by R. K. Ryals
“My grandmother,” I murmured.
“I don’t need this,” Deena cried. “She does! She’s the one who helped him. She’s the one who helped our father kill himself!”
The gym fell into silence, Deena’s yell echoing.
My heart plummeted to my feet. Deena was reaching, and I didn’t blame her. I’d thrown this boxing thing on her out of nowhere all because Eli’s words the night before had pulled me in. Deena’s anger had prompted Hetty’s agreement. Now that my sister knew she wasn’t getting out of it, she was in attack mode. It would have hurt less if I didn’t agree with her.
Eli leaned toward her. “Maybe you should stop making accusations and start working out that anger.”
Ray watched them, a curious look on his face, before he turned, walked into an office behind the wall of punching bags, and then returned with a sheaf of papers.
“Bring these back, and we’ll see what we can do,” he told me.
My face burned, any words I might have said shamed out of me.
Deena smirked. “Do I get to hit you?” she asked Eli.
“You’ll get the chance,” he hedged. “At some point.”
Deena glanced at the gym, at the punching bags, the ring, and the ceiling-mounted televisions. Her gaze fell on a woman working a blue bag, her forehead creased, sweat dripping down her brow.
“Whatever,” she muttered, her face falling.
Shoving past me, she bumped into my side, pulled the gym door open, and stormed outside.
“She’s interested,” Ray said, grinning.
Surprised, I glanced at him, Deena’s words digging a hole in my heart. “How can you tell?”
He peered at me. “Because they all come in like that. All spit and fire and fight. Feigning disinterest when, truthfully, you never would have gotten her in here if she wasn’t a little fascinated.”
I gripped the papers he’d given me. “Thank you.”
Lifting his fedora, he winked and walked away.
Eli stared down at me. “What about you?” he asked. He gestured at the room. “Think you might be interested?”
“In boxing?” I shook my head. “This isn’t my kind of thing.”
“You know that how?”
“Because it isn’t,” I said, my tone final.
“Hm,” he whispered. “How do you know you’re going to hate something when you haven’t given yourself a chance to like it?” My stomach knotted. “You’ve got a lot going on behind those eyes of yours, roof girl.”
I dropped my gaze. “Who doesn’t? Stay out of my head, okay?”
He bent, his eyes trying to capture mine. “Things always look different in the light, don’t they?”
Without thinking, shock impelling me, I stepped in closer to him. “What’s up with you? Why are you being so persistent?”
“Because you’re not crying,” he answered.
I gaped at him. “What?”
“You should be crying. If not from grief, then from humiliation. After what your sister said and all.”
Anger unfurled within me, growing like a cancer, his words gutting me. “You asshole,” I hissed, being careful to keep my voice low. “Do you do this to all girls? Because you hate women so much? Is that it? Are you trying to make me cry?”
We were too close, but I didn’t step away.
Eli drew back. “Maybe I’m curious,” he said, surprising us both. “I’ve seen women cry over less. Hell, I’ve seen my mother cry over a broken nail, and I can’t help but wonder …” His words trailed off.
“Your mother?” I whispered. “Are you comparing me to her? Do you compare all women to her?”
He snorted. “I’ve been with a fair share of women.”
“Not the right ones obviously.”
His brows rose, and he leaned forward again.
The gym door opened.
We straightened. Too quickly. Warm air fluffed my hair.
“Hey,” Jonathan stepped into the gym, his eyes finding Eli’s face before dropping to me. “Everything okay?” He gestured at the door. “I just saw your sister storm by and wanted to make sure nothing bad happened.”
“Yeah,” I answered. “Everything’s fine. I’m finished here anyway.”
Jonathan glanced at his brother again, and then opened the door for me.
I froze, my gaze finding Eli’s. “What couldn’t you help but wonder?”
Avoiding his brother’s inquisitive stare, Eli stepped forward, gripped my elbow, and leaned over so that his lips rested next to my ear.
