Tiller

by Shey Stahl

  I left and tried to leave my thoughts of the girl there too. I can’t say I never think about her, because she’s better off not knowing me, but I couldn’t help the sense of possessiveness that tugged on my chest when the kid looked at me. Did I want to be a part of the kid’s life?

  I. . . didn’t have an answer then, and I still don’t. I knew I didn’t want the girl to be like me. The less exposure she had to me, the better. I gave it thought. It wasn’t like I thought—no way—I don’t want this. And while I didn’t, instinctively, I was looking out for her.

  I contemplate every single thing I do in my life because that’s me. I overanalyze and weigh the options until my mind explodes and I eventually make impulsive decisions. It’s countless hours of no sleep and even less escape. That’s my anxiety. I shouldn’t have to defend that decision to anyone but myself. Or should I?

  “Hey, dickhead.” Scarlet nails me in the back of the head with her bag. “We have a meeting with Honda this afternoon and then you, Shade, and Roan have a photoshoot to model the new line of jerseys.”

  Shade, Roan, and I started a clothing company nearly two years ago. Wasn’t my idea. It was Ricky’s to expand our brand, but fuck if they didn’t pull me into it. Though I didn’t mind the idea of us having a business to fall back on. You can’t do what we do forever. Nursing injury after injury, we’d be lucky if we weren’t paralyzed with arthritis from all the broken bones by the time we’re thirty.

  Rubbing the side of my head, I roll my eyes at Scarlet who pulls on my hair to make me look at her. My neck cranes back against the couch cushion. “I’m not going.”

  “Too bad.”

  Camden pops up, twisting around to hang over the back of the couch. “Can I come?”

  Scarlet ruffles his hair. “Sure.”

  His eyes light up. “Can we get In-N-Out?”

  I jump up, dropping my bag of chips to the ground. “If we’re getting food, I’ll go.”

  Maybe food would make me feel better. Probably not, but it’s worth a try, right?

  That. . . was a bad idea, wasn’t it? It certainly didn’t go as planned.

  Did I have a plan? No, I don’t think I did.

  “I blame you for that one, Ava,” I whisper, adjusting my sunglasses to shield the blaring sun heating my face.

  “Are you talking to Mommy?” River asks, staring out the window, bumper to bumper traffic through LA. It’s the first she’s spoken since we left Tiller’s house and I’d bathed her in sanitizer.

  “Yes,” I admit, the sudden pang to my chest reminding me that I haven’t talked a lot about Ava with River since she died. In some ways, I’ve been afraid to mention her in fear it might bring back a memory for River and scare her. “Sometimes I talk to her to make me feel better about her being gone.”

  Twirling strands of her hair around her finger, she’s quiet for a moment and then asks, “Who’s that boy?” My eyes lift from the road to hers in the backseat. “He was. . . uh. . . .” I pause. Your dad. My heart. Love of my life. An asshole. So much comes to mind, but I settle on. “Just a boy. His name is Tiller.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, then meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “I like him hair. Can my hair be green?”

  I laugh. She’s so much like me it’s crazy. I once dyed my hair red when I was four with Kool-Aid. My mother made me wash it out immediately and it stained the tile in the shower to the point they had to re-tile it. Maybe that’s why Regina hates me so much? “Well, your Auntie Alexandra and Grandma Regina might have something to say about it, but maybe we can work something out. You should be able to do whatever you want to your hair. It’s yours.”

  There’s a soft smile on her face, a realization that she can do what she wants to her body. Within reason. I should probably add that, but I don’t. Maybe later. I don’t see the problem in dyeing your hair, or even piercing your body, but my sister and mother clearly don’t think like me. The first time I came home with hot pink hair at thirteen, my mom freaked the heck out and made me wash it out. She acted like I’d committed a sin, when in reality, it was just the start of me rebelling against them.

  When we’re back at the house an hour later, my heart sinks at the sign in the front yard.

  Oh, hell, no. Mother, you’re a bitch.

