Tell Me Something Real

  “Shh, you’re fine. You’re in the guest room—Colt’s room,” he clarifies.

  I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. Ford notices, reaching over to the small bedside table and grabbing a water bottle. Before I can sit up, he has an arm around my shoulders, lifting me gently before handing me the bottle.

  The water is cool and heavenly when it hits my throat, and I gulp from it, ignoring the heavy feeling it puts in my belly. Ford eases it away, despite my protests.

  “Colt and Maggie said you need to be careful—you threw up from whatever they gave you in the ambulance. The doctors said your stomach would be a little queasy for a while as your sugar levels even out.”

  This sounds familiar, but the buzz is wearing off again, and sleep is pulling me. “Colt?” I say, turning onto my side when Ford lies me down again.

  He hesitates, his arm tensing a little. “He had some things to take care of.” Another pause, and then, “Sleep, Lincoln. I’ve got you.”

  Maggie’s been staring at me since I walked inside with Lincoln.

  The minute I stepped through the door, her eyes froze on me, taking in the picture of the slight girl in my arms, the way her face was pressed into the hollow of my neck and my shoulder.

  The way my arms tightened, bringing her even closer when Maggie found her voice and asked, “Where’s Colt?”

  “Home. He said you would know what to do.” The look on Maggie’s face confirmed what I was thinking: something was wrong if Lincoln was here, just out of the hospital, and Colt was somewhere else.

  That was a few hours ago. Now, I’m sitting downstairs at the kitchen table doing my AP calc homework while I wait to check on Lincoln again. According to Maggie—and Colt, before he bolted—she will need someone to wake her up and check her levels, something her body would normally do for her after this many years. Tonight, though, her body will only want to sleep, so she’s going to need help.

  I think of Colt again. I know I’m the reason he didn’t stay—and I know I should feel bad about it, but I don’t. Confused, but not bad.

  Lincoln needs him… and I think I need her. Maggie’s face tells me she’s starting to see all of this. Because I can’t stand the looks, I’ve focused mostly on my homework, losing myself in calculations and numbers—things that are consistent and always have a solution.

  “You look exactly like your dad right now.”

  My pencil freezes at the same time as my brain. I glance across the table to Maggie, uncertain how to proceed. She and Beau have never mentioned my dad—ever. Not since the day I showed up here and they asked me if I needed to use the landline to call him and let him know I arrived.

  I showed them the text I’d sent him, and that was the end of it.

  Until now.

  Circling her finger around the rim of her tea-cup—a delicate, bone china tea-cup that looks as out of place in this rustic kitchen as my dead Porsche would in the driveway—Maggie thinks for a minute and I stay silent, willing her to say more.

  I’m not sure why I care, but I do—I want to know if what Lincoln told me in the field that night was true, and I want to know if my dad really loved a girl. Jesus, I want to know my dad, beyond the man at a desk who’s been described as one of the most important men in aviation, who can look at plans for an airplane or spaceship and understand how to make it more fuel efficient, but can’t look at his son and explain how he feels.

  “Tommy was so studious, so driven,” Maggie continues finally. It takes me a minute to realize she’s talking about my dad. He’s always been B.T—initials of his real name, Beauford Thomas. My entire life, people have either referred to him as Mr. Slaughter, or he’s introduced himself as B.T., nothing else. Tommy… it’s childish. And another reminder that who my father was when he lived here is stranger and more unknown to me than the man I spent eighteen years with in Seattle.

  “He set a record for the most AP classes taken at the high school during his time there. Did you know that?” I shake my head. A small smile curves her lips, one that comes from memories and past moments before they became complicated. “Nicholas—his brother, Colt’s dad—skipped more class than he attended. We were always being called by the school. Even had a truancy officer stop by the house a time or two. But Tommy? He never missed. Sick, hurt, or tired from working all hours of the day on the farm during bad years, he got up and went to school every morning. Graduated valedictorian, a three-sport varsity athlete, and an Airforce man.” Now her smile dims, and I see it. “We didn’t realize that those would be his last days home.”

