by Angel Lawson
Us. I don’t know who that involves, and I don’t ask. It’s pointless. I’m beginning to sink into the acceptance that I’ll know what comes when they want me to know. It’s a sobering realization to have, knowing that this is shaping me, molding me into someone compliant and quiet.
But it’s for the best.
The look Tristian gives me as he leads me away—sharp and satisfied—tells me he notices.
I spend most of the drive preparing myself, heavy with dread and restless nerves. He said he had lunch plans with two other people. It’s not the guys. I have to assume it’s with two women. Maybe this is the loophole he’s found in my fidelity clause; bringing me along, making me participate in some way. Maybe he’s even going to want me do something with them. That’s completely outside my wheelhouse. Then again, maybe he just wants people to watch the two of us. That’s definitely in Tristian’s wheelhouse. This could be it. This might be my last drive as a virgin.
Part of me is relieved. All of the Lords are awful in their own way, but if I had to choose…
I could do worse than Tristian.
I’m so anxious that I don’t even realize it when the truck stops, let alone the building we’re parked in front of.
His hand rests on my thigh, thumb caressing the skin just below my skirt. “You ready?”
“Listen, Tristian,” I start, hands wringing in my lap.
I have this whole speech about how I’ll be good for him—I’ll go along with it, I’ll be compliant in the agreement we’ve made—but that I’m begging him for kindness and understanding and—
One glance at the building makes my words die in my throat. “Wait. What are we doing here?”
The sign says we’re at the Forsyth Hills Elementary School.
He reaches into the back seat, pulling out a bag from a local deli. “It’s Friday. I have a standing lunch date with the two most important women in my life.” He gives me that slow, loaded grin of his. “I figured now that you’re my Lady, you all should meet.”
I seriously have no idea what he’s talking about, but at least some of the fear has dissipated. I don’t think he’d push me into a threesome at the elementary school.
He rings the bell and the buzzer sounds, unlocking the security door. He then strolls over to the check-in desk and grins at the older woman. “Here I am.” In all my glory, goes unspoken, but I can still hear it in the tenor of his voice.
She grins broadly when she sees him. “Tristian! Twice in one week, my goodness. The girls will be beside themselves!”
“One lunch just wasn’t enough this week, what can I say?” He scribbles his name on the sign-in sheet and adds mine underneath. “How are you today?”
“TGIF, and all that.” She hands him two stickers, and he peels off the back of one, placing mine on my chest. It’s a circle that sunnily declares, “Forsyth Hills Visitor.”
He gestures down the hall and I follow, still trying to get my bearings. Something about seeing Tristian in the narrow hallway feels surreal. He looks so much bigger here, impossibly more imposing. Up ahead, I see the double doors with the word ‘cafeteria’ on a sign overhead. The strangeness of it all stops me in my tracks.
I grab Tristian by the arm. “Before we walk in there, care to tell me what’s going on?”
He pauses, cradling the bag under his arm, and if I didn’t know better, I’d almost say the way his face scrunches is bashful. “I have ten-year-old twin sisters. Every week, I come and eat lunch with them.”
“Oh,” I respond, blinking in surprise. The photographs from his room pops in my head. I thought they were of the same girl, but maybe not. Plus, the bad pottery. The knick-knacks. Signs that Tristian cares about someone enough to disregard appearances. “That’s, um, really nice of you, I guess.” And totally out of character.
He sighs, pulling me aside, hand cradling my elbow. “Look, Rath and Killer are my boys. They know me better than anyone ever could or will. They’ve both got fucked-up families they have no problem leaving behind, so that’s how they see me. Family.” There’s something in his eyes as he looks toward the doors, solemn yet at ease. This is important. This is a vulnerability. “But these two girls are my real family. However screwed up my parents are, I won’t let these two get caught in it. They’ve been through a lot for ten-year-olds, and they think I’m Captain fucking America. They think I’m a protector.” He gives me an intense look, face hardening. “And it’s going to stay that way.”
I swallow, trying to imagine anyone counting on Tristian to protect them from anything. “Then why bring me here?” I’m probably the last person who can sing his praises.
His mouth forms a tight, tense line. “I don’t usually bring in outsiders when I’m dealing with my family. Not even the guys. But we’re having a bit of an issue, and I thought maybe you could help.”
“Help?”
His jaw clenches. “Some little bitch in their class is causing them grief. Picking on them, bullying them. And I thought…” He makes a vague gesture at my body. “Well, you know.”
“That I would know how to handle being bullied?” I give a dark laugh, hardly able to believe it. “You brought your glorified sexual assault victim to teach your little sisters about…what? Standing up to assholes? Bringing them down? Shaking it off?” I shake my head. “Jesus, Tristian, Shakespeare couldn’t write this kind of irony.”
I can tell it’s not lost on him, because Tristian has this way about him. It’s this thing where he might have a great poker face, but at the end of the day, he’s a complete fucking brat. “I would deal with it myself, but a twenty-year-old man going savage on a fifth grader isn’t going to fly.” At my incredulous expression, his eyes narrow. “Don’t give me that shit. You owe me, Cherry. I figured you’d prefer me cashing in like this. I know you’re taking a child development class. Don’t you want to go into social work or something? This is more up your alley than mine.” He looks away, grimacing. “And, it may make me look weak, but it kills me, not being able to help them.” I can tell he means it too. It’s in the way he won’t meet my gaze after the confession, the subtle tinge of pink on his cheeks.