  Okay, I know I’ve been kind of out of it these last few days, and I knew the plan was to sell the house, but I don’t ever remember having the conversation that we were putting it up for sale before their bodies were even decaying in the dirt. As harsh as that sounds. I mean, it’s been two days since the funeral, and not even a week since they died.

  Do you remember the conversation? Did I miss something?

  My mother, she thinks differently, and sometimes, almost always, with herself in mind.

  “Who that?” River asks, peeking out the side window of my car at the lady nailing in the sign.

  “I’m not sure.”

  As I’m getting River out of her car seat, I notice Alexandra’s Mercedes in the driveway, in front of my car. Of course she’s behind this.

  Once inside, I find Alexandra inside their bedroom, on her knees in Ava’s closet, sorting through her clothes, two separate piles around her.

  In disbelief, I stand there for a moment, but she doesn’t look at me. Instead, she keeps sorting the clothes, one blouse after another. Anything that’s bold and bright colors is in one pile, another with neutrals. “What the heck are you doing?” I let go of my bag. It hits the deep rich mahogany wood floor with a thud. “And why is a real estate agent putting a sign up in the front yard? I thought we agreed to wait and sell the house so it wasn’t too much for River all at once?”

  Holding up a pair of jeans, Alexandra doesn’t look at me as she examines them, and then tosses them aside. She sighs, rolling her eyes. “Well, for one, Mom and I looked at the bank accounts and they can’t afford to keep paying the mortgage for more than a few months with what’s left in there after paying for the funeral. We have to get it on the market now. There’s no telling how long it will take. The mortgage was fine when Cullen was working, but without them, we can’t afford to wait.”

  My gaze shifts to River standing next to me. Lost in thought maybe, she’s staring out the window like she’s completely oblivious to anything around her.

  “What about the life insurance money? Why can’t we use that for the mortgage?”

  Alexandra laughs at me like I don’t understand, like I’ve never understood. Maybe I haven’t, and I’ll admit there’s certainly a lot in the world I’m naïve to. “Seriously? This is what I’m talking about. You’re so stupid sometimes.”

  Sticks and stones never broke my bones, but words make me hate you.

  Stupid. It’s a descriptive word, one she’s used with me since I was the bratty little sister who looked up to her beauty, until I realized how flawed her soul is. Words hold a deeper meaning than the harshness in which they’re delivered. It shouldn’t determine ones worth, or lack thereof.

  I’ve never ever liked Alexandra.

  I stammer and hide my true feelings. “What are you talking about?”

  Annoyance flashes in her eyes, her words hushed and bitter. “It’s this kind of thing that I don’t understand, Amberly.” She picks up a scarf, tossing it over her shoulder and into another pile of scarves, shoes, and hats. “How could Ava think you’re what’s best for River when you don’t even know how the real world works.”

  Confusion masks my real expressions. I have a job. A bank account. A studio apartment I pay for myself. While I’m not great with money, I’m in the real world. I’d like to think I’m at least making it and not completely incompetent in the ways of life. “What are you talking about?”

  Like she can’t believe she has to explain this to me, Alexandra sighs. “We can’t use the insurance money for the house because there is no insurance money yet. It could take months for that money to come through, and even then, it’s in the will that the money is put into a trust for River. She’s the bene
ficiary of the money. So no, you can’t pay a mortgage with it.”

  We were meant to be three sisters, not two, and one destroying the other, and the one who burned the brightest, in the dirt, the youngest growing older than the eldest.

  I hate that I didn’t know you couldn’t use the money, but even more that the little girl at my feet is hearing this. “I didn’t realize the money hasn’t come through yet.” I glance to River, a girl not listening. She’s too busy staring at her parents’ picture on the wall.

  “Not surprising.”

  Sighing, I swallow over the lump in my throat. “I just thought it could pay the mortgage for a month or two so River wouldn’t have to be uprooted too soon.”

  Alexandra’s tone softens, but it’s not because she’s being nice; it’s because she doesn’t want River, who’s hanging on Kona now, to hear her. “No matter what we do, sooner or later, she’ll be uprooted again. Might as well do it all at once.”

