by Mila Gray
“I’ll call the fire station when we get back, see if they’ve got any news.” He pauses before asking, “Have you heard from the police?”
He means about my dad. “They were checking in with my dad’s parole officer to see if he was in Scottsdale last night.” I keep praying that the answer is yes, though if my dad has an alibi, then that leaves the possibility that maybe it was Cole who started the fire after all, and I’m not sure I want to deal with that possibility either.
“What?” Tristan asks, narrowing his eyes at me.
“Nothing,” I say, annoyed at how transparent I am to him.
“He’s not going to find you here,” Tristan reassures me again, thinking I’m worrying about that and not about the fact my little brother might be a pyromaniac. “I spoke to a friend of mine who’s a local cop,” he says. “He told me that because of your situation you don’t have to register your address with the DMV, so your dad won’t be able to trace you.”
I glance at Cole, who is running ahead. I don’t want him to hear, and I think that’s why Tristan has waited until he’s out of earshot to talk to me about it. “I know,” I tell him. “But he’s a cop. He knows how to find people.”
“Was a cop. I can’t imagine he has too many friends left in the department.”
I shrug. “You don’t know my dad.”
He frowns.
“He’s charming,” I tell Tristan, pulling my arms around my body, grateful again for the warmth of his sweater. “He fools people all the time. He fooled you, didn’t he? And your family. Everyone always loved him. That’s why it was so hard to summon the courage to admit what he was doing. We didn’t think anyone would believe us. And when we did speak up, we found out we were right—a lot of people didn’t believe us.”
“I did,” Tristan says quietly but firmly. “I knew. I believed you,” he adds.
I look up at him—he’s a head taller than me—and I smile briefly. He doesn’t know it, but those words are everything. He looks away quickly.
We arrive at the apartment complex, and I notice a white Mazda parked outside. Immediately, I’m on edge before Tristan spots the car and says, “Robert’s here. He’s the landlord. He’s great,” he reassures me.
I follow him up the stairs to the condo’s front door. Will’s inside sitting at the kitchen table. My mom is flitting around the kitchen making tea, and though there’s a slight manic-ness to her movements, she’s smiling. The reason for her smile walks through the door. He’s a man of about fifty, with gray tufty hair and crystal-clear blue eyes. “And you must be Zoey,” he says, beaming at me, hand extended.
He shakes my hand and fixes me with a look that radiates, for want of another word, pure goodness. “It’s lovely to meet you,” he tells me.
“You too,” I say, and then add, “Thank you. We really appreciate you letting us have the apartment.”
“It’s my pleasure.” He gestures at the kitchen. “I’d been planning on putting in a new kitchen and bathroom, so I apologize for the state of them.”
I look at the kitchen, which seems perfectly fine to me, way better than the kitchen we had in Vegas. “Everything’s great,” I tell him. “Please don’t apologize.”
Tristan looks at a box of cakes on the table. “These from Kit’s new place?” he asks Robert as he takes a bite out of one. Cream oozes out of it, and he licks it off his lips. For some reason, I can’t stop staring.
“Yes. There was a line out the door this morning.”
Tristan offers the box of cakes to me. “Try one.”
I do, and it’s just about the best cake I’ve ever eaten. But I’m also starving, so that could be why.
“Um,” I say, clearing my throat and turning to Robert, “should we talk about the rent?” I glance at my mother, not wanting her to hear. Usually, I like to keep all the financial stuff to myself. My dad was the one who handled all the money, and when we left him, my mom found it hard to manage. It was just easier for me to take over the housekeeping and the money management.
“It’s all sorted,” says Robert, smiling at me broadly.
“What?” I ask, confused.
“Your mother and Will and I have everything settled,” he explains.
My mom and Will both nod at me. “It’s all good,” Will says.
I want to ask them what that means, but I can’t, not with Robert and Tristan both standing here, listening.
“I also brought a few things over—things that have been left behind from my other rentals—kitchenware and such.” I look toward the boxes he’s pointing at and notice one is overflowing with saucepans and utensils.
