by Olivia Chase
The kids brainstorm ideas, from playing with toys to coloring to talking to another person about our feelings.
And funny enough? I realize they’re right. I need to share my feelings with someone else. I’m bearing all of this on my own. But it’s hard to open up to people, to let them know what’s going on.
“Have you talked to your mommy?” a little girl named Samantha asks. “About what makes you sad?”
I pause. “You know what? I haven’t. But I’m having dinner with them soon, for Thanksgiving.”
“Mommies always listen,” Samantha declares. Her blond hair is full-on corkscrews around her head, and she nods wildly, making them shake.
Leo agrees. “My mommy makes me cookies and she talks to me when I’m upset.”
I can’t help but smile at their enthusiasm. “I promise to talk to my parents.” I grab a book off the shelf and start reading. “We haven’t read in this one in a while, have we?”
They all settle down, and I delve into the adventures of the young kid who is exploring foreign countries with his sidekick parrot. They laugh at the appropriate places. Their lightheartedness eases some of the pain in my chest.
I belong here. With kids, making them happy. No, my methods might not be orthodox. But that’s okay. I can be me.
We get through the rest of class, and then it’s lunch. Harper eyes me but seems to know not to ask questions. We eat without talking about anything substantial. The upcoming holiday festivities, since Thanksgiving is almost here.
We make plans to meet this weekend for wine and movie night, a mini sleepover at my apartment.
It sounds like the perfect way to keep my mind off Zack.
Somehow I make it through the rest of the day. Then tomorrow. Wednesday, there’s no school. I spend all day lying on my couch, staring at daytime TV and wishing I was with Zack.
Which is the stupidest thing ever, because I don’t want to be with him. He’s terrible for me. All wrong.
Someone tell that to my traitorous heart, because I miss him more than I want to acknowledge. But what does it matter? He’s wrong for me. I need to stay the hell away from him unless I want to get hurt more. Zack is bad news, guaranteed to hurt me. I can’t let myself fall for him more. I won’t. I’m done with Zack. Moving forward…without him.
“Pass the gravy, please,” my dad says with a smile. “Did you do something different? Because the mashed potatoes are incredible.”
“What, were my mashed potatoes not incredible last year?” my mom asks, looking pained.
“Of course. I just meant—“
She grins. “I’m only teasing. And I did add in yogurt instead of milk.”
The way he looks at her, with rapt and open love, makes my heart clench in pain, in jealousy. I never thought I’d envy my parents’ relationship. That I’d wish I could have something so simple and pleasing.
Some stupid part of me had fantasized that I could bring Zack to Thanksgiving with me. Then he could meet my parents. They could start to understand what I see in him. His smile. His warmth. His charm.
But no. I’m alone.
It’s just the three of us for Thanksgiving.
Of course, Mom went overboard, making a small turkey, a ham, too many side dishes, and several bottles of wine. You’d think she was feeding an army with the amount of food she cooked. But she always gives me leftovers to take back to my apartment, so that part is nice. No cooking for a couple of days.
“You okay?” Mom asks me, nibbling on a bite of turkey.
I give her a big smile. “Of course.”
“Because you seem…not yourself,” she adds. “I’m worried about you.”
Shit. I should have known they’d be able to detect my mood changes. To be fair, if a bunch of second-graders could tell something was wrong, of course my parents would be able to. I bite my lower lip and draw in a steadying breath. “I…I’m just dealing with some things. Nothing crazy.”
“Wanna talk about it?” Dad asks.
I quirk a brow. “With my parents?” I tease. It’s been a running joke for years about how “ooh, gross” it is for a kid to talk to her parents about her problems. But in reality, mine have been amazing. Even when they don’t fully understand, they do listen.
So why am I so hesitant to bring this up to them?
I know why. I’m scared. I don’t want them to judge me. I’m worried once they hear about Zack, they’ll view me differently. Even though he isn’t in my life anymore, he’s still impacting me.
