“I was thinking about Mom. And the letters.”
She gives me a smile. “It’s not time yet. But someday, mijo.” She presses a kiss to my forehead as she stands up.
She always does this when I’ve upset her, or when a conversation has gotten too serious too soon.
Every time I come over here, it’s always the same. I’m bloodied and bruised, my sister is exhausted like she’s the one who just got her ass kicked, and my brother withdraws even further into his shell. And Mama, well, she always walks away before she completely breaks down. Sometimes, it’s like she can’t even stand to look at me. And I don’t blame her. I can barely look myself in the mirror half the time.
“Hey, Ma?” I ask her, as she retreats.
She turns to face me and smiles. “Hmm?”
“Don’t tell Nic I’m here. It’s her anniversary…I don’t want her to worry.”
Her entire demeanor deflates, and I know she’s not happy with this arrangement. We both know that there’s no avoiding Nickayla once she finds out this shit with my dad is happening on a regular basis now. She’s happy, living with her boyfriend, completely oblivious to the world around her. For now, I’m happy to let her stay that way.
Almost two years ago, Nickayla was raped by our then-friend, Kyle, at a party. As a result, she withdrew from everyone that she loved, everyone that loved her. She wasn’t herself anymore—she was a complete shell of a person, and seeing her that way broke my heart. Well, what little was left of it. When her boyfriend Colin came around, he pulled her out of her funk. He brought her back to life, but in a different way. She’s more alive than I’ve ever seen her in my entire life. I don’t want to be the one to ruin that beautiful oblivion for her.
“Okay. But you have to tell her eventually, Brody Michael. You remember how upset you were that she didn’t tell you about what happened with Kyle?” she says with an eyebrow raise.
I flush, wishing that I could forget it. I was so pissed while Nickayla tried to tell me what happened to her, and I wanted to know who had done it. She didn’t tell me in the timely manner I would have liked her to, and my impatience got the best of me. The casualties were excessive—and I knew I’d never live it down.
“Yeah. I broke all your dishes.” I lower my head, ashamed of myself even though it’s been almost a year and I replaced her dishes already.
“That’s nothing compared to what my daughter will do if she finds out we kept this secret from her all this time.”
With those words, she heads upstairs to her room, and I’m left alone to my thoughts.
Fucking perfect.
…
WHEN I WAKE UP IN Nickayla’s old bedroom three hours later, I realize that this is the last place I want to be. I love the people here, but I hate the way they make me feel. I know they don’t do it intentionally, but whenever I’m around the Quinns, I feel like I’m a charity case.
Their family is completely opposite of how mine is. They have family dinner every Sunday, hug every time they see each other, and when there’s a problem, they lay it all out on the table. Shit, me, I’m lucky if my dad can be in my presence for longer than five minutes without bashing my face in.
I tug on a pair of shoes and a hoodie, wanting to get out of their house for a few hours at least. I know I can only stay here a few days before Dad starts to look for us, so I’m going to take advantage of this vacation as much as possible. Downstairs, Nikkolas is still playing video games with Cason, and I pat him on his shoulder to get his attention. He gives me a sympathetic glance.
I’ve known this kid since we were both in diapers, and I can never get over the fact that he looks at me like some sort of kicked puppy every time I end up on his front porch steps with my siblings.
“I need the keys, Nikkolas. Ma said I could use the car whenever I wanted,” I tell him. I only add that last part on because I know no matter how badly he wants to keep the keys to his car so he can go see his girlfriend, he wouldn’t dare go against his mother. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
He grimaces, but he still reaches in his pocket and tosses them to me.
My sister’s curled up into a ball on the couch, and as much as I hate to, I nudge her awake. She stretches out and then turns over to look at me. Her eyes pierce mine and crinkle in worry when she sees for the first time the entire extent of the damage I’ve suffered.