“Thank you,” I say, suddenly remembering the few things we left behind in Vegas. I get a flash of the mug that Cole made for me once on a school trip to a pottery place. And the painting that Kate did of birds in a tree that hangs on the wall in our now-burned living room. All my books, ones I’ve salvaged over the years from thrift stores. They’re silly things, with no value other than sentimental, but it hits me then what we’ve lost. We’ll get everything back, I tell myself. We might even be able to move back home once the repairs are done, if we find out it wasn’t my dad who set fire to the car.
But when I look around this little apartment, at Cole and Kate digging through the box of cakes, at my mom pouring tea for Robert, and … at Tristan, who’s teasing Cole, painting his face with cream from one of the pastries, I wonder if that’s still what I want.
TRISTAN
I leave Will and his family to get settled and head straight to Kit’s new restaurant, Riley’s, packed with customers even in the lull between lunch and dinner.
I find the owner in the kitchen, elbow-deep in flour, surrounded by hectic chefs and waitstaff.
“It’s busy out there,” I say.
Kit raises a flour-dusted hand to high-five me. “Yeah, we haven’t stopped since we opened. It’s crazy.”
“Your mad baking skills are the talk of the town.”
“I don’t like to brag”—Kit grins—“but my buns are pretty damn good.”
“I don’t need to know what Jessa says about your buns.” I laugh.
Kit grins even harder, as he always does at the mention of Jessa. I can’t help but smile. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to feel the way Kit so obviously does about Jessa—like he’s the luckiest man alive and can’t quite believe it. Even just mentioning her name, it’s like someone turned a light switch on inside of him. And Jessa’s the same whenever she’s around him.
“What’s up?” Kit asks, kneading the dough, his eyes darting around the busy kitchen, checking that everything is running smoothly.
“You look like you could use an extra pair of hands.”
He stares at me skeptically. “Dude, I know there’s a ‘Help Wanted’ sign on the window out front, but don’t you have a job? You know, saving people and all that?”
“Not for me. Will’s sister. She needs a job. And you need staff, so …”
Kit stops kneading. “I didn’t know she lived in town.”
“They just moved here. It’s a long story, and …” I break off. It’s really not my story to tell. I’ll let Will give him the details. “Anyway, Zoey needs a job. She’s really amazing. You’ll love her.”
Kit cocks an eyebrow at that, his gaze narrowing. “Really amazing, huh?”
“Yeah, and she’s got experience, too.”
“Sounds like you want to give her a job.” Kit smirks.
I roll my eyes, but Kit’s smile widens.
“Will know you got the hots for his sister?”
I snort. “I don’t have the hots for her.” I’m not about to let Kit’s imagination go off the rails. “Look, I’m just trying to do her a favor. The situation’s not great. Their dad’s out of prison. She could use the money.”
Kit’s expression shifts, the smile vanishing. “Shit, seriously? How’d he get out of prison? I thought he was in for years.”
I shake my head. “Parole.”
“How’s Will?” Kit asks.
“He’s leaving tomorrow,” I say. “You should call him.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that.” Kit was in the marines, so he knows exactly what it’s like to leave home for long stretches at a time. “Have Zoey come by, or give her my number.”
“Thanks, Kit,” I say, watching him divert his attention back to the task at hand.
I take a second to think about all Kit’s done—from being a marine to running his own restaurant—and wonder if he ever saw life beyond being a soldier. If he ever allowed himself to think that far ahead. If Will does. I’ve never thought of any job beyond being a pilot. Even when I’m done with the military, I know I’ll still want to fly. I enjoy the solitude of the sky, the silence—so different from the sea. I like the freedom of being able to go anywhere around the world, having wings. The thought of being stuck in one place, surrounded by the din of a busy kitchen, giving orders to staff, dealing with customers, would drive me crazy.
“I’ll get out of your way,” I say to Kit as I back out of the kitchen.
Kit raises a hand in good-bye. “And I promise I won’t tell Will you have the hots for his sister.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he’s already turned away, dealing with some kitchen crisis.