  “Did you see him after that?” My voice is low, but it seems to startle us both in the silent kitchen.

  She clears her throat. “A few times. We went to his officer induction—his first flight when he was at the academy. And then we went and saw he and your mother when they got married—we’d never met her before,” she says. “Didn’t know she existed. When Tommy left home…”

  “He left with a girl. People talk,” I say when her eyes find me. “Apparently, Colt and I remind them of an older set of Slaughter brothers, a set who loved the same girl.”

  She exhales a small breath, twisting her delicate cup around in her hands. “Ella Maria Gutierrez. She was brilliant, and just as driven as your father. They were beautiful together.” Her voice is quiet, and I sit very still, barely breathing, wondering if she’s going to choose silence again. “But, where your father was solely focused on himself, Ella was a girl who touched everyone’s lives. She always had a kind word for someone, a smile, or a hug. When Tommy brought her home to dinner, Nicholas fell for her. Your grandfather and I watched it, and I think even your father saw it that first moment. There was nothing anyone could do,” she murmurs. “Ella never encouraged Nicholas, never went beyond the kind smile or conversation, but it didn’t matter. He could only see her, even after she and your father left together to conquer the world.”

  “It didn’t last.”

  Maggie shakes her head, taking a small sip from her cup. “Like I said, Tommy was focused only on himself, and while Ella loved him, she was smart, too. Smart enough to know she’d never be first in Tommy’s life. She left him after the first year at the Academy. She was in school, and, as far as I know, she transferred out of Colorado and they haven’t spoken since. Her parents moved after she graduated.”

  “And my dad never talked about her after that?”

  She shakes her head again. “The next time we spoke to him, he called to tell us he was marrying your mother. A few months later, he was serving his time and we saw him for one weekend at your christening.” Maggie stands to put her teacup at the sink. She pauses there, and I watch her, a slender woman who holds her head high. “Your father was always bigger than this town, and he never wanted to be a farmer. Space was always his. And figuring out how things worked. He would lay under a tractor, taking it apart, only to put it back together again, or in the bed of a truck looking at the sky for hours. I think it was during those times that I knew he wouldn’t ever come back here. After Nicholas…I don’t think he could.”

  I don’t say anything, and Maggie, either used to it or more like me than I know, doesn’t pressure me to. She just stands at the sink, rinsing her cup and remembering her sons she lost in one way or another.

  “Do you have pictures?” I ask. She starts, turning her head to look over her shoulder. “Of my christening? I, ah, I don’t remember you. Or it. And if it’s not valued over a few thousand dollars, it’s not hanging in my parents’ house.”

  This makes Maggie laugh. “Your father always wanted the finer things. I’m glad he got them.”

  I look around the kitchen with its warm walls and butcher-block island, to the appliances that show use, the small pots of herbs behind the sink, and I know it hasn’t changed since my father and Colt’s lived here. And, then, I wonder why I should feel more like I live in a home here, in this out of date kitchen, than in the restaurant grade kitchen in my parents’ house.

>   “I do,” Maggie answers. “I also have photos of your father and your uncle somewhere. If you’d like, I’ll get them out and show them to you.” I nod.

  She checks the clock on the microwave and inclines her chin. “We should check on Lincoln.”

  The walk from the kitchen up the stairs and down the hall is short, but my heart is beating fast, and my breath is threatening to clog in my lungs. I stay quiet and remain behind Maggie when she eases the door open.

  The room is dark when we step inside, Maggie first and then me. I stay by the door, my eyes adjusting while she walks across the small space to Lincoln, snapping on the bedside lamp before she speaks.

  I watch, frozen and rapt while Lincoln turns away from her name, her small form looking even slighter under the dark quilt.

  “Lincoln, sweetie, we need to check your levels.”