Besides the lacerations, scars, and the dislocation of my nose after it got broken last year, I’ve got a busted lip, a gash on my forehead, and a black eye. And that’s just the damage to my face. Thankfully, she can’t see the dull ache in my chest, the throbbing in my back, and the cut on my leg that has me limping—well, she can’t see that part yet. But what she can see is bad enough that she looks like she’s about to cry.
“Bubba?” she asks, her voice still thick and groggy from sleep. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “I was gonna go get some ice cream, and I wanted to see if you wanna go.”
Dalis smiles, and she sits up. Stretching, she runs her fingers through her short hair and yawns. I can’t help but watch her when she moves—it’s the protective brother in me.
The beatings started for me about six months after Mom passed away. I had just brought the kids home from school and was making them dinner when Dalis started crying. I never found out what she was crying for, because when I made it to the living room, I was just in time to watch my father hit her across the face so hard, she was knocked unconscious. He braced himself over her, looking like a vulture about to go in for the kill, and I stepped in. I took the beating for her in silence, and then when I got her to wake up, I promised her that he’d never lay a hand on her again.
I carry the scars of all the times it should have been her but wasn’t, on my back, chest, legs, and arms. And I’d bear the pain of every single one a million times over as long as I never have to see that pain, that fear in her eyes again.
She’s only twelve years old. She barely understands half of what’s going on, and that’s because of me. And Cason, sometimes. I shelter her as much as possible, because she’s the baby. She’s never had to watch him hit me, never had to hear it. She had to see the results afterward, but she never knew that I got my ass handed to me day after day just so that she wouldn’t have to.
“I’m ready,” Dalis says.
I nod, opening the door for her and leading her outside. I pop my head back inside the house to check on Cason, and he smiles at me. Well, shit. I haven’t gotten a smile out of that kid in months.
Of the three of us, he looks the most like our dad. Dark blond hair, an icy blue stare, smooth skin that’s so pale he could be related to Powder. Yeah, he’s Andrew Durham’s twin to a T. I’m not sure how much that affects him, but I’d wager that if I had to stare at my demon every day in the mirror, I’d be three times as fucked up as I am now. All that I can do for him, though, is try to keep him from thinking about it long enough to enjoy his life as a teenager. I sacrificed mine so that he could experience his to the fullest, and I do my best to make sure that he does.
“Case, you want anything?” I ask him.
His head whips in my direction momentarily, and I watch as he winces when his eyes land on me. He inhales, and then says, “Could you get me a Blizzard? The Oreo one?”
Nodding, I make a mental note of that. “ Sure. Nikkolas?”
My friend shakes his head, continues playing his game. “Nah, just hurry back, man. I have to go pick Sarah and Emmy up at 9.”
Ah. That’s why he was reluctant to give the car keys over.
Either way, it won’t take Dalis and me three hours to do what we have to do. She’s been wanting to go to the beach since the summertime, but I was too busy chasing my ex-girlfriend Michele across the fucking country to take her. It’s a pretty decent day for a Friday evening in January, so I figure we can get a Little Caesar’s pizza and get her mind off of everything as the waves roll in, then get our ice cream on our way home. She’ll love that.
She’
s so small, so timid. It’s like I’ve saved her in every way except the ones that count. She hasn’t been beaten every day for six years, and I work my ass off to make sure she has anything she could ever want or need. But she doesn’t have the blissfully ignorant childhood she deserved. She shouldn’t know how ugly the world really is at twelve. She shouldn’t drop her head and hunch her shoulders when she’s in the presence of a male who’s older than her, shouldn’t lose the light in her eyes when she sets foot through her own front door.
I know I can’t erase the pain for her, can’t take away the fear behind her gray gaze, but I can make the rest of her days here enjoyable.
I close the front door behind me and climb into the driver’s seat beside my sister.
“What d’you wanna listen to?” I ask, looking over at her as I buckle my seat belt.
“One Direction,” she replies with a shy smile.
I grin, turning Nikky’s iPod to Sarah’s playlist, which I’m sure has some One Direction on it to appease her. When I find a song I think she’ll like—and one that I unfortunately know the words to—I hit play, and bob my head to the opening notes of What Makes You Beautiful.
