project

by Torrance, Asa

  My mother tilts her head back like she’s just been lightly slapped, with a compliment of all things. “It was nothing.”

  “Don’t be modest,” Vivian chides from her place across the table.

  Mom gives a laugh. “Fine. Then it was my pleasure.”

  “Better,” Vivian says with a laugh of her own.

  A carving knife sits atop a napkin in the middle of the table. For some reason, it makes me nervous to see it.

  “Should I carve into the roast?” Mom offers.

  “That job is usually reserved for the man of the house,” Sheriff Black says. His hand moves across the table, but he stops just short of taking hold of the knife. “Damien, why don’t you do it?”

  It’s the first thing he’s said to his son all night, and I dare to glance next to me, surveilling Damien’s expression with a closeted gaze. He shifts an aloof stare across the table, eyes dipping like a downed airplane to where his father is still holding out his hand.

  Without a word, he gets to his feet and reaches across the table to take the knife. I can’t shake the feeling that this is exactly what Sheriff Black wanted, a test of patience employed in front of everyone.

  Damien’s fingers curl around the handle of the knife, and I watch with trepidation as he raises it up. If he did anything besides carve the stupid roast, could I really blame him?

  No, I think.

  The thought is ridiculous. Damien may be reckless, but somehow he’s also careful about when and where he loses control.

  The blade of the knife slices into the roasted exterior of the chicken, exposing the white flesh just below the surface. It’s a clean cut, and Damien’s father looks on with smug satisfaction.

  Slowly, methodically, Damien continues to slice through the meat, hefting out portions one by one until everyone has been served. Then he relinquishes the knife, and sits back down.

  “Thank you, Damien,” Mom says.

  “Yes, thank you, Damien,” Sheriff Black adds. “Only I think I’d like a little more dark meat on my plate.” He slides his plate forward with the push of a finger. “Would you?”

  Damien doesn’t move. I can tell he’s considering ignoring his father’s request entirely, because it’s nothing more than a twisted power play. I should be thrilled he’s finally getting a taste of his own medicine, should be anthropologically interested in the way the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but instead all I can do is hold my breath and wait.

  Slowly, the legs of his chair scrape across the dining room floor as he gets up. His fingers curl around the handle of the knife again with a systematic precision. I can tell he’s still considering what to do, thinking that maybe he doesn’t give a shit what my mom thinks anymore, or what I’ll see, or what might happen to him if he actually snaps.

  I’m not sure if I’d even blame him at this point. The arrogant look on Sheriff Black’s face nearly makes me want to slap him myself.

  And I really wish he’d get the fuck out my dad’s chair.

  But the knife only slices through the chicken again, and another portion is hefted onto Damien’s father’s plate, the lion’s share.

  “You must be hungry,” my mother comments good-naturedly.

  “I saved my appetite for this particular occasion,” Sheriff Black says, his eyes raising to my face as Damien slides back into the chair next to me. “Thank you, son. And thank you, Helen, for extending the invitation.”

  “It was my pleasure,” my mother says. “I only wish George could be here.”

  “George?” Damien’s mother repeats, interest tinging her voice.

  For once, my mother’s cheeks tint slightly. “Just a friend.”

  I roll my eyes, disguised by a downward gaze.

  Just a friend she spends the night with.

  “Well, cheers to that,” Vivian says, lifting her mostly empty glass.

  “Would you like a refill?” Mom asks, reaching for the bottle of chardonnay on the table.

  “No,” Sheriff Black says simply, and Vivian lowers her glass, embarrassment clouding her face.

  My mother clears her throat. “Well, you’ll want to save room for coffee later, anyway.”

  My fork clinks against my plate as I bring listless bite after bite up to my lips. Normally, a meal like this would have me more enthusiastic, but everything tonight has been so awkward it’s pretty much killed my appetite. I just want to get through this, the same way I’m sure Damien does, and maybe even my mother. So far, her little plan to bring Damien and his father back together hasn’t panned out, but I hope she realizes why.

  It’s not Damien. It’s Sheriff Black.

  “So, you’ve finally been able to move on since losing Mark?”

  My eyes flutter up to Damien’s father, my father’s name fresh off his lips in a way that nearly makes me cringe.

  Mom doesn’t bat an eyelash, but I know the question felt just as abrupt to her as it did to me. “It’s been a slow process,” she declares with a diplomatic smile. “But I’d like to think Mark would want that for me.”

  Sheriff Black nods, a judgmental look tinging his eyes as he brings a bite of chicken up to his mouth before continuing. He chews slowly, measuring his next words, and focusing on me. “And, Windy? Does she have your blessing in that?”

  I shrug before I can formulate an answer. “I mean, she really didn’t ask me,” I murmur, my pulse beginning to pick up speed. I look at my mother. “But she didn’t have to.”

  “Well, that’s not true,” Mom says. “You know I care about what you think.”

  “I know,” I say quickly, wanting this part of the conversation to be over, and the attention to be off me, off us.

  “It’s good for things to move on,” Sheriff Black says finally. “It’s the natural progression of life after all.”