  It takes maybe ten minutes, from the time Maggie begins to wake her, and the time she administers insulin because Lincoln’s levels are a little high. I watch the entire time, trying to observe Maggie’s actions, but getting lost while I focus on Lincoln’s pale face, her disoriented gaze when she looks around the room.

  For Colt.

  My chest pinches a little and I step forward, wishing he was here instead of me, because that’s what Lincoln wants: her best friend. Somehow, I’ve taken that from her.

  Colt didn’t have to give a reason for leaving—we both know why he did. I staked a claim on her, put my intentions out there when I asked him those questions, and again when I put my arm around her in the truck.

  I don’t know if I expected a fight from him, but I was ready for one, prepared even. What I wasn’t ready for was for him to back out, to leave her because of me.

  And I don’t know what it means for both of us that I’m here, looking at her while she comes back to herself, and he’s not. But I do know I wouldn’t be anywhere else.

  Maggie zips up the black kit that was sitting on the stand, and clicks off the lamp before standing. Suddenly, we both realize I’m no longer by the door; at some point, I walked over so I’m right next to the bed, hands fisted by my sides while I stare at Lincoln.

  “How is she?”

  Maggie glances at her and then me. “Good. Her levels always change at night—my guess would be that her body wakes her up naturally so she can administer insulin if she needs it. But, after going through the trauma of earlier, she’s too exhausted.”

  “Will she be better by tomorrow? Should she go to school?”

  “That will be up to her.” Maggie hesitates, and then adds, “She’s more than welcome to stay here until she’s better.” I nod.

  We stand, the silence stretched and a little awkward, both of us still uncertain how to interact with one another. Finally, Maggie steps back. “Do you want to sit with her for a while?”

  I look at her, then nod, grateful when she motions to the wingback chair snuggled into the corner near the bed. “She shouldn’t need more insulin tonight, but I’ll come in and check in a few hours.”

  Maggie goes to leave and I say her name. My hand begins to reach out, but I stop and let it fall back to my side because I don’t know what I’m doing. This woman is my grandmother, and right now my guardian, but I have no idea how to thank her—or anyone, for that matter. I was raised by a man who demanded, and a woman who manipulated. No one said please, and no one said thank you. That’s not how you act in a war, and that’s what my parents’ marriage is—a constant state of war.

  The only thing that united them was the agreement that I needed to go.

  “Thank you,” I finally croak out. My grandmother nods, and I hope it’s because she understands those words are for more than tonight.

  “I’ll be back in a while.”

  She leaves, closing the door behind her, and I tug the chair out of the corner and closer to Lincoln, easing down onto it and resting my elbows on my knees.

  I sit like that, watching Lincoln sleep, until the door opens again. But it isn’t Maggie who steps inside near dawn. It’s Colt.

  Colt’s staring at me when I open my eyes the next morning. Without a word, he hands me my kit.

  Because I don’t know how to read him right now, I take it and go through my process, reading my sugar levels, which are a little high, but not bad.

  “Maggie made breakfast— and she put some insulin pens in the fridge for you.” I look up and focus on my best friend. His eyes are dark and a little haunted, the visible stubble on his face telling me he hasn’t shaved in a significant amount of days.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Colt locks eyes with me now, and I reach out and grab his hand. “You were right yesterday—I was tired. And I shouldn’t have run.”

  I stop there, but a part of me feels like I should apologize for leaning on Ford—because I know that this awkwardness is about that moment more than anything.

  “You know I don’t want to make your life harder, Linc.” Colt sighs and leans forward, his head hanging down. He grips my hand between both of his and presses it to his forehead. “You’re my family—the one person who matters,” he says, and my heart aches. “And I can’t fix this for you—all I can do is try and keep you safe.”

  I want to tell him that I can keep myself safe—that it’s my life and my disease and there are going to be more bad days. If either of us know anything, we know that life has no easy days for people like us, the ones the world can’t quite understand.