She starts singing immediately, giggling when I turn the volume all the way up and sing right along with her. She rolls down her window, and as we pull out of the Quinn’s driveway, her hair starts to swing in the breeze. She closes her eyes, and loses herself in the moment.
I could live in this one with her forever.
TWO
“COME ON, MILA. EAT. Say ‘Ahh’,” I beg my one year old sister, holding a spoonful of Chef Boyardee ravioli in my hand.
She grins at me, that cheesy, gap-toothed smile I’ve fallen in love with since her two front teeth came in. As much as I want to be mad at her, I know I can’t be. Our miracle baby stole my heart the minute we found out Mom was pregnant.
Mila came when we least expected her, when Mom thought she couldn’t have any more kids despite the fact that she wanted at least two more. But even so, she came right when I needed her most.
Daddy worked a lot during the pregnancy. He worked like crazy, and Mom couldn’t stand to do anything alone, not when she always had one of us by her side. So I volunteered.
I went to every ultrasound appointment that Daddy missed, was her partner at Lamaze, planned her baby shower, decorated the nursery, picked out her name—she’s named for my favorite actress, Mila Kunis—and I held her hand while she gave birth.
Mila helped me more than she’ll ever know. I had a lot of shit going on when Mom found out about her impending arrival. I stepped up to the plate, not because Mom needed someone to. But because I needed to be needed just so I wouldn’t stay locked in my room, staring at four walls, and thinking about him all damn day.
“Here, let me try,” Bianca says, securing a liga around her long black locks as she strolls into the kitchen. “You have to get ready for work.”
As much as I hate to admit it—and hate to relinquish Mila over to her second favorite sister’s care—I know that Bianca is right.
Today, I’ve been called in a day early to work at this swanky new restaurant called Le Chateau D’If for a private opening. The owner’s kid was supposed to work, but he backed out last minute. Thank God she chose me to take his place. I’m trying to save up and get secure so I can move into my own apartment after graduation.
“You may be right, but good luck with that one. She may have Daddy’s looks, but she has Mom’s attitude. She’s gonna fight you until your last breath.” I kiss my baby sister on the head as she smiles up at me. “Goddamn Leos.”
“Don’t forget you have to take Gracie to soccer practice. Mom said she’ll pick her up, but you have to drop her off. Dad’s working again,” Bianca calls.
I nod, although I’m not too happy about this. That means I have to get ready now, instead of an hour from now, make sure G has all her shit, drive her all the way in one direction, and then turn around and go in the complete opposite direction to get to work. It’s exhausting just thinking about it.
I trot upstairs to get ready, dancing around to my workout mix on my iPod.
Thirty minutes later, I’m pulling my arms through my white button down. When I button it up and tuck it into my black slacks, I turn to and fro in front of my floor-length mirror. I groan.
I look like a fucking teacher or something equally as lame. Suddenly, I can’t wait until I turn eighteen so I can work the bar. Their uniform is more my speed—t-shirts, black shorts, and whatever shoes we want to wear as long as we can work more than four hours in them.
Grabbing my can of hairspray, I spritz it all over my head in an attempt to tame the hairs that are threatening to fly out of my ponytail.
I glance in the mirror one last time, and I groan again. This is as good as it’s going to get.
I grab my cell phone and my purse before heading across the hall to the girls’ room. I try in vain to turn the knob, but I find quickly that it’s locked. I knock on it, and I hear struggling inside.
“G, open the door, mamita. We have to go or you’ll be late to soccer practice!” I call.
“Be out in a sec!”
I roll my eyes.
My sister is so high maintenance. At seven years old, she takes an hour to get ready for school, needs her hair to be perfectly tamed at all times, and if we ever leave her unattended in a store that sells makeup, she’ll come to the cash register with a basket full of an assortment of lip glosses. She’s a lot like me in that regard. But I wish she wasn’t so much like me right now because we have to leave the house in five minutes if we’re both to get to our destinations on time.
