by Geneva Lee
Josie reappears from the bathroom and takes the barstool next to mine. “That smells good.” She peeks past her mother to the omelette pan.
“You better make one yourself if you want one.”
“Oh, I see, Emma gets spoiled,” she teases as she heads to the fridge. Pretty soon she’s standing next to her mom, tending her own pan. Marion begins to hum, and Josie jumps in, singing the lyrics of what sounds suspiciously like a Taylor Swift song.
Marion whirls around and drops the omelette on my plate with the skilled ease of someone who lives primarily on eggs. I’ve never said no to her signature dish. Then again, I’ve never been offered anything else.
Turning around, she bumps her hip against her daughter’s, and the two continue their duet while I take small bites. Between the buttery smell permeating the kitchen and the easy atmosphere, my appetite returns.
I try to help with dishes, but she shoos me away. Josie excuses herself to bed, but I linger in the small living room, staring at an old photo of me with Josie and Becca. Marion had taken it at some little carnival that had popped up in a grocery store parking lot. We had just come off the spinning cups, and we were still giggling and falling all over each other out of dizziness. One simple snap of the lens and she’d managed to capture pure happiness.
“I miss her every day,” Marion says quietly.
I nod, my mouth too dry to agree with her. Somehow given Hans’ revelation, I miss her even more. She feels farther from me than ever. Time is supposed to heal grief, and instead, it seems to keep finding new ways to open up the wound.
“Did she ever talk to you about a boy?” Boy is definitely the wrong word, but saying anything else might give away the situation. I don’t give a crap what happens to Hans, long may he burn in hell, but I do care about how people remember my sister, especially about how I remember her.
“I wish.” Marion moves beside me and shakes her head sadly. She wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me in closely. “But getting a Southerly girl to talk is a bit of a challenge.”
She might be right, but no one wants to hear what I have to tell.
“I met her boyfriend.” My stomach clenches on the white lie. “Or at least some guy who claims he’d…you know.”
Marion pulls a few inches back and bites her lip guiltily. “I did take her to the doctor to get on birth control.”
“Oh.” I want something to hold on to. I need something to hold on to. I should be used to grasping at straws and holding on to whatever shred of happiness reality tosses my way. I don’t know how to find my footing with this. Becca definitely wasn’t with any guys here. It doesn’t prove Hans’ story, but it supports it.
“Was the boy nice?” Marion asks.
For a moment, I forget the lie I fed her, but even when I process what she’s asking me, I can’t stop myself from telling her the truth.
“No.”
Chapter 9
I see Becca in my dreams. It’s her face. When she laughs, it's her voice. She glances towards me with a stranger’s blue eyes, but she doesn't see me. She walks past me and through an unmarked door. When I follow behind her the room is dark and empty. I sit down and cry. There are a million questions I want to ask her, but even in the dream I know she's gone and that I'll never receive the answers I want.
Before, not knowing bugged me; now it hurts. Each second in the dark room seems longer than the last and the sadness takes over until the sobs roll powerfully through my body. Then there's a hand on my shoulder. I blink against the tears, trying to see in the darkness, certain Becca has come back for me, but as my vision returns, it's Josie's face that greets me.
"Are you okay?" she whispers, her voice groggy with her own dreams. "You were crying in your sleep."
I swipe a few tears lingering on my eyelids. "I'm fine."
"Do you want to talk about it?" Josie scoots lower in the bed until we’re face to face. I'm not sure what to tell her. I still don't know how what I've learned about Becca will affect my memory of her, but I want to keep the information to myself. Josie shouldn't have to shoulder the burden of looking at one of her best friends differently. After all, the living can make amends, but the dead can never change.
"I was dreaming about Becca," I admit to her. "I don't remember much else."
"Was it hard to be in Palm Springs without her?" Josie asks. It’s an obvious question and one she’s nearly asked me a dozen times. I’ve known her long enough that I can tell when she’s chickening out on addressing a topic.
I gulp against the sharp stab of ache her question produces. If she only knew how much Palm Springs had changed everything. "Yeah. It was weird."
"Is that why you left?"
Whatever has been holding her back from drilling me this summer is obviously no longer an issue. I can't expect to avoid questions when I up and run away in the middle of the night and land on my best friend's doorstep. It’s a tad bit comforting to know that she’s still here and willing to force the uncomfortable topics. But I don't want to talk about what happened in Palm Springs.
"I think I missed home," I say instead.
"Does home have an adorable dimple when he smirks?" Josie guesses and just like that the mood lightens, shifting subtly like the sky outside her window that's slowly changing from inky black to the purplish hues of dawn.
"Yes." It’s one truth I don’t have to hide. It’s not as if I can camouflage my feelings for him. "Jameson isn't the only thing I missed about Vegas, but he's definitely top three."
She clucks her tongue in reproach. "I’d put him higher than that."
"Are you checking out my boyfriend?" I smack her shoulder playfully.
"Girl, you can't miss that ass."
"No, you cannot."
Josie can brag on my boyfriend all day long. The thought of being jealous where she's concerned is so ridiculous, I nearly laugh. Not only do I know he's not her type, but I also trust her with my life. That means I definitely trust her with my boyfriend.
