Gustavo looks pained. I guess as a movie-store manager, he’s something of an expert in the field. All he says, though, is “Yes, three.”
“Maybe you can bring the others over tomorrow?” Kait suggests in a way that makes me think Gustavo has already gotten lucky. Eewww, a day out of the hospital and she’s already back at it. Is that even physically possible?
“Kait, can you help me?” I hand her a popcorn bowl and nod toward the kitchen. Time for a sister-to-sister chat. As soon as we’re alone, I ask, “So soon?”
“What?” She blinks at me in confusion, then comprehension dawns when I point my finger in a little you-and-him gesture. “You think I ... ? Do you have any idea how sore my nipples are? Come on, Abby, even you should know there’s more than one way to satisfy a guy.”
Again, eewww. I shouldn’t have even asked. But the protectiveness I feel toward Stephanie makes me push ahead. “Even using, um, alternate methods, do you really think that’s something you should be doing around Steph?”
“She’ll be asleep.” Kait stacks the bowl in the sink, then turns and leans against the edge. “Not that this is any of your business.”
“How do you know she’ll sleep? What if she wakes up, right in the middle of you-know-what?” I pass her some plastic tumblers to add to the pile in the sink.
Kait shrugs and runs some water over the dishes. “The nurse practitioner told me preemies sleep a lot, and she’s right. I actually have to wake her up every four hours for her feedings. Then she drops right back to sleep. Don’t worry so much, Abby. Stephanie’s an easy baby.”
“That’s not how it was with Hannah,” I remind her. Hannah was a handful from day one.
“She had colic.” Shelby joins us in the kitchen, gets a spoon and the ice cream from the freezer, and helps herself to a few bites right out of the carton.
“I’m not saying I’m glad Stephanie was premature, but it’s nice that she’s so calm.” Kait gets her own spoon and digs out a scoop of cookies and cream. “Dr. Patty says that a serene and healthy mom raises a serene and healthy baby. So that’s my focus right now. Serene and healthy. It’s even more critical with preemies.”
Shelby grunts. “Right, premature. Kait, you’re not fooling anyone.”
Kait freezes, ice cream halfway to her mouth. “What are you talking about?”
Raising one perfectly plucked eyebrow, Shelby says, “If you count backwards nine months from Stephanie’s birthday, you end up at Jackson, not Steve.”
“No!” It’s Kait that says the word, but I’m definitely thinking it. “I know she’s Steve’s.”
“Wanting her to be Steve’s is very different from knowing.” Shelby licks the back of her spoon and tosses it in the sink. “I’m just saying, better come clean soon. Jackson would be a good dad for her.”
“You don’t know everything!” Kait yells, and huffs out of the room, definitely not serene. I saw the tears in her eyes, and a weird knot forms in my stomach.
“Five pounds, eleven ounces is a perfectly normal birth weight for a full-term baby,” Shelby tells me. “I looked it up.”
I just shake my head at her and leave. It was easier when I thought Shelby was lying, but birth weight is a fact. That Jackson and Kait slept together and Stephanie was born nine months later is a fact. I really don’t like how this is all adding up. Jackson, Stephanie’s dad? It’s so horrible, it just might be true.
Back in the living room, the boys have put on another movie, but it doesn’t look like anyone’s watching it. Kait is on the couch with Gustavo on the floor in front of her. He’s holding Stephanie while Kait gives him a shoulder massage. By the glazed expression on his face and the intense concentration on hers, they certainly have no idea that Indiana Jones is once again in a peck of trouble.
“Brian?” I decide it must be awkward for him to watch my sister put the moves on her boss. Almost as awkward as it is for me to think about just what “other ways to satisfy a guy” means. “Do you want to see the eighth wonder of the world?”
“Right here in Cottonwood?” His eyes lift at the corners when he smiles.
“Mm-hmm, follow me next door.” I lead, collecting Cody, and we go out the front and over to Cody’s house. I take a left through the family room and a right after the first bathroom.
“My room? That’s the big deal?” Cody has not said anything to Brian yet tonight outside of a quick hey when Brian walked in. I guess you could call that good behavior, so he’s not technically breaking his promise. He is careful to keep me between them.