  That actually makes sense, damn it. I take a closer look at the piles of clothing. My brows bunch together. “What are you doing in her closet and with her clothes?” I want to rip the fabrics from her hands. Don’t touch her stuff!

  Like she’s too bothered, too perfect and so much better than me, she rolls her eyes. “One’s for donation, the other is to keep.” She senses my anger rising that she’s going through her belongings so soon. Who does she think she is? “And where have you been?”

  Calmly, I kneel to River, because it’s about to get ugly. I touch her softest cheeks. She leans in, the touch welcoming. “Wanna take Kona in the playroom?”

  With one hand on Kona and her eyes on Alexandra, River nods, but doesn’t say anything. I’m beginning to notice, in the presence of others, she doesn’t talk. She stares silently at nothing with haunted, hopeless eyes.

  I wait until River’s out of sight. “Not that it’s any of your business where I go. . .” I pause, and this time I wait for Alexandra to give me her eyes. I’m curious what her reaction will be. “I went to see Tiller.”

  She stares at my appearance, my clothes, then my hair, finally my eyes. She thinks I’ve lost my eccentric mind. “Why the fuck would you do that? Are you seriously telling me you dragged that child with you for your superstar booty call? I can’t believe how selfish you are exposing River to those people.”

  Alexandra knows “those people” because much like most of us in the Santa Monica zip code, we’ve had contact with the Sawyer brothers and the legendary mansion that houses the parties talked about around town.

  “You don’t know anything about them,” I bite back, barely holding my composure. I might be upset with Tiller, but it’ll never stop my loyalty to him. He saved me, mentally, from giving up on myself and though he’s harsh and pissing me off, I can’t forget the only time I’ve ever felt true friendship is with him. “I went there because Ava asked me to.”

  Do you notice the shock on Alexandra’s face? The gaping mouth and the narrowing of her eyes? My sisters have brown eyes. I’m the odd one out. Green eyes and lighter hair I keep purple or lilac to match the color of my suffocating heart. My parents both have brown eyes, too, so naturally, this is another reason why I thought I was adopted. “Why would Ava want you to take River to Tiller’s house? Seems like a bullshit excuse to me.”

  “She asked me to take River to meet her father. That’s what she wrote in the letter that the lawyer handed me.”

  “Her father? What are you talking about her father? Cullen was her father.”

  I’m silent, letting the words sink in. It takes a moment, but eventually, it does.

  How’s it feel to not know everything?

  “You’re lying,” she accuses. “Ava would never keep that from me.”

  You didn’t know her like I did.

  “I was with her that night. She did.” I change the subject with, “Why didn’t you talk to me about selling the house? I could have prepared River better than letting her see the For Sale sign.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. You’re forgetting River is three and will be fine no matter what. In a few years, she won’t even remember her parents.”

  Unfortunately, there’s only truth in one of her statements. Soon, yes, River’s memories of her parents will fade, but they won’t be gone forever.

  Shaking her head, Alexandra suppresses her real anger under the appearance of being disgusted. “Oh my God, I can’t believe our sister was such a slut.” Do you notice the tension gathering her brows? What about the stiffness to her bony, too distinct collarbones? She’s resentful. “I especially can’t believe that Cullen agreed to her stupid plan? Did he know? Let me see the letter.”

  I can tell you one thing for certain. The only reason Alexandra is upset is because once upon a time, she had a crush on Tiller. Who hasn’t? When we first met the Sawyer brothers back in grade school, Alexandra was in love with Tiller, but he never gave her much attention, if any, barely at all. It was me he tortured, and in a lot of ways, Ava he rescued.

  I will say this. When most people meet the Sawyer brothers, they’re attracted to the playfulness of Shade and the gnarly storm behind Tiller’s eyes. And Roan, well, he’s a hard one to explain. For me, personally, he fits the big brother role, but I know girls find his sexy smile appealing. I know I did, at one time, though I’m always drawn back to Tiller. The one who plays with my heart yet still, I crave the sin of him.