He’s still changed me.
I know now that I’m not the person I used to think I was. I have a wilder side than I ever expected. I want adventure. I need to live. And they won’t get where this is coming from. They’ll fear it’s from bad genetics, I’m sure. Lay in bed tonight and whisper among themselves, wondering where they went wrong.
But it isn’t them.
It isn’t even my biological father.
It’s me. I am my own person, with my own choices. And I have cravings that I began to explore with Zack. Zack, who turned out to be someone I realized I couldn’t be with. Someone who ripped my heart out and left me sad and alone.
“You haven’t been yourself in weeks,” my mom says gently. “What’s going on, sweetie? Spill it. We just wanna help.”
I start by talking about the job situation, how the principal is busting my balls over my teaching methods. “I just want to help these kids,” I say. “I’m trying. But the school wants me to stay strictly in the confines of their curriculum. It’s restrictive.”
Dad nods. “Understandable. Some job sites are more confining than others. Have you considered going to another school? Maybe one with more leeway?”
I bite my lip. “But I’ll be abandoning my kids.”
Mom reaches over and touches my hand. “I know you feel that way, and it’s good for you to have passion. But you’ll only have these kids for a year. You have to think long-term. What will make you happy? How can you best position yourself to help many students, not just one classroom’s worth?”
Her question reaches inside me, tugs at my gut. I have to admit it—I won’t be happy at this school long-term. Feeling suffocated will just make me more miserable. “I think I need to find another school,” I admit.
It feels good to get that off my chest. To say it out loud.
Dad smiles. “Sounds like a good first step for you. Researching schools that have more flexible curriculum. Have you considered a charter school? They might be more open to alternate methods of teaching. One of my coworker’s sons attends one, and he talks about how amazing it is all the time.”
“Really?” I haven’t done much research in it, nor have we talked about it a lot recently in classes, other than just to understand the difference in school types. I should see if that might be a good fit for me.
For the first time in a while, I feel a little hope. If this school lets me go, surely I can find another place to teach. But in the meantime, I’ll start planning ahead and seeing what alternate schools are in the area.
“Is that all that’s bothering you?” Mom asks gently.
I take a bite of stuffing and chew slowly to buy time. Should I mention Zack? What will they think if I do?
“Who’s the guy?” Mom continues.
I turn to look at her, wide-eyed.
She laughs. “Do you think I’m blind? You’ve never been like this before. It has to be someone you’re enamored with.”
Inexplicably, tears well in my eyes, and I blink them back. I stare at my plate.
“Oh, I’m sorry honey,” she says, reaching over to rub my back. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I was seeing someone,” I admit. “But…it didn’t work out.”
“That sucks,” Mom says. She pats my back, then pulls away to look at me. “Love is painful sometimes. I hope you’re able to work it out if you can, but if not, that you can find the strength to move on and be happy. I just want what’s best for you. What makes you smile.�
� She pauses and grins. “And honestly, the last couple of times you were here, you were pretty happy, so he must have done something right, at least.”
Dad changes the subject to the sound my car was making as I pulled in the driveway, and I’m thankful. But Mom gave me stuff to chew on. As much as I’m upset with Zack, he did make me happy. But I can’t let myself dwell on him. He’s in my past.
Only, I can’t help thinking—if he’s really in my past, why is it that I can’t stop thinking about him in my present?
Zack
I’m led into the courtroom in handcuffs, and then to a seat at the wooden table in front of the judge. My public defender, an older black-haired woman with a mustache that rivals any I’ve seen on a man, eyes me up and down.
We only had one brief meeting yesterday, for maybe thirty minutes, to discuss my case. Public defenders are not exactly known for spending a lot of time with their clients.
She scans through the file of my case again now as if seeing it for the first time, or perhaps just reminding herself of the details. “Breaking and entering. Destruction of property,” she mumbles. “You still sure how you want to plea?” she asks.