I take three strides across the small room. Cody’s bed is neatly made, as always, with the navy spread he picked out when he was twelve. His books from school are piled, largest to smallest, on his built-in desk next to his laptop, which is open but sleeping.
Cody tries to distract me by saying, “I’ve got a whole week of Passion’s Promise on the DVR. Want to catch a few episodes?”
But it doesn’t work. What are Friday afternoons for if not for catching up on all my soaps? “Already seen ’em,” I reply.
“And you didn’t invite me over?” He tilts his head in that hurt way he has.
“You were pouting,” I remind him. Crossing the vaguely Navajo throw rug, I fling open the mirrored closet door. “Tada! Have you ever seen anything like it?”
If you watch a lot of reruns of Swept Clean! or Organize Me! like I do, then you have seen this before. Cody’s closet is a marvel of order. Clothes are separated by type, arranged by color from darks to lights, and all hung on black hangers.
“Everything looks good on black,” Cody says defensively, like we are going to judge him for his mono-color hangers.
Even more impressive, at least to me, is the shoe organizer with every shoe clean and matched with its mate. Since I share my closet with Kait, and neither one of us is especially concerned with closet cleanliness, finding a matching pair of shoes is like a treasure hunt. Cody has organized and reorganized my closet, but it never lasts.
“Wow,” Brian says. “My mom would kill for a closet like that.” He kneels down and looks at the bottom row of pants. “Are they arranged by style, too?” Khakis to the left, jeans in the middle, dress pants to the right.
Cody nods, and I could kick him for not talking to Brian.
“Tell him when you did this,” I prompt.
For a second, it looks like Cody’s not going to answer. Then he says, “Third grade.”
“Man,” Brian says. “But I guess my closet looks pretty much the same as it did back then, too. A total disaster.”
Another thing Brian and I have in common. “Me, too. Cody’s helped me a bunch of times, but I guess I don’t have the discipline it takes.” Or the anal retentiveness, or the cleaning lady who comes every other week to keep the rest of the room under control.
“Thanks for showing me,” Brian says. “I think I’m inspired to tame my own closet clutter.”
Cody flicks his gaze my way, like I should do something. But what? I know he won’t like what I’m going to do next.
“Cody could help you!” I say it like this brilliant idea has just occurred to me. “Maybe this weekend? Cody and I could come over. It’d be just like one of those shows!”
“Like HGTV?” Brian’s smile is really big and shows that one tooth is slightly crooked. This guy is so perfectly imperfect I could gag. “Awesome.”
“Great.” I seal the deal with a handshake. “Your designer, Cody, and his lovely assistant, me, will be glad to reorganize your closet. Hey, we could do before-and-after pictures!”
Brian gets into the idea. “I’ll take the before pics tonight, and you guys can come over tomorrow. This will be perfect.” His smile is for Cody, but Cody is looking out the window. His eyes are big.
“What is it?” The view from Cody’s room is of my driveway.
“Steve’s home.”
I rush to the window and jerk the blinds up and out of my way. Sure enough, the Guitar Player is in the driveway already getting into i
t with Mom. There is a tall, model-thin woman next to him. She must be the Guitar Groupie he stayed with when Kait was in the hospital. They are standing in front of a new Ford Focus. My first thought is how did she bend all that leg into such a tiny car? My second thought is I better get home right now. Because Mom was willing to buy the “She’s just a friend” line over the phone, but it looks like now that they’ve met in person, things are not all happy in Newlywed Land.
It’s dark, but that too-bright streetlight in front of our house illuminates the scene perfectly. The Guitar Player, motionless between the Groupie and my mom. The Groupie’s jaw chomping up and down on a piece of gum.
The Guitar Player’s voice floats from the driveway and through Cody’s open window. “Mona, I swear it didn’t mean anything.”
And to make things worse, a loud baby wail from my bedroom announces that Kait and Stephanie are watching it all from our window.
Kait flings open the window and holds Stephanie up. “Steve, look at our daughter! Isn’t she beautiful?”
Steve swivels his head around, and Kait actually dangles Stephanie out the window. Gustavo is behind her, engaged in a bit of careful wrestling to get the baby back into the room, but Kait won’t be budged.