“G! We have five minutes! Coach Jones is gonna have your ass if you’re late again.”
“I said I’ll be out in a sec! Gosh!”
Even through the door, I know for a fact she’s rolling her eyes at me.
“Grecia Yaneli Matteo you have ten seconds to get your skinny ass out that door and downstairs or so help me God, I’ll drag you to my car by your trensas!”
I fold my arms and start counting backward from ten in my head. I can hear her rustling and bustling inside, so I know she’s taking my threat seriously.
“Seven…”
I hear her sigh in frustration, and I chuckle a bit inside. She’s too much like me.
“Four…”
There’s a banging noise, and I get a little worried that maybe she’s fallen or hurt herself. After a few moments of that, though, I shrug and lean against the wall opposite the girls’ room. There’s nothing I can do from outside a locked door.
“Two…”
The minute the word “two” escapes my lips, the door is wrenched open and I’m staring at Mom’s miniature doppelganger.
Dark chestnut hair drapes over her shoulder in a French braid that reaches her ribs, and bright hazel eyes glare at me the minute she steps out of her bedroom. I smirk at her, trying to suppress the laughter that’s been building since I knocked on her door.
“You suck turtle eggs, Bree.” She sticks her tongue out at me and then flips her braid over her shoulder as she saunters off down the stairs.
I say a silent prayer before I sulk down the stairs with her. If this is any indication, it’s going to be a really long day.
Back in the kitchen, Bianca’s once-perfect ponytail is matted with food and her face is splattered with red sauce in tiny splotches. I cover my mouth to keep from laughing and she shoots me a death glare.
“I’ll trade places with you any day,” she whines.
“If that were possible, I’d totally let you. Unfortunately, I’m on rich white people duty, and you’re on baby duty.” Gracie kisses Mila on the head and walks out the back door, headed for the car. “Make sure she eats at least what she dumped onto this damn high chair tray. If she does that, you can reward her with flan.”
Bianca nods, turning back to face Mila. I follow Gracie out the door. Climbing into my car, I’m not paying attention to who’s around me. In fact, I�
��m not paying attention to anything but the blaring time on my dashboard. When I turn to put my seat belt on, I see someone coming toward the car in my peripheral vision.
I look in the direction of the figure and groan aloud.
“Hey, babe,” Maddox says, leaning into my window. “Hey, Grace.”
I catch my sister as she rolls her eyes and pops the headphones to her tablet in her ear.
“One, don’t call me ‘babe’. Two, the next time you look twice in one of my sisters’ directions—even Mila’s—I will cut your dick off.” He raises his eyebrows but wisely nods. “Now what the fuck do you want?”
He winces outwardly and presses a hand against my car. His entire body tenses up and he looks at me, an apology written all over his face. The crazy thing is, though, it’s been six months since it happened, and he still has never actually apologized.
“It’s been six months, Sabrina. When will you forgive me?”
I look straight ahead and rev my engine. “You have two seconds to get away from my car or I’ll run you over. I swear, I will.”
I don’t wait for a response. I just put the car in drive and drive off. The hairs on my arms are standing on end, and I’m shaking uncontrollably.
I take a deep breath, and when I exhale, Gracie reaches over to hold my hand. She gives me a reassuring squeeze, and I sigh.
I hate living so close to my ex-boyfriend. I hate it. It just makes things a million times more awkward than they have to be. The worst part about our breakup, though, is the fact that he makes me feel that A) I have to look over my shoulder when he’s around and B) I no longer trust him with my family.
“You know, maybe you should consider talking to Bee about the restraining order,” Grecia offers.
I shake my head. I considered that when everything initially happened, and it just made no sense to do that. He goes to college an hour away ten months out of the year. When he’s in town, we hardly ever see him. But it’s those rare occurrences that fuck everything up.
“No point,” I say, brushing her off. “Bee doesn’t want to.”
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