  Mom gives a nod, raising her wine glass to her lips. “Well, cheers to that,” she says, bit by the awkwardness of having no one else to drink with, but she takes a long sip all the same.

  And right now, that half drained bottle of chardonnay is looking pretty good. I would do anything to take the edge off this whole evening. I don’t remember Jessa’s parents being this way, so fraught with tension from the control Sheriff Black obviously exerts over the family in every way.

  It leaves me with questions about her home life, the things that stressed her out the most, the things she wouldn’t talk about, not even with me.

  My heart continues to race, so hard that I set my fork down and curl my hands into my lap, below the table and out of the view of everyone else. In another second, it feels like they would be ready to start shaking, and I’m not ready to show that much weakness in front of this many people.

  But I know Damien notices, can feel him staring at me, his fork slowing over his own plate as he reaches down and curls his fist around his napkin.

  I’m fine, I tell myself. This will all be over soon.

  “That reminds me,” Sheriff Black says suddenly, pulling something from his jacket pocket. “I brought this over for Windy. I thought she should have it.”

  My eyes flutter up to the item in his hand a split second before he sets it on the table between us.

  “Here you go, Windy,” he says. “She wrote about you the most.”

  23

  I stare down at Jessa’s journal like a bullseye on a target. I’ve been meaning to get it back from the house, and now it’s been brought to me.

  Only not to me. To Windy.

  My hands grip the table in front of me as my gaze strays towards the knife still sitting in the middle of the table. For once, Sheriff Black is out of uniform, and while he’s probably not totally unarmed, all the usual bells and whistles aren’t accessible. It would only take me a second to lunge across the table, and start carving him up like a dead bird.

  Instead, I wait, because I don’t quite understand the angle he’s trying to play.

  “Wow,” Windy utters, a noise she manage
s to choke out despite her clenched up expression. “That was so…thoughtful.”

  It wasn’t thoughtful. It was evil.

  I stare across the table at the Sheriff. By now I know he knows exactly what I know, has read exactly what I’ve read.

  Windy reaches across the table, taking the journal into her hands and setting it onto her lap.

  My mother clears her throat, scared of the awkwardness but not surprised. “So,” she says. “How has school been for you both?”

  I give a nod. “Great.”

  “Better than military school?” my father asks as a smirk curls his lips. “You were awfully anxious to get out of there once you could make the call.”

  Yeah, and it pissed you off, didn’t it?

  Not being able to control every aspect of his family’s life has always been a sore spot for him. Maybe my sister knew as long as he ruled, she would never see an ounce of real freedom.

  “Don’t get me wrong, military school was great,” I say, my tone so dripping with sarcasm it’s obvious to everyone sitting at the table.

  Windy reaches across the table with a slightly shaky hand to wrap her hand around the stem of her glass and take a long drink.

  “You know, I realize this is the first time all of us have been in the same room together since Jessa died,” the Sheriff says.

  I catch the surprise on Windy’s face again, that deer-caught-in-headlights look she gets, right before I turn my attention to the man sitting at the head of the table.

  If you can even call him that.

  He’s emotionally fucking bankrupt, using my sister’s death to hold us all ransom. That knife sitting in the middle of the table never looked so good.

  “It is,” Windy murmurs, looking at me. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

  I draw my eyes somewhere else, anywhere else but an actual human face. Looking at my so-called father makes me feel like I could explode and looking at Windy just highlights her pain and reminds me of my own.

  The rest of the dinner prattles on, and Jessa’s name isn’t mentioned again. Plates are cleared, and dessert is offered which my parents are somehow savvy enough to decline. No one wants this get-together to happen anymore, in fact, it outstayed its welcome a long time ago.

  But my father isn’t done with me yet, and as my mom and Windy’s mother go through a lengthy series of goodbyes and promises to call in the kitchen, he beckons me outside.

  I follow him, dragging ass, going slow just to annoy him. I know what’s behind this little one-on-one before he even says a word.

  “I think it’s time for you to come home.”

  A laugh sputters from my lips, unintentional, but once it starts I don’t try to stop it. “No.”

  “I’m not asking, boy.”

  I shake my head. “What are you going to do, have me arrested? You gonna roll up in your police cruiser and take me away again?” I move closer to him, and for the first time, I realize I’m bigger than him. Maybe I have been for a while, but I haven’t seen him for so long, and under the pretenses of a fair fight, that I hadn’t realized it. “How are you going to convince me to come home?” I ask him, watching as anger roils just beneath the surface of his calm façade. “I don’t think you can.”

  “You’re the heir to the Black name. If you would only straighten up and fly right, and stop entertaining the foolish notions of those damn Valentinos. Your mother’s family is nothing but trash.”

  “What if I like their pedigree better than yours?” I say. “What if I don’t want to walk the straight and narrow for this city the way you did? What if I just want to watch it burn?”

  He looks at me with a tight-lipped grimace. No one messes with Sheriff Black’s city. It puts his reputation on the line, something that means everything to him. “You’ll be making a grave mistake,” he warns.

  “Is that supposed to scare me?”

  But I know I’m playing with fire. My father is well connected, the type of person that could make someone disappear, with all the official paperwork to go with it, or not. He’s been a master of gaming the system his entire life, a man born into power and dead set on amassing every last bit of it he can, hoarding it like a dragon with gold coins.