Fire shot down my body, the flame lit by his sudden touch.
“What would it take to make you cry?” he whispered, his breath stirring the hairs at the nape of my neck.
He released me.
I shivered, threw one more startled glare in his direction, and left.
The brothers didn’t follow me.
I waited until I was at the van, my sister slumped moodily in the passenger seat, before I let myself exhale, the sound unsteady.
“Happy now?” Deena asked when I pulled open the door. “What was this, Tansy? You looking to help me, or you looking to talk to that Eli guy?”
Climbing in, I glanced at her, and decided to be honest. “I don’t know. A little of both I think.”
Silence.
“Deena?” I asked quietly, swallowing hard past the lump forming in my throat. “Do you really think I helped Dad kill himself?”
She stared at me, something akin to guilt crowding her eyes. “Honestly?”
I nodded.
“You didn’t do anything to stop him, Tansy.”
My shoulders slumped. I started the van and inhaled. “No,” I whispered. “I guess I didn’t.”
TWELVE
Eli
Jonathan cornered me as soon as I stepped outside the boxing club.
Mouse, whose technique—after our initial introduction—had continuously impressed me throughout the day, leaned against the building, his mouth open mid-word. Jonathan left him in the lurch, whatever conversation they’d been having completely forgotten.
“What’s going on between you and Tansy?” Jonathan asked.
Mouse grinned, his gaze ping-ponging between us. “The punk girl who came into the gym with her angry sister?” No one in Rebels had missed that show. “She’s hot.”
“Head out of the gutter.” Jonathan glowered. His gaze found me. “Well?”
Pulling a cigarette from my pocket, I lit it and bit out, “Not a damn thing.”
Mouse coughed, his gaze zeroing in on my hand and the smoke rising from it. “You got another one of those, man?”
“How old are you?” I eyed him.
“Seventeen.”
I flicked him a cigarette.
He caught it. “Just don’t tell my uncle. This shit’s not as good as the weed I get from my cousin, but it’s something.” He stuffed it in his pocket.
Jonathan scowled. “You’re going to hurt her, Eli. I know you!”
“I’m not even seeing her,” I protested. “How the hell am I going to hurt a girl I barely know?”
“She’s too young for you.” He stumbled over the words, acid seeping into the sentence.
“But not for you, right?” That was mean-sounding. Worse, it was true. “Is that what this is about?”
“Where did you take my car last night?”
I stuffed the cigarette in my mouth, the butt bouncing against my lips when I growled, “Drop it, brother.”
“Where?” he persisted.
Ignoring the question, I extracted the cigarette and exhaled. My eyes narrowed in on the smoke, Jonathan’s interest bugging me more than I wanted to admit. “I got nothing for her, Jon, but even if I did, it’s not worth having a girl come between us.”
Jonathan winced. “She’s not interested in me. She’s not sending out vibes like that, but she seems like a nice girl.” Sliding his hands into his blue jean pockets, he brought his shoulders up to his ears. “She’s obviously hurting.” He g
lared. “So, don’t break her, okay?”
Walking off, he climbed into his Porsche.
Mouse sidled up next to me. “Nice car, but it must suck ass to have to bum rides.”
I glared daggers at him. “Watch the shit you put into your body if you plan on having any shot inside the boxing ring.”
Mouse grunted. “Says the alcoholic.”
“Don’t label people you don’t know.” Dropping the cigarette, I ground it into the pavement beneath my feet and followed my brother into the Porsche.
Jonathan gripped the steering wheel, his lips pressed together. “I’m not upset that she’s not into me,” he said into the car. “Hell, I’ve only had a few brief conversations with her, but you don’t need this right now.” He glanced at me. “This is about you. You’re stuck in the past, Eli, and this summer is supposed to be about you escaping that. Not this chick.”
My hand gripped the door. Too tightly. “Take us home, Jon.”
