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Until Aaron’s quiet, lethal words cut through the air.
“You are such a whore.”
And all the oxygen is sucked out of the room. Like that vacuum sealing food preserver my mother uses. No one moves, no one says a word, it’s silent.
Until the smack of Stacey’s palm slapping Aaron’s face rings out, sharp and cracking.
“Never speak to me like that again.” She points at him, her voice trembling with fury, and heartache.
My brother yanks his safety goggles off his face. “Aaron. You can’t talk to your mother that way.”
Thirteen-year-old Aaron’s eyes dart between his parents, filling with tears. “Are you serious right now? You’re holding a chainsaw.”
My brother glances down at the power tool in his hands, like he’s just realizing he’s holding it.
“Look at you . . . both of you . . .” Aaron’s voice cracks. “Look at what you’ve done to us.”
And this—this is why I don’t have kids of my own. Why I probably never will.
Remember those egg assignments we all got in middle school? The ones where we had to carry around an egg for a week, take care of it like it was a real baby? It’s a stupid assignment.
Kids are so much more breakable. Fragile. It’s so easy to screw them up. With our own selfishness. Our mistakes and regrets.
I see it all the time. Every day.
My nephew swipes at his cheeks roughly and glares at the two people who gave him life.
“You’re both assholes. I’m out of here.”
And he rushes from the room.
“Don’t leave, Aaron!” Spencer cries.
Stacey sobs into her hands and my brother moves to run after Aaron, but I cut him off.
“Let me. Let me talk to him.”
Connor nods and I turn, meeting Callie’s eyes. One of the best things about being around someone who’s known you forever is . . . no words are needed.
She puts one arm around Spencer and the other around Brayden, ruffling their hair.
“Hey, guys, I noticed you have a treehouse in your backyard. I love treehouses—can you show it to me?”
Outside, I catch my nephew in the middle of the yard. He whips around, taking a swing at me. I bear-hug him, locking his arms at his sides.
“Let me go! Let me go!” He struggles.
“Easy . . . come on, Aaron, stop. You have to stop.”
He fights and twists some more. But eventually he wears himself out, breathing hard and going slack in my arms, leaning against me.
“They suck,” he chokes against my shirt.
“I know.”
“I hate them.”
“You won’t always.” I lean back, looking down into his eyes. Aaron’s so much like my brother—smart, good, steady—when he’s not hurting. “It won’t be like this forever, Aaron. I promise.”
He wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand, sniffling and nodding.
I hook my arm around his neck, dragging him along. “Come on, I’m driving you guys over to Nana and Pop’s. You’re staying there tonight.”
~ ~ ~
After my family drama quota is filled for the day, Callie and I finally make it to Mr. Martinez’s furniture store and find her a white wrought-iron bed. Getting the queen-sized mattress inside her room is a trip and a half, mostly because Callie’s dad insists on helping me drag the fucker in.
From his wheelchair. With his right, casted leg sticking straight out like jousting lance.
“You’re going the wrong way, Stanley!” Callie’s mom yells from the open back screen door, with a cigarette hanging from her lips.
“I’m not going the wrong way!” he shouts back.
But, yeah, he kind of is.
Still, we manage to get the mattress into the hallway, which, thankfully, is too narrow for his wheelchair.
“Thanks for the help, Mr. Carpenter. I got it from here.”
Callie’s room hasn’t changed a bit. Same pink walls, same flowery curtains hanging over the window I used to sneak through after her curfew—so we could screw quietly on her blanket on the floor. Good times.
Her old CD player is still here too—playing her favorite band.
“Jesus, Callie, ABBA? I see living in California didn’t improve your taste in music.”
She slaps my ass, scowling all fierce and protective of her bad music. It’s really fucking cute.
“Leave my ABBA alone. They’re classic and they make me happy.” With “SOS” as our background music, Callie picks up a wrench and opens the assembly instructions, tilting her head in a way that makes me want to bite her pale, graceful neck. “Now let’s get this sucker put together. Time’s a-wasting, Coach.”
Half an hour later, I slide the mattress on the bed frame and push it into the corner. With a naughty look on her face, Callie slips around me to her bedroom door, opens it a crack, and listens. The only sound from the living room is the hum of the TV. She shuts the door, meets my eyes . . . and locks it with a decisive click.
Then she hops on her bed—her tits bouncing beautifully under her sweater—and my mouth goes dry. She lies back on her elbows, with one foot braced on the mattress and the other dangling off the edge.