* * *
By the time I get back to Zoey’s, it’s evening. I knock on their door and hear Zoey inside, asking, “Who is it?”
“It’s me,” I reply, wishing that I didn’t hear the edge of fear in her voice. “Tristan.”
I hear the sound of the locks turning and the chain being removed, and then Zoey opens the door. She looks tired, with dark circles under her eyes. I guess I am too—it’s been a long twenty-four hours.
“Will’s not here,” Zoey says to me. “He took Cole and Kate shopping.”
“I wanted to see you, actually,” I say. Zoey looks surprised to hear this, so I hold up the bags I’m carrying. “I brought a few things from my sister.”
She frowns. “She’s an assistant,” I explain quickly. “To an actress. You might know her. Emma Rotherham.”
There’s zero response from Zoey as I pass her the bags. “She gave me some things. Clothes and shoes. I told her about you and what had happened, with the fire, and she went through Emma’s closet.”
Zoey is staring at me like I’m talking gibberish, but I carry on. “Dahlia said she gets sent samples all the time that she never even wears. I think you’re the same size.” I try not to let my gaze travel south when I say that and instead maintain strict eye contact, but it’s awkward because I’ve just implied that I’ve appraised her body well enough to make the assumption about her size. Which would not be a lie. She works hard to hide her body, so maybe I have it wrong, but I don’t think so.
“Will you stay for dinner?” Gina asks, coming up behind Zoey and wiping her hands on a tea cloth. “I’m cooking pasta. Robert was kind enough to lend us enough kitchenware to open our own restaurant, and Will took us grocery shopping earlier.”
“I, er …” I look at Zoey to see if the invite to dinner extends from her, too, but her mouth is pursed and she’s frowning yet again. It’s clear I’m the cause of the frown, but I don’t know why, and it’s also clear she isn’t happy about the invite. What did I do?
“I’m busy,” I say quickly to Gina, making an excuse, even though the smell of garlic and onions frying is making my mouth water and I’ve got nothing more exciting to do at home but watch Netflix and chill, without the “chill” part. “I’ll just leave these here,” I say to Zoey, setting the bags down at her feet.
Still, Zoey says nothing.
“Thank you,” Gina says, speaking up. “It’s so kind of you.” She touches my hand. “Really. We appreciate it. Don’t we, Zoey?”
Zoey’s glowering at the bags like they’ve just insulted her. And it suddenly dawns on me that maybe she’s looking at it like charity. Damn it. I should have thought about that. I wanted to help, and it looks like I’ve done the exact opposite. I don’t understand why, though. Part of me wishes she’d stop being so damn stubborn and accept the help. It’s like a drowning person not taking the hand being offered to pull them into the life raft because they’re too proud and want to prove they can make it back to shore alone. Even if potentially they might drown.
“I’ll see you around,” I murmur, and head out the door. “If you need anything,” I say to Gina, “just give me a call.”
Zoey’s mom smiles at me and waves me off, but Zoey doesn’t move.
ZOEY
I’m taking a shower,” I tell my mom, but as soon as I’ve locked the door behind me I collapse down onto the toilet seat and bury my face in my hands. I don’t know what I’m so bothered about. They’re clothes. And I need clothes. I should be grateful, but that’s the thing. I’m sick of having to feel grateful because it makes me feel pathetic.
I haven’t had more than a minute to myself all day. I’m so tired I can barely see straight, and emotions are tumbling around inside me like loose change in a dryer. I don’t know which emotions hit me hardest, but I know that I’m afraid. Actually, “terrified” would be more accurate. And I don’t want the others to see my fear, so I’ve been hiding it, which is exhausting.
I haul myself to my feet, strip, and step into the shower, closing my eyes and letting the water wash away the day. I turn the tap to the hottest it will go, hoping it will somehow sear away the sadness and the fear. When that doesn’t work, I start to cry. I only ever cry in the shower, where no one will hear me. Living in close confines forces you to find clever ways to hide your secrets. But straightaway someone knocks on the bathroom door.