I stick my own head out Cody’s window and scream, “Kait, get the baby inside now!”
She reels Stephanie back in. The Guitar Player’s head swings from the window, to the Groupie, to my mom.
“You said it was over with her,” the Groupie says, snapping her gum. Whether she means Mom or Kait or both is unclear.
“Over?” Mom shouts, hands clenching at her sides. “You bet it’s over!”
Mrs. Duran from across the street comes outside with a watering can. Only she doesn’t water any of her dying flowers, just stands in the drive and stares. The Guitar Player shouts something, then Mom yells back. Kait is crying and Stephanie lets out a scream loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood.
“I’d better get over there,” I say to the guys. “Sorry you have to see this, Brian.”
“No, it’s fine.” He has that look in his eyes that explains exactly why Jerry Springer has been on the air for so long. Who doesn’t like a nice white-trash scuffle now and then?
Cody hugs me before I go. “Come over later if you need to. You can sleep here.”
“I know.” It wouldn’t be the first time I’d hidden at Cody’s. I rest my chin on his shoulder and whisper, “Cody, give Brian a chance, will you? He seems so nice.”
Cody steps back, shoves me away from him. “What? What did you say to me?”
“I was trying to be discreet.” I look meaningfully in Brian’s direction. Brian is politely pretending not to pay attention, standing in front of Cody’s bookcase with his attention fixed on the collection of Little League trophies across the top.
“I am not gay.” Cody’s voice is low, but then he says it again louder. “I am not gay.”
Brian’s head whips around. I feel like I’m going to cry because I’ve never seen Cody look at me like this. Cold, flat. Like I’m no one to him.
“I . . . I didn’t mean . . .”
“You! You know I’m not! Say it, Abby.”
“You’re not gay. Okay, Cody, you’re not. I’m sorry.” Tears stream down my cheeks, but unlike the rest of my family, when I’m upset I get quieter, not louder. “Don’t be mad,” I whisper.
“Get out.” He points to the open door. He’s talking to me, but his eyes are on Brian. The coldness I see in him stutters my heart. It beats overtime, like a drummer on speed, when Cody says in his dead-serious way, “Abigail Elizabeth Savage, don’t bother coming back.”
Brian leaves through the door but I slip out the window, slide across the ledge, and land on the sandy ground. I wonder if what I’ve done is unforgivable.
Brian walks down to the street, where his car is parked. I catch up to him. Over the shouting in the driveway, I say, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s harder for some guys than others. Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll still help you with your closet.”
The smile he gives me is a dull version of the real thing. “Forget about it. I’d never be able to keep it clean anyway.”
He drives away and I turn to face my family. Still outside, still yelling. Now it has escalated to the point where no one is taking turns. They are all shouting or crying, and waving their hands around. Mrs. Duran has been joined by her husband, and they appear to be enjoying the show.
I put on my sternest face. I reach deep inside for the voice I use when Hannah is about to do something life-threatening and I bellow, “Everyone! In the house! Now!”
Chapter 10
Inside, Jackson sits at the kitchen table, eating our leftover pizza from last night.
“Make yourself at home,” I snap, and collapse into the chair across from him. Although I was quite clear that they should all come inside, I can still hear them yelling at each other in the yard. My Hannah voice was not enough to penetrate their white-trash-fighting-on-the-lawn haze.
Jackson holds out a piece of cold pizza for me. “You get some alone time with Bri-an?”
“No.” What I got was a big ol’ fight with Cody, but I’m not telling Jackson about any of it. I take a big bite of cold pineapple bits and congealed cheese. Yum. “I hate them. All of them.”
“Who?”
“My psycho family. Can’t you hear them?”
“I learned to tune out the Savage quarrels years ago. What’s this one about?”
That my family has had it out on the front lawn many a time before is no neighborhood secret. “I’m not sure. The Guitar Player’s back with some bimbo, and Kait’s pushing the baby out the window at him.”
“So Savage.” He fake shudders.
I pick off a hunk of pineapple and toss it at him. He bobs his head and catches it in his mouth. “Thanks.”