"Does he look that good naked?" she asks in a hushed voice like her mom might be standing with her ear pressed to her bedroom door eavesdropping.
I bite my lip suddenly feeling a little self-aware even as my mind flashes to memories of his chest and arms, of his legs and everywhere else. "I haven't exactly seen him naked."
"I cannot believe you aren't tapping that," she squeals. "There's picky and then there's prude."
"And nothing in between," I note dryly. Trust Josie to stick to the black and white ends of the sex spectrum. "We've screwed around and I'm pretty sure I've seen most of him."
"Details?" She insists, clutching her pillow like she's settling in for a bed time story.
I give her the laundry list of what we have done together, which might be short but I still think it's impressive. When I finish, she feigns wiping drool from her mouth. "So you're going to have sex with him, right?"
"I guess," I hedge.
"Oh my god, what is stopping you? Is it that stupid checklist of yours?"
What is stopping me? Jameson has proven to be nothing short of perfect. Well, he might be a little controlling, but it’s not like I’ll put up with that shit so it hardly matters. "No," I shake my head. "I'm pretty sure he's hit all the requirements."
She grabs my hand and squeezes it so tightly that she nearly breaks a finger. "Even love?"
Fuck a duck, that's a big one. Even though I've never written down all the requirements I had for my second time, love has always been at the very top.
"It's a simple question," she prompts me.
Am I in love with Jameson West? I haven't felt like I've been falling for him so much as hurtling with him for the last few weeks. But doesn't the fact that I didn’t hesitate when she asked if he met all of the requirements mean something? The problem is neither of us have actually said it. We've tossed the term around, trying it on to see how it sounds, but we haven't gotten to those three little words.
"You're in love with him," Josie says it for me
.
"I don't know, I mean..." I stammer as I try to think of a way out of this subject. But as the first sliver of sunlight appears on the horizon, everything becomes illuminated. "Yeah, I am."
Josie, for her part, is practically seizing in the bed with excitement. The realization just makes me feel nauseated.
"What if he doesn't love me?" I ask her in a quiet voice.
She abandons her mattress jig and props herself up on an elbow, wagging her finger at me. "I've seen how that boy looks at you. He's been waiting at the love party for you to show up for a long time."
"He hasn't said it," I tell her.
"Who cares if he says he loves you? He shows he loves you. It's a lot easier for a guy to say I love you than to prove he means it. Trust me."
And I have to because of the two of us, she's the one who knows.
Neither of us can fall back asleep so we get dressed quietly. I borrow a light cotton t-shirt and a pair of cut-offs from her when I realize my bags are full of unmatched outfits. At least I grabbed underwear.
"Maybe we should swing by your house?" she suggests. "You could grab some stuff."
I bite the inside of my cheek and look for an excuse but she's right. Josie and I aren't exactly built the same way, which means our sartorial overlap is limited. Going home means I might run into my dad, though. The last time I saw my father was a bit of jumble. I have a faint memory of him visiting me in the hospital after the accident, but I was too drugged out at the time for it to count. Going back home, even to retrieve my belongings, might send the wrong message. After what Hans did, Dad looks better in comparison. But it doesn't undo what he did.
"Okay, spill," she demands when I remain silent. "What happened between you and your dad?"
I thought my fight with him was the low point of that evening until things got much worse. I'd been in no shape to tell Josie about it and from the time I wasn't on a perpetual dose of opioids, I'd wanted to forget that it had ever happened.
But you can't crash in your friend's bed indefinitely without giving up the goods. "He found out about Jameson and me."
"Oh, shit." Josie freezes and gives me her full attention leaving one eyebrow unlined. "I'm guessing he didn't take that well. Did he kick you out?"
I shake my head. That would have been far less complicated. "No, he tried to start a fight with Jameson and I got in the way."
"What are you saying?" Josie asks slowly. She’s starting to put the pieces together, but she’s still going to make me say it.
"He hit me—punched me to be precise." The nonchalant attitude I’m going for is completely undermined by the way my voice cracks when I say it aloud.
"Oh my god, I'm going to kill him." Her tone rises to an octave somewhere between shrill and ear splitting.
I wave my hands frantically before she gets too loud and wakes up her mom. "He was aiming for Jameson. I jumped in front of it."
"That doesn't make it right, Em."
"Agreed." She doesn’t have to tell me that twice. "But it’s also not abuse, so don't even think about calling him in."
"You mean like he did to your boyfriend? Did Jameson pummel him before or after he hit you?"
"After." Admitting it is cringe worthy.
"I'm sorry but I have to say this; what a piece of crap."
"I think he was trying to protect me," I say, dredging up one of the many theories I'd overanalyzed for the better part of the last month.
"By hitting you? Don't play that game, Emma."
"No, by turning Jameson in. He honestly thinks the Wests are dangerous."
"Someone did kill the patriarch," Josie points out.
"You make it sound Shakespearean." I take my phone off the charger and toss it into my bag.
"Shakespeare knew a thing or two about fucked up families," she reminds me.
"Mr. Hunter would be so proud of you right now," I tell her, thinking about the overeager English teacher at Belle Mère Prep.