“You went to see her last night, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.” I leaned back. “Is that what you want to hear?”
“No,” Jonathan started the car, “but it’s better than the alternative, I guess.” He gave me a baffled look. “You met her on a roof. I don’t get it. Did that make you instant buddies somehow? You aren’t the type to get involved in other people’s shit.”
“I’m not involved in anything.”
“You can lie to other people, brother. Not me.” Pulling out of the lot, he tapped his thumbs against the steering wheel. “She had to find out you were working here somehow, and you wouldn’t have told her about it if you didn’t want to see her. Pretend all you want, but that’s interested.”
I closed my eyes, choosing not to engage. He was right. Something about the girl dug at me.
It wasn’t romance. It was her. The way she carried herself, the way she took things in and gave them back to you different. For someone who should be broken, she seemed too intact. Her sister had virtually accused her of murder, and there’d been little reaction. From bloody toes and a sadly relieved expression on a rooftop to a room full of strangers and an expression full of calm defeat. As if she deserved her sister’s anger.
Maybe the years watching my mother cry had made me emotionally sadistic. Tansy had thrown me off my game. Where were her tears? Tears I understood. Anger I understood. This quiet suffering disturbed me.
She was like a volcano, beautiful on the surface but simmering below. What would it take for her to erupt?
“You’re not going to leave it alone, are you?” Jonathan asked.
I opened my eyes. “I blame Pops for taking my apartment and sending me to this godforsaken town. There isn’t shit to do here.”
“So it’s out of boredom then?”
This felt too deep for me. Like a regular conversation. “Shut up, Jon.”
We rode in silence, the town blurring past the window. From buildings to fields to trees. Gray and green and blue. Brushstrokes of color. Long dirt roads, dust flying. Sun dappling old farm buildings left to rot on land with new, more modern construction. Past and present. Old and new.
Jonathan pulled into the orchard, guiding the car up the lane and into the grass next to the main house. “You’re going to have to talk to Mom at some point,” he said, changing tactics.
“I will,” I lied, but the promise sounded good.
Heaving a sigh, Jonathan left the car.
“Take your keys!” I yelled after him.
He left them dangling in the ignition.
I stared, started to reach for them, and then let my hand drop. “Fuck it!” I shoved out of the car.
A shower. An hour spent lying on my bed staring at the ceiling, my thoughts on the dangling keys and roof girl.
Rubbing my hands down my face, I rolled out of bed, pushed my feet into my tennis shoes, and went for a walk.
It didn’t help.
THIRTEEN
Tansy
Deena sulked the rest of the day, spending most of it either curled up in front of the living room TV watching reality shows or closed off in her room. Hetty’s cats slunk after her. Deena kept hissing at them, but rather than deter the felines this seemed to encourage the behavior.
A symphony of purrs and curses followed.
Deena didn’t speak, or hiss, in my direction, and I didn’t force a conversation.
I communed with dirt, muttering at the soil outside Hetty’s house, my fingers channeling through sediment. The sun beat down on me.
Dig. Mumble. Dig.
Snow, Hetty’s golden retriever, joined me, having pushed through a doggie flap in the kitchen. She sniffed, pawed the ground, spun, and plunked down beside me, tongue lolling.
“Nana should have called you piss,” I told the dog.
She panted.
I mumbled.
An hour later, Snow left, ambling off toward the house. Which was just great. Now I bored dogs. Or depressed them.
Dig. Dig. Mumble.
My hands needed the activity, and my mind needed the distraction. I needed to think about anything other than Eli Lockston and his parting words, “What would it take to make you cry?”
He was a lunatic. A messed up lunatic.
An uncaring, asshole lunatic.
And, damn it all to hell, an easy to talk to lunatic.
My fingers froze in the dirt, the sun having passed over me, the shadows growing longer. I’d moved to the side of the house, leaving turned over soil in my wake.
Weariness gripped me, pulling my shoulders down with it.