  Instead, I take my free hand and run it over his head, using my nails when he groans. “You know I can’t withstand the head scratch.”

  “Consider it a thank you.”

  He stays there a minute longer, his hand capturing both of mine, his head pressed against them while I run my nails over his short hair. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  When Colt leans back, the shadows haven’t left his eyes.

  “Colt,” I say, gripping his hand before he can let go. But I never get the rest out—whatever it was I wanted to say or ask—because there’s a light knock on the door, and then it opens and Ford is there.

  It doesn’t matter that I see him every day—my breath hitches, and my stomach tightens. He’s beautiful, his dark hair damp and curling over his ears and collar, those dark eyes so serious when they laser in on my hand gripping Colt’s before they move to mine and hold them.

  “Shower’s free,” he says. Then he clears his throat, staying where he is in the doorway. Colt’s watching him, and Ford shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The material moves down a fraction, and my breath leaves me completely when I see a small expanse of taught skin on his stomach.

  “Maggie wanted me to tell you she has breakfast ready.”

  “Thank Christ. I could eat a horse.” Colt’s comment breaks through my reverie and I roll my eyes. “Want to ride to school with us today, Rich Boy?”

  Ford and I both look to Colt. His eyes are steady on his cousin, and even though words aren’t exchanged, I know something is happening. I just don’t know what. It doesn’t matter, because when I look at Ford, his eyes flick to my hand still holding Colt’s, and then he steps back until he’s out of the room completely.

  “Nah. Jacqueline is on her way. I’m just delivering the breakfast message before I go.” Before he leaves completely, he looks at me again. “There are pens in the fridge—insulin. And Maggie packed you a lunch, too. Eat it.”

  Then he’s gone, and I’m left sitting with my hand in Colt’s, wondering why my heart feels like it’s being pinched.

  “He doesn’t want Jackie.”

  I look at Colt, guilt washing over me because I know he can see my disappointment. “Everyone wants Jacqueline Foster, Colt. Even you.”

  He doesn’t take the bait and make a lewd comment like normal. He just stares at me, searching. “He’s with her because it’s easy. Because he understands what she wants. But he doesn’t want her.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense
. Besides, why are you telling me this? Your cousin’s love life is his own.”

  Colt looks ready to call me on my lie, but he stops at the last second, shaking his head instead. He leans forward, kissing me on the temple. “Loving you is the most natural thing in the world, Lincoln. But it’s also the hardest.”

  Ouch. “Thanks a lot.”

  Colt ignores my sass, holding me in place when I go to shove him off. Cupping my shoulders, he waits until I stop struggling. “It’s hard because you’re you, and no one is ever going to save you. You’re always going to be Type 1, and you’re always going to be the girl who challenges life to break you.” I deflate, because his words are nothing more than the truth. I am always going to be Type 1, which means, even if I don’t challenge my body, it will challenge me. I’ve never been one to sit idle, but having that pointed out isn’t flattering.

  Colt stands, giving my shoulders one more squeeze. “Even knowing all of that doesn’t stop a man from trying to be there for you—no matter what it does to him every time he fails.”

  Colt walks out, and I watch him, wondering how it is that both Slaughter boys could hurt my heart in the same morning.

  +

  “Hey, I’ve been looking for you all day. You weren’t in the cafeteria this morning, or at lunch.”

  I smile at Evie when she sits down next to me at my table in the library. It’s the last period of the day, and most seniors have an open so they can leave campus. Evie and I are no different—except she uses her free period at the end of every other day to work out, and I study and get as much homework done as possible before practice and work later tonight.

  Even if I didn’t work the late shift most nights, my house is not conducive to studying, with my mom screaming at her latest boyfriend—Phil—and the television blaring. Our walls are thin, and we live in the crack-head version of a bed and breakfast (one house, cut up into sections for each family), so we share walls on both sides and receive the noise of other fights and televisions and babies crying.