Josie leans into the mirror to finish her other eyebrow. "Speaking of Hunter, what do you think of him?"
"As an educator?" I say with meaning.
"In general," she says bypassing awkward and going straight for uncomfortable. At least, she’s abandoning the topic of my dad.
"I think you already do well enough in that subject."
She flashes me a wide grin in the mirror, and I’m reminded of one of the other reasons that Belle Mère feels like home. "Oh, honey. I don't do it for the grades."
* * *
When we reach my house, I do a double take when I spot a white Mercedes, still sleek with factory wax, in the driveway. "Does he have company?"
"If he does, she has good taste," Josie says appreciatively. She pulls in next to it and eye fucks the car for a few seconds. I can’t blame her. Her Civic isn’t much to look at, but it is dependable. Two characteristics that mean nothing to a teenager.
Meanwhile, I stare at the house. The blinds are drawn, as usual. Pawnography, my dad’s pawn shop off the Strip, doesn't open for a few more hours, which means he's probably home. I haven't had the heart to check in with Jerry, his manager at the store, to see if Dad's been coming in.
"So, he's here." Leave Josie to face my conundrum head on.
"Yep." Facing things isn’t my strong suit.
We lapse into silence and she finally makes a suggestion. "We can come back later."
"There's a pretty good possibility he'll be here later, too." I unbuckle my seat belt and take a deep, steadying breath. There's also a good possibility that he's passed out from whatever he drank the night before. If so, I can probably get in and out before he knows I’m here.
"Wait, if he has company, do you really want to go in there? They could be…you know…"
She rolls her hips for emphasis.
I roll my eyes, "Gross."
"Just saying. I can go in if you want."
But I’ve made my decision. "No, I can do this."
When I reach the front door, I find it's unlocked. I’ll be lucky if the whole place hasn’t been robbed in my absence. But everything is in its place and there’s no evidence of squatters. The only difference is that Dad isn't on the couch. I consider peeking into his bedroom, but if Josie's right and he has someone over, that's the last thing I want to see. I already have step-daddy issues thanks to Hans, there's no need to further scar me.
My room is exactly how I left it, unmade bed and all. Most of my luggage is in Palm Springs, so I gather whatever bags I can and shove the contents of my closet inside.
"Emma?"
I jump, discovering my dad holding onto the doorframe. I can't tell if sleep or booze weighs down his eyelids.
"You're home," he says, but I shake my head vehemently. I don’t want to give him false hope. I’m not back to save him.
"No, I'm just here to get some stuff."
"Your mom called," he continues ignoring my denial. "She said you took off but she didn't say why. That’s the car she got you in the driveway."
That’s a better explanation for the phantom luxury vehicle’s presence than I could have hoped for. Then I remember she bought it with Hans’ money. Maybe later, I’ll take it to the desert and torch it. "Where are the keys?"
"On your dresser." He points to the fob. "It’s been waiting for you. I was tempted to take it out for a spin, but I was hoping you'd come home."
"I didn't," I repeat. "I'm staying with Josie, I just need some clothes."
"Look, Emma I think it would be better if you stayed here."
I abandon the packing and glare at him. "Right now what you think doesn't matter. I feel safer at the Deckards."
My words are a verbal slap across his face. He recoils, shame flitting over his features before he looks at the floor. "I know you don't believe this but it was an accident."
"Yeah, I accidentally got in the way of the fist you intended for Jameson." I don’t miss how he winces when I say his name. "Then you accidentally filed the police report against him for assault. I
could have done the same to you, but I didn’t."
I zip my old gym bag shut and throw it over my shoulder. The rest of my stuff is shoved into a couple of reusable grocery bags I found at the bottom of my closet. There’s a lifetime of memories in this room that can’t be packed away.
But maybe it’s time to leave them behind.
"You're still a minor," he says finally.
"Is that the only card parents have?" I ask him, recalling how my mom said the same thing that last night in Palm Springs. "Because I won't be a minor in a few days. So if you want to force me to stay here until I turn eighteen, go ahead. But when I do turn eighteen, I'll walk out that door and you'll never see me again."
"I don't want that," he begins.
"No, I didn't think so," I continue, not allowing him to interrupt my diatribe. "I need to come back on my own if I decide to come back at all."
"I want to make this right." There's a vulnerability in his voice that I've never heard from my father. I guess dads aren’t supposed to show their weaknesses. He’d never been able to hide his. I’d just never been one of them before.
"Then give it time," I advise him.
Sliding past him, I head down the hallway.
"Are you still seeing him?" he calls after me.
I stop and turn to face him. "Yes."
"Just to upset me?"
I shake my head. It's not the first time in my life I feel sorry for my father. What can make a person stop believing in other people? "No. I'm still seeing him because I love him."
I drop that bombshell and then I walk away, leaving him to figure out how to cope with the damage.
Chapter 10
It takes an embarrassing amount of time for me to realize that there is no key or ignition in this car. If I wanted to torch it before, now I’m planning on driving straight to get some gasoline for the bonfire. It's Josie who finally figures it out.
"Try that," she says, pointing to a button that reads on/off.