“It’s looking good!” a cheerful voice exclaimed.
Hetty came at me from the front of the house, a wide smile plastered on her face.
My back stiffened, my expression evening out. “You’re a good liar,” I called, shading my eyes. “It’s not supposed to look good at first. I’m just getting it ready to do something with.”
Her smile drooped, going from wide to real. Relief slunk across her face. “I wasn’t worried at all.”
Oh, yes you were.
She shooed off a fly and squinted at me. “You’re getting baked out here. Go in, Tansy. Some boxes I had shipped from the Atlanta rental house came into the clinic today. It’s not much, but one of them had your craft stuff in it. I put them in the house.”
I thought about the unfinished knitting project I’d been working on when Dad passed, and my heart sank.
“It went well at the boxing club,” I said suddenly. “I put the paperwork on the kitchen bar. I think Deena will like it.”
Hetty’s eyebrows drew together. “I’ll look it over. She needs something, I guess.” Her gaze dropped to mine. “Frankly, I’m more worried about you.”
“Me?”
“I may not like Deena’s attitude, but I get it.” She frowned. “You’ve been awfully quiet, Tansy.”
My ears roared, my heart fluttering. “I’m fine.”
She didn’t look convinced.
“Really,” I insisted. Standing, I brushed my hands down my shorts, smearing dirt. “I think maybe I just need to think, you know.” Giving her a reassuring smile, I added, “Maybe take a drive to the cemetery?”
I had no intention of going to my parents’ graves, but I could tell the thought made my grandmother feel better.
She flashed me a comforted grin. “You do that. That would be good for you.” Stepping up to me, she squeezed my shoulders. “Take your time, but don’t be back too late.”
I took the firm look she gave me to mean she was giving me a curfew without actually giving me a curfew.
“I know you’ve gotten used to running things these last few years,” Hetty soothed. “But maybe it’s time for you to take it easy for a bit. Be young.”
The roaring in my ears grew, enveloping me in tsunamic waves. “Yeah, okay. Everything’s fine, Nana.”
She nodded, seemingly pleased, and backed away. “All right, then,” she clapped her hands, “you go do that.”
I got left standing
in the yard. With the dirt.
Pulling out the keys I’d shoved into my pocket, I trudged to the van. Antiseptic, animal stench cloistered me.
Starting the vehicle, I rolled down the window, eased out of the drive, and drove. Aimless. The road spoke more than the world, the getting somewhere less important than the going.
Late afternoon sun slanted golden rays over concrete and neon signs. Wind pressed in through the window, beating me up.
Traffic crawled, pulled back by road work. Flag men ushered vehicles through an intersection. My foot tapped the brake, slowing and stopping.
A road worker peered at me, his sun-weathered face full of crevices. A million stories in a web of wrinkles.
I nodded at him. He nodded back.
Rolling past, I pulled into a rundown gas station, throwing the van into park in front of the pumps.
“You okay?” a woman behind the register asked.
I didn’t remember going in.
My mouth moved, my eyes widening at the words that left it. “Do you know of any Lockstons that live around here?”
I was the lunatic I’d convinced myself he was.
The woman, her red hair freshly colored, perused me, her gaze falling over my soiled clothes. I stared at her forehead, at the splotches of ruby left behind by the dye she’d used on her hair. Like blood. I saw blood in everything red. I hated red.
“Only Lockston I ever heard of is an orchard,” the woman answered. “Named after the family, I think. You have to get off the main strip here. Take a left off the highway two stoplights down. You’re going to drive for a bit after that. Should be a sign, but it ain’t very noticeable.”
I stared without blinking, and the red stains on her face danced.
“Thanks,” I murmured.
My hands gripped the steering wheel again, the woman inside the gas station watching me from the window.
Open road. Spinning wheels.
The world was paint on rough canvas. Trees sneered at me. Flocks of startled birds swooped in fields.