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“What?” Jordan ran into the kitchen, his eyes wide, mouth agape as he took in the scene which was like something you’d see on the African savanna. Three wild dogs fighting over an ostrich carcass. “Oh fuck!”
“Where were you?” Rayma exploded.
“Something funny was going on in the movie, and the kids called us in to watch, and we kind of got … sidetracked.” He hung his head. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
“And I left the fucking door open which let the dogs into the house and the turkey defenseless on the counter. Oh my God!” She raked her fingers down her face. “This can’t be happening. I’ve ruined Thanksgiving. I fuck everything up. All of it. Everything I touch turns to shit.”
There was no point even attempting to salvage the turkey. The dogs had basically spatchcocked the entire thing and because two of the three canines were labs, AKA garbage guts, they were probably eating the bones, too. Nothing would be left.
The potatoes weren’t cooked, barely even peeled. The sprouts were still whole. The only thing that was even remotely edible still was the stuffing, and no matter how much stuffing Nana Joy made it wasneverenough. It was everyone’s favorite and they all fought after the last scoop.
“I can’t do this,” she said, dropping her head and shaking it. “I’m not cut out for this. Not for any of it. Not for domesticity, kids, dogs, or relationships. None of it. I am a colossal mistake. A walking disaster. A total screwup.” Then because she had no energy left to run, left to do anything but feel immense pity for herself, Rayma walked out of the kitchen, leaving Jordan standing in the doorjamb, the dogs happily eating on the floor and a giant mess all over the counters.
Nobody on the lawn paid her any mind as she wandered out to Grant’s shop. He’d just built it last summer—with the help of the four guys—and it was where he stored his boat and tools and attempted to hide Joy’s Christmas presents from her. She always found them, though.
It was warm, since he had a heater, and smelled like a mix of boat fuel and freshly cut wood. Grant, the sexy silver fox was an avid carpenter in his retirement and liked to make things with his hands. Sawdust just barely covered the floor, since he was also meticulous and very tidy. A partially finished dark wooden stool sat covered in clamps to the side of the bench. He was probably waiting for the glue to dry.
She sat down on his round, leather stool in front of his workbench, then collapsed forward with her forearms against the bench, her face against her arms. And finally, the tears started to fall.
And they fell, and they fell and they fell.
Clearly, she just couldn’t do anything right.
Clearly, she was just a giant fuck-up.
Clearly, she was a mistake who made endless mistakes.
Getting tangled up with The True Destroyers, running away from Pasha in Seattle and getting abducted, picking the wrong guy time and time again. And then when she finally did pick the right guy or thought she had, he remained emotionally unavailable. But she looked past that because he was perfect in every other way. Then he moved, ghosted her, and broke her heart. So how could he be the right guy, the perfect guy for her when he made her heart hurt the way it did right now? Like an anvil was on her chest, slowly cracking her ribs, crushing them until sharp fragments of bone pressed agonizingly into her rapidly beating heart as it struggled to keep her alive.
The tears continued to fall, but then the hyperventilating began.
Only after her abduction, when she started to have nightmares and PTSD did she ever hyperventilate. But now, it was a common occurrence when she was upset.
“Fuck,” she gasped, sitting up and twisting the heels of her palms into her eyes. She needed to box breathe. In for four, long and deep, hold for four, then out for four. And repeat.
But it wasn’t doing the trick.
She couldn’t hold her breath for four, couldn’t suck in a deep breath.
Was she having a panic attack?
Hinging forward, she placed her head between her knees and tried again to box breathe. It was a little easier this time, but not much.
Her breath was shallow and stuttered, but as she remained curled over, slowly the fuzzy black spots in her mind began to fade and her breathing grew deeper.
Vaguely, she registered the opening and closing of the shop door, but she was too busy focusing on getting over this panic attack to bother checking who it was. She just hoped it wasn’t one of the younger kids. Zoe or Connor she could handle seeing her like this, possibly even Thea since she was seven going on twenty-seven most days. But a little one like Raze, Eve, Maeve, Von, or even Zane would be tough to explain things to.
They didn’t need to see their Aunt Rayma losing her shit. Especially not with the rest of the adults outside on a fluffy cloud with their best friend Mary Jane.
“My dad was a drunk. He hit a kid with his car—and not just any kid—a kid with Downs Syndrome who was only twelve. Killed him, and left him for dead on the side of the road. Didn’t report it. Didn’t turn himself in. Didn’t say a damn word. I was seventeen. I used to babysit Dallas when his mother needed a break. Dallas was good and sweet and it was his first time walking the one kilometer to the corner store all by himself to buy a hotdog. Something he’d been so excited about, he actually called me the day before to tell me that he and his mom had decided that tomorrow was the day. That they’d walked the route together, planned it all out, and the corner store clerk knew to expect him. It was a big step for Dallas, this independence, and we were all so excited for him.
“I drove past his body on my way home from work at the sawmill, stopped, and saw evidence of a hit and run. Then I saw the side mirror of a car. A car I recognized. I called the police, drove home, made sure my suspicions were true, then called the police again and turned my father in for a DUI, hit and run and fleeing the scene. We’d taken his keys, but he’d hidden a spare set so that when he woke up from his blackout, he could drive to get more booze.”
Slowly, Rayma lifted her head to find Jordan, anguish streaked across his ashen face, standing only a few feet away.
“Since Aiden was eight and I was six, my father would take us out hunting, get plastered, then Aiden would have to drive home. And my dad wasthe mayor. Upstanding and everybody’s friend on the outside, a belligerent, selfish, useless scrap of skin on the inside. He never lifted a hand to us, but you don’t have to beat your wife and kids to be a piece of shit human being.”
His throat moved hard.