I swallow and straighten. “I have no excuse. I’m going to plead guilty.”
Sitting in jail the past couple of days after that illuminating phone call with Butch while I waited on my arraignment, I decided on a couple of key things.
First, I’m going to take my punishment, whatever it is. This was my fucking fault, my stupid idea in a pathetic attempt to please my dad, and I’m going to accept that. Enough of trying to pretend anything we’re doing is good. We are clearly in the wrong here.
Jamison was right about everything. I’m just embarrassed that I was too stubborn to accept it before.
Second, if Autumn ever gives me a chance to speak to her again, I’m going to try to explain myself to her. To show her I’ve changed, that I understand how I went wrong. And pray that she accepts it, believes it. Or that I can at least prove it to her somehow.
The room is a small, old-fashioned courtroom that seems to have been decorated in the sixties. The carpet is a puke green, with walls that are that fake dark wood siding you find in grandparents’ basements. It’s shitty.
My brain randomly wonders if this is the same courtroom my dad was in when he was convicted. If so, that would be highly ironic.
But fitting.
I deserve all of this, I think. Everything and more, after the kind of life I’ve led. Not just what I’ve done with Outlaws, but all of the crap me and my brothers have pulled over the years.
It all weighs on me now, I swear I can feel it pushing down on me from above.
I turn around and see my brothers lined up right behind me. At least they made it out okay. Axel’s face is filled with concern. Hudson seems cool and collected, though I detect a bit of wariness in his eyes. Hale is exuding fury in his body language and facial expressions.
I wish I could talk to them, reassure them, and explain how I came to the place I’m at. But it’s strictly forbidden to talk when court is in session.
So instead I just give them a quick nod over my shoulder.
Out of the corner of my eye, on the other side of the room, I can see Smith and his my other cousins sitting beside the prosecutor, their wives lined up behind them. None of them are saying anything, though Smith is eyeing me with a neutral expression on his face. Jamison and his wife are in the row right beside the wives. And not one of them is looking at me.
The bailiff calls for attention at the front of the room before I can say more. I turn around and rest my hands in my lap. Fucking handcuffs. They’re uncomfortable. A solid reminder of what a fucked-up mess I got myself into.
Then the honorable judge calls for us to rise, and we swear to tell the truth, so help us God. He then recites the facts of the case, and the prosecuting attorney stands and speaks up about the events.
My public defender turns her hairy face to me, brows lowered in concern, and whispers, “You sure about this? There’s time to change your mind. We can postpone the case for evidence and come up with a strategy. I just want to be sure this is truly what you want.”
I nod. “Absolutely sure.”
“How does your client plea?” the judge asks her.
She stands up. “Your honor, the defendant pleads guilty to the crime and would like to speak on his own behalf.”
The judge, who seems unmoved by my willingness to take responsibility, says, “Very well. I’ll hear what the defendant has to say before we proceed to sentencing. Mr. Beckett, please rise.”
I stand, ordering my stomach to stop fluttering so hard. It’s fine, I tell myself. I’m doing the right thing for once. Owning my actions. Better late than never, I guess. “Your honor,” I start, “I was in the wrong. I admit that. I have no excuse and I will accept my punishment. I was led to understand that the bar Outlaws was supposed to belong to my father, and I acted solely on my own during the incident to try to ensure that my cousins would relinquish control of ownership. But I have since come to understand that I was wrong.”
I hear my brothers exhale hard behind me, though none of them speak. I’m not going to turn around and see what their faces look like. I make myself stay facing forward.
“Does the prosecution have anything to say?” the judge asks.
Smith spins and whispers something to Jamison in a huddled conversation. Then he speaks to the prosecuting attorney. The courtroom is silent for a moment.
“Your honor,” the attorney says, “Smith Beckett would like a chance to speak in regards to the defendant’s confession, given that he is one of the bar owners.”
