; if his core is gold, mine is steel. He’ll look for the beauty and find the light, while I see the world for what it is and meet it with a blade. Even now he finds a silver lining; last week he told me the ultimate relief is knowing that he’ll never have to do leg day again. He can laugh about his fate, while rage simmers inside me. I swear if I ever find the person that crippled my brother, they’ll never be the same again. They won’t come back from where I send them, that’s for goddamn sure.
“You and me, we got a pass,” I tell him. “But the Wagners have been swinging and missing in the genetic department for hundreds of years. People look at us and see crooked mouths and missing limbs, and that’s just the Wagners they have in front of them.”
He knows what I mean, knows what the family portraits look like. It’s not pretty, and not just in a there’s-not-a-filter-that-can-fix-that kind of way. There’s something wrong with each and every one of them, the beast inside showing through, a feral quality born from generations of fighting tooth and nail to survive, just barely managing. Drugs will rot your teeth, and smoking will ruin your skin, but poverty leaves its own kind of mark, hollowing you out, drawing bones to the surface, showing the world how brittle they are.
“In the real world that’s what people see,” I tell Quentin. “A long time ago, something else spotted us and said there—them.”
I reach out extending a finger, pointing at Quentin, my arm shaking slightly. “The Wagners. They can hack it. They can handle this. Back when other people were standing in bread lines, we still had a job, even if nobody else knew it, and I’m proud of that.”
I don’t add that it’s the first time I’ve been chosen for something because of what’s inside me, not what I look like. I’ve never had anyone or anything recognize me for what I am other than a pair of tits and a piece of ass.
“Okay, but . . .” Quentin hesitates, careful now. “You take pride in it, when you’re not the one making the sacrifice?”
I’m quiet, watching the shadows of the pines stretch longer, reaching for us. The chill in the air has grown teeth, biting through the thin fabric of a hoodie I found in a dumpster behind Goodwill, too ratty to charge a dollar for, and me not able to afford even that.
“I’ll go to hell for this,” I tell my brother. “I may not be suffering now, but she’s only got a little bit of time left, and then it’ll be over. I made a decision, and my punishment will be eternal. It won’t ever end, but it won’t begin until I’m dead.”
“You believe that?” Quentin asks, looking over at me.
“Yeah, I do,” I say, hugging myself once again. “But I’ll take the hit, for my family.”
Thirty-Two
Ava
The incubator has sentinels now, a cat being slowly stitched back together on one side, a resurrected dog on the other. Like I told Widow, I’ve accepted both, taking the gift being offered and giving back what is asked of me. I open the incubator, about to turn the egg, when my phone rings. It’s Becca, which is more than unexpected. We haven’t talked since she said I made false accusations, and we avoid eye contact in the halls. If she’s calling to demand that I apologize again, that isn’t happening—because I wasn’t wrong, and I won’t tell a lie.
