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“Damn you, stop trying to eat your fingers,” I mutter as I pull his pants off and then slap his hands away when he starts to pull his underwear down.
“No. Not naked. Keep those on.”
He frowns. “But you know I can’t sleep with clothes on.”
“I know. So go to your own room and sleep in your own bed.”
He sighs and then turns over onto his stomach. I roll my eyes, pulling the blanket over him so he doesn’t get too cold tonight, and then I walk back to my dad’s place where Gramps still is and make sure everything is in order. It’s a bit chilly in the house with the window open, but I need to air it out before my dad and Violet get home. When I’m back at my place once more, McMuffin makes an appearance, looking a little sleepy and all sorts of adorable, so I scoop her up and bring her into my room. Ryan’s sprawled out across the entire bed, so I shift him back to his side and then climb in over the covers and pull a quilt my mom made me over my chest. I stay dressed just in case Ryan strips out of his underwear in the middle of the night and ends up on top of me.
Been there. Done that.
I shudder and then forget all about my stepbrother as McMuffin snuggles up on my neck and starts to purr. She’s always my little rascal, and I adore her.
My eyes drift closed, and I find myself slipping into sleep with the thought of Braxton lingering in the corners of my mind.
four
. . .
braxton
Why am I here?I shouldn’t be here. I don’t fit in at all, and I can feel the stares as I stalk around the cluttered stalls of the farmer’s market.
“It’s that boy again.”
“All that metal in his face. That can’t feel good…”
I shrug it off. I’ve gotten these kinds of comments for ages, ever since moving here. They slide right off of me now.
I don’t know why I’m here,I repeat to myself as I dodge my way through the crowded masses. I don’t fucking know.
All I know is thathe’shere every single Saturday with his family. His dad, grandpa, and stepbrother run his stall while his mom runs the one adjacent. Jimbob’s parents are divorced and yet they still act like they’re friends, like they can actually stand to be in each other’s company. Weird as fuck, if you ask me. My parents never talk. In fact, I haven’t seen my dad in years.
Ten fucking years. And before that, it was just the obligatory birthday lunch at the local grimy diner. If and when he could make it.
I shrug those memories away and glance around, realizing that the whole town is here because the weather allowed it. Goddamn weird town, conglomerating in one space just because there’s a bit of sun.
I realize with a sense of clarity that this is all they have. They have no lives.
They get up at the butt crack of dawn every Saturday and make their way down here to the farmer’s market. Like they live and breathe these days. Like this is the best that life has to offer. But I glance around and take a sniff. I don’t know what drugs they’re smoking, but the reality is that it smells like hay and sugary-sweet cookies out here with the random whiff of lavender thrown in from the old ladies who sell it. It’s a mishmash of things and people, and I fucking hate it.
I hate that I’m even here right now, wandering around, pretending like I even want to be here.
I scoot around one booth, trying like hell to ignore Jimbob’s mom, Delilah, who is smiling and chattering blissfully with her customers. She has a coffee and honey stand just opposite Jimbob’s.Sweet Java.From the painting on her sign—a cup of coffee with a bee floating around the steam—she likes coffee beans and bees. If I look real close, I’m pretty sure I can see a few flying around her right now, like she’s some kind of queen bee. What a strange combination, kind of like her and Jimbob. They make no sense to me. None of them do.
So I avoid her on principle. Mainly because her smiles make me twitch, and honestly, I refuse to put honey in my coffee. I won’t do it. My coffee stays black, like my soul. Just a withered moldy raisin.
A few tables down, I find a stand selling Christmas ornaments, and I groan in agony. Motherfucking Christmas. It’s spring, but no one seems to care. It’s utter bullshit and so fucking wrong. Don’t even get me started on Christmas music. I could gouge out my eardrums and never hear a thing again, if it meant no Christmas tunes.
But even as I think it, a little old lady walks right up to the stand, burrowing through the crowd past me, picks up a Santa ornament with glitter everywhere, and buys it without a second thought. She says it’s “darling”.
Nothing about Santa is darling. More like creepy, if you ask me.
Where the hell am I? It doesn’t matter that Christmas is a good seven months away. Nah, go ahead and buy that weird, pervy glitter Santa. I’m sure you won’t be able to find it come December.
Kansas is fucking weird. No wonder Dorothy ended up here. She was a wack job too.
I scowl at the Christmas ornaments, annoyed beyond belief the person selling these ornaments packed all this stuff up, dragged it out here to the town square and put it up with price tags, hoping to sell them.