I contemplate throwing other, heavier, and more damaging things at him. Like the toaster. I could reach it from here.
Before I can act, Shelby walks in with Hannah on her hip. “What’s the racket?”
“Same old, same old,” Jackson says. “Want a slice?”
Shelby arranges a surprisingly compliant Hannah on a chair with a phone book under her. This brings her up so we can see her eyes and tip of her nose over the top of the table. It’s weird to see our mom’s eyes staring out of her chubby face.
“No, thanks. I’m gonna make Hannah a late-night snack and then it’s straight back to sleep—right, young lady?”
Hannah nods like a good girl, her razored bangs playing peek-a-boo with her eyebrows. Very suspicious. Bribery must be involved.
Shelby opens the freezer and looks in the door where we usually keep the ice cream. It’s empty. She pushes things aside, rearranges the frozen orange juice concentrate and the Ziploc bags of who-knows-what. No ice cream.
“Abs?” Shelby speaks very slowly. “Do you know where it is?”
“The ice cream?” I say, because I don’t think you should bribe three-year-olds into going to bed with a bowl of ice cream. It’s not like Shelby has dental insurance.
Hannah’s upper lip starts to quiver. Shelby sees it and searches more frantically through the freezer, shoving aside frozen peas and long-forgotten vegetable-medley packs. “Abs? A little help here?”
“Why would I know?”
Hannah whimpers.
“Abs, please. I haven’t slept in three nights. Please, please tell me there is ice cream in this freezer. It was here earlier tonight—why can’t I find it?”
Jackson moves his gaze from Shelby to me like it’s Wimbledon. His face is too carefully blank. I get up and look in the sink. Unrinsed ice-cream bowl.
“Ask Jackson,” I say.
He gives Shelby his heartbreaker smile. The one he tried with me when he said, “Yes, it’s technically possible that I’m the father.”
“You can’t expect a man to resist cookies and cream.” He smacks his lips.
Shelby
, who to my knowledge has not slept with Jackson but is obviously trying to rectify that situation, lights up. She pouts her full lip-glossed lips at him. “Jackson, I promised the baby some ice cream. Now what am I gonna do?”
On cue, Hannah lets out one of her patented howls. It goes on and on, like the fire alarm at school.
“Please?” Shelby does her shy smile, the one that tricks boys into thinking she’s a sweet thang when she really is a manipulative thang.
But it works, like it always does. Sometimes I think I was born without that special gene my sisters have. The gene that lets them know just what to say to get a guy to do anything they want.
Jackson stands and pushes in his chair. “Be right back, honey. ” I think he’s talking to Hannah, but I’m not sure. Hannah isn’t clear either, because her howl kicks up a notch, not high enough that only dogs can hear but close.
I cover my ears. “Comin’ with, Romeo. I can’t stand another second of this.” Jackson and I head down the hallway. As Hannah’s howls lower in volume, the fight outside becomes audible again.
“Tubes tied, my ass!” the Guitar Player is shouting at Mom. “You lied then and you’re probably lying now!”
“Yeah!” says the Guitar Groupie, hands on her hips.
Is that the sound of hair being ripped out of a head? No. We pass by them on the way to the car and I see that it’s just the Guitar Groupie’s too-tight shirt my mom has grabbed in her fist. The material in the back gives way, tearing apart to show there’s no bra underneath.
Mom sees me then. Lets go and says in a voice that I’m sure they can hear on the other side of Mingus Mountain, “Oh, Abby, if you go by the store, get me some laxatives, will you? I haven’t taken a decent crap in days.”
Mom lays into the Groupie again, the Guitar Player stepping between them like a referee in a prizefight gone bad. I cannot catch a break tonight. Not one.
Mrs. Duran doesn’t have much of a lawn—mostly sand and a few surviving patches of a grass that Mr. Duran is forced to mow once a month—but apparently it’s quite the hot spot this evening. It only takes a few minutes to get to Jackson’s car, but in that time, neighbors from up and down the street have gathered and are watching while my mom hangs on to the Guitar Player’s sleeve, begging him not to go off with that “piece of trash! I’m telling you she’s no good for you! Come inside and I’ll show you what you’ve been missing all these nights away!”
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