  She’s still staring at me, expecting I hand over the letter. It’s none of her business. If Ava wanted her to see it, she would have written it to the both of us. “No, I’m not letting you see my letter.” Pride hits my heart, a feeling I rarely have around her for standing up for myself. “And yes, Cullen knew. They couldn’t have kids so when Ava got pregnant from one night of indiscretion, Cullen agreed it was a blessing for them.” Once the words leave my lips, I have the sudden urge to take them back in fear this could all blow up in my face and knowing it will.

  “Wow.” By her tart tone, the jerk of her head, she’s disgusted. No surprise there. “I thought Cullen had more class than to let his wife sleep with someone like Tiller.”

  The words “someone like Tiller” rattle around in my head, mostly in my heart because she clearly doesn’t know him if she can label him like that. She has no idea what he’s actually capable of. I still remember the day I knew there was more to him than what meets the eye.

  I was fourteen and ran away from home again. This time, it was three days before Christmas and I ran away with the intention of never going home. They were upset that I dyed my hair bright yellow right before a family picture. Fearing Ricky would call my parents, Tiller hid me in his closet overnight and slept on the floor with me in there so I wasn’t alone. That’s when we started talking about his mom, someone we never discussed because he never allowed the conversation to go there.

  “Do you think about her?” I asked softly, resting my head on his lap.

  “Who?” He knew who I was referring to but naturally, fearing the conversation, he deflected and began to fidget, curling strands of obnoxiously teenager rebelling yellow around his fingers.

  “Your mom?”

  He was silent for a long moment twirling and untwirling, unblinking and hesitating. Maybe he didn’t think of her like I did of my parents. Though mine were still alive, I thought how lucky he was to not have someone to disappoint. He had no obligations to prove anything like I did. Leaning his head back against the closet wall, I stared at his barely-there scruff visible by the candle he lit for light. It flickered, casting shadows on his chin.

  “I don’t think of her,” he admitted. “At least not in a good way. I think of my dad, and I miss him, but not her.”

  “What do you remember about her?”

  “That she walked out on three kids one afternoon like we were nothing to her.” I watched his face closely, from my position on his lap, and then he looked at me. “A mother should love you enough. Enough to appreciate there’s more. Enough to fight for you even when you’re
imperfect. Loving a child isn’t just a feeling, or something you should do. It’s a decision, a judgement, and promise. One she couldn’t give. I don’t know why she couldn’t, but I don’t think about it. I think about the promise she couldn’t make.”

  Crying, tears rolled from the corners of my eyes and pooled in my ears. “I’m sorry,” I reached for his hand taking it in mine intertwining our fingers together. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  He didn’t reply.

  Though I had an idea of the pain of never knowing that promise a mother should make, I had no idea how much living without my parents would feel. I just understood the feeling of them not caring enough.

  “Thanks for letting me crash in your closet,” I told him after a good ten minutes of silence.

  He shifted, smiling at me. “If you want to properly thank me, there’s something else you could do.”

  “What?” I turned in his arms.

  Lifting his hips, he grinded his crotch into my face.

  I laughed, curling up in a ball away from him. “I am not putting that in my mouth, Tiller.”

  He grabbed me, hauling me onto his lap and then made me straddle him. I could feel him there, hard, between my legs, but I didn’t know what to say, or do. And then he moved, pinned me to the floor of his closet.

  Moving to his knees, he hovered over me, his hands on the sides of my hips at the waistband of my cotton shorts. I remember his eyes, so dark, full of feeling, skin warm as my hands slid to his chest, pushing back slightly. It was then I felt his racing pulse, his breathing just as heavy as mine.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, sitting up to circle my hands around his neck.

  His entire frame was shaking—arms, legs, and chest. “No.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  His movements were harsh, never remaining in one spot for long as he kissed me. My lips, my neck, my chest, and then moving back to my lips. With his grip tight, he was hard under his shorts, pushing against me sometimes but never taking the leap to actually take my clothes off.