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Ourgirls’friendshipblossoms,right alongside mine and Logan’s. They tear through my living room on a Sunday afternoon as their game of chase reaches new highs.
“Get back here, Maggie—I’m gonna get you!” Rainey threatens, turning the corner around the couch, and wiping out as inertia carries her across the slick hardwood floor.
“Shit!” I toss the loaf of bread onto the kitchen island and hustle over to Rainey. Logan hops off the barstool from where we’d been chatting and follows suit. “You okay?” I ask, giving her a look over.
“I’m fine,” Rainey grumbles. She wiggles out of my arms and shoots across the room at her target who’d halted when she witnessed Rainey fall.
Rainey seizes the opportunity and tackles Maggie before pumping a fist in the air and declaring victory. Logan and I, still on the ground, stare at each other, our mouths simultaneously tipping upward into smiles.
“I don’t know where she gets it from.” I sigh, splaying my fingers over my eyes. “Rae never stops from the moment she wakes until her head hits the pillow. Is Maggie like this?”
“Only with Rainey,” he admits. “On her own she’s pretty reserved, but your girl brings out a wild side in her I haven’t seen since she lost her mom. It’s good for her, I think. Everyone deserves a friend who pulls your best parts to the surface.”
His words echo between my ears. I can’t be sure if he’s talking about Maggie and Rainey, or the two of us.
“Girls! Ready for lunch?” I ask, rising off the floor where Rainey abandoned me.
Logan retrieves the plates of sandwiches and chips sitting on the counter. He’d poked fun at my ‘cooking’ when he arrived, but my admonishment of his cooking debacle hushed him.
There’s a new, fragile comfort to our friendship. After our discussion of Hannah’s death, our conversations lightened and we’re back to our texts involving more memes than I care to admit, scattered into the monotonous details of our days.
The playdate’s filled with endless debates on the merits ofParks And RecversusThe Office. Logan arguesThe Officeis superior. I test his knowledge and discover he’s never seen a single episode featuring Pawnee’s finest government officials—he doesn’t know a damn thing aboutParks and Rec. When I finish shaming him, he agrees to watch the first three episodes with me while Maggie and Rainey design a giant Barbie mansion in Rainey’s room. We settle onto opposite ends of the couch, and I can’t help but notice how much Logan laughs at Ron Swanson.
My phone rings, echoing from the kitchen. I pause the show and jump up to snatch it off the counter, almost ignoring the call from an unknown number. But second thoughts urge me to answer, concerned it’s possibly news about my brother. He plead not guilty during his arraignment, and Georgia let me know late last week his trial begins soon, though she expects it won’t last more than a day or two.
A gruff voice comes through the line. “Hey, Sis.”
“Dunbar?” It’s been nearly a month since I walked out of the jail and left him behind. Hearing his voice shocks me.
“Who the hell else calls you ‘Sis’?”
“Where are you? This isn’t the jail number.”
Logan raises his head, turning in my direction upon hearing the wordjail. I told him I’m keeping Rainey while my brother was away, but never supplied a further explanation.
“They moved me from the city jail to the county detention center.”
“Are you okay?” I wonder why he’s calling tonight.
“I’m fine. I’m really sorry about all of this. Can you forgive me?”
“Dunbar.” I warn, unsure where to start with too many trains of thought on the tracks of my mind. “We’ve got to get this sorted out. Things can’t continue like this. It’s not good for anyone, and I’m worried about you.”
“I said I’m sorry,” he barks, alerting me his apology is shoddy at best. The revelation isn’t surprising, but I wish it were. I grit my teeth, frustrated. There’s been a glorious absence of family drama in the last three weeks, and the respite has been refreshing.
I grunt an acknowledgement, eager to end the call.
“Hey, I wanted to ask you . . .”
Here it is. My mind tunes my brother out as my disappointment in being right—Dunbar only called because he wants something from me—roars in my ears.
“. . . I was hoping you could put maybe fifty bucks into my jail account?”
I missed the entire point of his ask. It doesn’t really matter what he needs, because there’s always something more when I give it to him. I’m a genie who grants wishes in my brother’s eyes. My bottle’s corked tonight, though.
“I can’t do that right now,” I whisper, turning away from the living area where Logan’s still sitting.
Dunbar’s tone darkens, and his voice reverberates through the phone when I don’t agree to his request. “What do you mean ‘you can’t do that right now’? When can you do it? I need some damn money.”