“I’ll allow it,” the judge says, shooting a warning glare at my brothers when they begin muttering loudly.
“Your Honor,” Smith starts in his low, rumbling voice. “I would ask that you go easy on Zack Beckett and not sentence him to serve any prison time.”
I freeze, completely in shock now. What? My mind is reeling. Is he serious?
Smith continues speaking, calm and deliberate. “Despite the bad blood between our families, and our cousins’ behavior regarding their misinformed beliefs about the ownership of Outlaws,” Smith continues, “I believe that Zack Beckett is a good person, and he should get another chance. I’d prefer we work this issue out within the family if it’s possible from here on out, instead of involving the courts. There is a dispute about ownership, yes, but I have faith that we can come to a resolution amongst ourselves.”
There silence in the courtroom stretches for a moment while the judge deliberates on what Smith said.
“Well,” the judge says, rubbing his thick peppered beard. “Since you’re all here, it seems, I’d like to take a moment to address your entire clan.” His eyes narrow, and he eyes us all. “The Beckett reputation is well known in this town,” he says in a heated voice, showing emotion for the first time today. “Don’t think I haven’t heard of you…heck, some of you have been in my courtroom before facing various charges…and I’m aware of the trouble you’ve caused in Rock Bridge over the last several years. Or even decades.”
Fuck. This doesn’t sound like it’s going anywhere good. My stomach sinks.
“You may have improved your standing in recent years,” he continues, “but it remains to be seen whether you can ever be good and upstanding citizens of our town.”
I can hear my brothers huffing, but thankfully they keep their fucking traps shut. The last thing we need is to get them kicked out—or arrested for contempt of court.
“Despite your…challenges,” the judge adds in a booming voice, sitting forward in his chair as he warms up to his speech, “you’re family, and you should start acting like it.” His face takes on a thunderous anger, eyebrows a deep V. “If you can’t work out your differences in a civilized way, I’ll throw the book at the next Beckett I see in my courtroom. That is a promise.”
There are low affirmations of agreement on both sides of the room. I add mine as w
ell. I’m not sure what just happened, but I have a feeling that Smith saved my ass from serving jail time.
The judge nods and his voice becomes more formal again. “Zack Beckett, given the testimony I’ve heard from both sides, I hereby sentence you to pay a fine of one thousand and five hundred dollars, and to serve one hundred volunteer hours to help rebuild and refurbish Outlaws, or until Smith Beckett says you are done—whichever comes first.” He hits the gavel. “Now please get the hell out of my courtroom and don’t come back.”
My heart feels lighter than it has in ages.
I can’t believe it.
“You’re lucky,” my attorney says, shaking my hand. “That could have gone much worse. The judge is fair, but he does like to make examples out of people sometimes.”
“Thanks for your help,” I tell her politely, though she didn’t really do anything for me. In actuality, it was Smith.
And probably Jamison as well, putting in a good word for me with Smith.
The brother who hates me. The brother I was so insistent was wrong. The brother I told to fuck off, but still came to my defense anyway—so it seems.
The attorneys go toward the front of the courtroom to deal with the bailiff and finish paperwork. The handcuffs are removed from me, and I rub my wrists, glad to be freed. I walk to Jamison, who’s eyeing me in a distant manner.
“Thank you for talking to Smith,” I tell him. “I’m not sure what you told him, but you saved my ass.”
In a frosty tone, Jamison says, “Zack, you’re my brother, but I expect better of you after this. Don’t fuck up again. I won’t be there next time to help.” He turns and leaves.
My heart lurches. I hate that he can make me feel this way. But even more, I hate that he’s right about me. That I messed up, and I disappointed him.
Disappointed myself.
I turn to talk to my cousins, but they’ve all left the courtroom. Rather than feeling a sense of relief at not having to face them, I’m left feeling empty, depressed. Why did they agree to me not being punished by serving jail time? I guess I’ll find out when I start my hours at the bar.