“Just a minute,” I shout, and take a few deep breaths, my palms flat against the tiles, my head bowed, trying to pull myself together. Finally, I turn off the taps and get out, wrapping myself in a clean towel from the pile Robert left us. It reminds me of cocooning myself in Tristan’s sweater earlier at the beach.
There’s another knock on the door. “Okay, okay,” I say, pulling it open. But it’s not Kate. It’s my mom.
“Here,” she says. “The clothes Tristan bought.” She hands them to me. “I had a look through; there’s some really lovely things.”
I take the bag reluctantly.
She studies me, then puts the bags down and pulls me in for a hug. It surprises me so much that a sob rises up my throat and I have to swallow it down before it can burst out of me.
When I was a little girl, my mom and I were always close, but for the last few years we’ve been more like housemates than mother and daughter. Our conversations are never about boys or dating or friends; they’re about paying bills and dividing up chores.
As she hugs me, I realize how long it’s been—so long that I’m now taller than her. And because of that, it feels odd, like I’m the parent and she’s the child and I’m the one who should be comforting her. She pulls back after a while, giving me a smile that doesn’t do much to mask the sadness in her eyes, a sadness I had thought was gone for good and hate to see has returned.
She strokes my wet hair behind my ear. “Come on, let me comb your hair.”
I let her pull me toward the sofa. I close my eyes and enjoy how soothing it feels. We used to do this all the time when I was a little girl. She would braid my hair every morning before school, every day a more elaborate style. Tears start to well up again, and I fight them. If I thought that my mom could handle it, that she could hold me and soothe me without breaking down herself, then I would turn to her and cry into her shoulder like I imagine other daughters do with their moms.
My mom finishes and puts the comb down. Her hand rests on my shoulder, and I turn to her, tears welling despite my attempts to stop them. But then I find that she’s fighting back tears herself. She grips my hand, and the tears start to flow down her cheeks. I blink away my own.
“It’ll be okay,” I tell her numbly, and pat her hand.
I can’t afford to be a little kid right now. We can’t both break d
own. I need to be strong. And I can’t be mad at her. She’s probably more afraid than I am. My dad almost killed her. He would have done it if I hadn’t called the police. She must be reliving that scene every time she closes her eyes. I know I do.
My mom nods at me, her lip trembling. “It’s going to be okay,” she repeats, then adds very quietly, “I’m sorry.”
Sorry for what? I wonder. It’s not her fault that we’re in this position. He fooled her as well as he fooled everyone else. He was good-looking and charming and fun at first, and he was her ticket out of a miserable childhood and an even more miserable town. We all make bad choices in life, but most of us don’t spend the rest of our lives paying for them. I could never blame her. My father is the one with the anger, the temper. He was the one who raised his fist and hit her. Hit Will.
She wipes at her tears, gets up, and rushes over to the stove, where the pan of water is threatening to boil over. Just then, Cole comes charging inside the apartment, with Will and Kate following behind him.
“I’m starving!” Cole shouts. “Is dinner ready?”
“In a minute,” my mom answers him.
Kate comes over to me. “Here,” she says, thrusting a plastic bag my way. “I got you what you wanted: underwear and socks.”
“Thanks,” I say, but she’s already walking away.
I take the plastic bag and then, reluctantly, the two bags of clothes that Tristan brought and disappear back into the bathroom. I need to get over my pride. It’s not like I’m in any position to turn down free clothes.
Much to my surprise, half of the clothes still have their price tags attached, and they are all, without exception, designer labels. Most of it I would never wear in a million years, not because the clothes aren’t nice, but because I could never afford them. I usually just wear whatever baggy, oversize clothes I can find at the thrift store.
There are a few dresses and a pale blue silk shirt with a five-hundred-dollar price tag still attached. It makes me sigh, both with wonder at how beautiful it is and with anger at how a shirt can cost the same as an entire month’s grocery budget. I noticed a few things that might fit Kate and think that the new clothes might cheer her up and distract her from the missing cat.