  The Valentinos, and the gangs of Diablo Beach, have been the answer to that. A remedy to the Sheriff Blacks of this city, and the Mayor Redwoods.

  I lean in closer to him. “I know you haven’t thought of me as your son for a long time now. The random ‘drug’ tests, the exhumation, the way you sent me away. Are you sure you want me as an heir?”

  The Sheriff’s eyes fill with rage. “I’ll destroy you, and everything you care about.”

  “I’d like to see you try,” I growl. But I know I shouldn’t test him, because like me, he always keeps his promises.

  “There you two are,” my mother’s voice cuts through the air, and I turn to see her coming out of the house. Windy and her mom are conspicuously absent, a fact I’m glad for. I don’t want my father’s eyes on Windy again, I want him to forget she even exists.

  But I know as long as I stay here, she’ll be a target. He won’t forget she’s here, and the longer I stay, the more I care about her. For all the ways I’m still clutching the resentment I felt towards her before I moved in, now that feeling is playing second fiddle to actually caring about her again.

  My father strides away, and I lean forward and give my mother a kiss on the cheek. “Bye, Mom,” I tell her. I don’t know when I’ll see her again, not the way she lives under lock and key in my father’s house, a willing victim the way she always has been, a woman eager for status and all the things it brings, even if it’s ugly.

  “Bye, son,” she says, pressing something into my chest. An envelope, one I slide into my pocket. She looks at me, her eyes wide. “What we talked about. It’s your choice now.”

  I give a nod, but the look she gives me is all but confirmation.

  Sheriff Black isn’t really my father.

  24

  I stand poised in front of the kitchen sink, water running over hands that are turning pruney from washing the same plate over and over again, but I can’t look away.

  Damien is standing outside with his parents, looking tense. All of them look tense, unhappy, broken in some way. I’m sure they are.

  I know I’ve felt that way since Jessa left. If she knew this would have happened to her family, would she have still done what she did? If I had known, would I have let her?

  Finally, Damien begins to walk back towards the house, and I drop the plate into the sink, cursing as it splits into two pieces of white china. “Fuck.” I bring my finger up to my mouth instinctively as a thin line of blood spreads across one of my fingertips.

  “I’ll get it, sweetie,” my mother says from behind me as she wipes down the counters, a job that’s interspersed with rounds of furious texting on her phone. I’m sure she’s probably spilling the beans to either George or one of her friends about our super weird evening with Sheriff Black, and I’m nearly glad she’s as distracted as I am.

  I take the opportunity to leave the kitchen, my footsteps hurrying through the abandoned dining room. I pick up Jessa’s journal from where I left it at the table just as Damien throws open the front door and looks at me, a blank expression covering his face like a blanket, one that obscures any chance I had of figuring out his true emotions.

  Then again, I sort of just intrinsically know he’s pissed off. “What do you want?” he growls at me in a low voice. It’s one that’s supposed to avoid my mother’s earshot, but it just makes him sound even angrier than before.

  Before I can say anything, he turns away from me and begins heading upstairs. Against my own better judgment, I follow, tracing his thudding steps down the hallway to his room.

  “Stop following me, Windy,” he warns me, but I hold my ground, watching with trepidation as he drags his lone duffel bag out from under the bed and begins stuffing odds and ends strewn around the
room inside.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “What do you think I’m doing?” he murmurs, and even if it’s not a satisfactory answer, I’m glad he hasn’t ignored me entirely.

  “What, you’re leaving now?”

  “Yep.”

  My heart drops in my chest like someone has just thrown it off the second story balcony. “Why?”

  He doesn’t answer me this time, at least not right away. Instead, I watch his quick and steady movements as they sweep across the room, collecting everything he might be in danger of leaving behind.

  But I know he doesn’t plan on taking me with him. I’ll inevitably be the one that’s left behind, and even though I know I was supposed to be waiting for this day, looking forward to it, I suddenly can’t control myself. “Damien.”

  He gazes over at me. “It’s nothing personal, Wind.”

  “Well, it’s not me I’m worried about,” I lie. “My mom is going to take you leaving tonight really personal, she’s going to think she did something wrong—”

  “It has nothing to do with her,” he tells me. “I just can’t stay here anymore. I’ll say my parents extended an invitation to come back home, and that’ll be the end of it.” He gives me a serious look. “And I don’t expect you to tell her anything different.”

  I cross my arms. “But that’s a lie, though, right? They didn’t actually tell you to come home?”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “No, they did, simple as that. So that’s where I’m going.”

  “Liar,” I shoot back. “You know it, and I know it. You wouldn’t be caught dead in that house anymore—”

  Damien steps forward, clamping a hand over my mouth to keep me from saying anything more. I suck in a breath and wait for him to release me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he draws me close and looks into my eyes.

  “You and I aren’t friends, Windy, so stop acting like you know me. Wherever I end up going is none of your goddamn business, understand?”

  I glare at him despite the hammering pulse I feel beating away inside my neck. He lifts his hand from my mouth, his own glare daring me to say something more.