Tristian is willing to look weak—willing to show me this truly significant vulnerability—if it means protecting his sisters.
I’ve done my best to keep my heart out of this. It’s enough that I’ve handed over my body to these guys, and honestly, a big chunk of my brain. But my heart? That’s mine and I’ve tucked it away behind barbed-wire and padlocks and solid, metal walls. But hearing Tristian say that about his sisters? Well, fuck. He just knocked a chink in all of my defenses. Even if I wanted to say no to him, I couldn’t say no to two little girls going through something difficult.
“Fine,” I assent. “I’ll do what I can.”
Naturally, he doesn’t say thank you. He just opens the door, revealing the roar of children’s voices and laughter. The cafeteria is busy and large, but he seems to pick out his sisters instantly, waving across the room. My eyes follow, landing on two identical blonde girls excitedly waving back.
He smiles, a grin lighting up his face. It’s such a strange thing to see. Where his gaze is usually chilly and hard, here it becomes warm and bright. Just before we reach the table, he leans down, whispering, “If you make me look bad here, you’ll be repaying your debt another way, got it?”
Bristling, I offer a curt, “Got it.”
“Tristian!” they squeal, hopping up and giving him a hug. He places the bag on the table and draws them both into a tight embrace. He hugs them like he means it, planting two loud, exaggerated kisses on their cheeks.
“How are the two prettiest girls in the world?”
They both giggle, even though their curious gazes jump to me. When he releases them, he looks up at me and says, “Girls, this is Story. Story, meet Izzy and Lizzy. The two prettiest girls in the world.”
The Mercer genes sure are something. Izzy and Lizzy really are just as pretty as their brother. Their blonde hair is just a
s fine, styled flawlessly into matching French-braided pigtails, blue eyes staring guilelessly back at me. They’re the picture of little girlhood—a palette of pinks and cuteness, right down to the little purple flowers embroidered on their cardigans.
“Hi,” I say, a smile coming easy. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Izzy seems shy, reaching up to pat at the bag Tristian’s carrying. “What did you bring for lunch?”
Lizzy adds, “We’re hungry.”
Tristian takes a seat and the three of us follow suit. “Sandwiches on whole wheat. Tuna, avocado, and pickled onions for Izzy. Lots of good omega-3 in here,” he tells her, giving it a tap. “Apple, turkey, and Brussels sprouts for Liz, because you need more vitamin C.” He takes a third sandwich out, placing it in front of me. “A bahn mi burger for Story. Plenty of nutrients for energy.”
I look at the burger dubiously. “Energy?”
He casually explains, “You start the day with a lot of energy, but you crash at noon.” He says this like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I can tell because you get cold and stop fidgeting with everything.” He nods to where I’m hugging my middle, even though I’m wearing a sweater. “You could avoid it if you skipped the coffee and got more B-12 with your breakfast. I’m working you up to it, don’t worry.”
I stare at him, warring between how creeped out I am, but also…weirdly touched by the thoughtfulness. This whole arrangement is starting to get to me. “Thanks.”
I think.
I might not be fidgeting, but Lizzy sure is. She’s holding a plastic fork, spinning it around and around. “Is she your girlfriend?”
Tristian freezes, eyes jumping from her to me. “Is she my…?” He clearly didn’t see such a question arising, mouth working around a series of aborted replies. “Well, you see…”
I decide to save him. “I’m a friend, who’s also a girl. So, I guess I kind of am.” Lizzy frowns thoughtfully, but she seems to accept it, nodding along.
Izzy thankfully changes the subject. “Why’s your name Story?” she asks.
I laugh, caught off guard by the question. “It’s kind of lame, actually. My grandma always used to call my mom her sweet little poem.” I don’t tell them that this eventually became more of a sarcastic insult than anything. My mom and grandmother never got along. I only ever met her once, and I was too young to remember much except the tension. “So when my mom got pregnant with me, she said she decided to write a story because poems were too short for happy endings.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I want to stuff them back. Pretty bleak message for two sunny ten-year-old girls.
They watch me pensively, absorbing this. “Some poems have happy endings,” Izzy argues.
I nod back. “Yes, some do. My mom eventually got one of her very own.” It’s still awkward to think about, what with Daniel and Killian, so I hastily divert the topic, unwrapping my sandwich. “What about you? What do Izzy and Lizzy stand for? Izzica and Lizzifer?”
They both laugh, which is a relief. “Isabel and Elisabeth!” they say in such a perfect unison that it’s impressive.
Izzy lays out her sandwich, not even scrunching her nose at it. If someone had presented me with either of those monstrosities as a kid, I would have thrown a fit. “Did kids ever make fun of your name because it’s not like others’?”
“Sometimes,” I say, surprised at the question. “But I liked that it was unique. It didn’t bother me.”
Lizzy points across the room to a girl with dark, curly hair. “It bothers me. Shelly Baker calls me Lizard Face.”
Ah, this must be the bully.
I take a moment to size this Shelly Baker up. She’s surrounded by a whole group of other girls, plus a couple boys, laughing and poking at something on her lunch tray. It’s hard to hold much against a ten-year-old from this vantage, but Izzy and Lizzy seem sweet—a stark contrast to their brother.
Her voice lowers, eyebrows scrunched moodily together. “She also makes fun of Izzy for being in the slow group for math.” It’s glaringly obvious that this is the true source of Lizzy’s scorn for Shelly Baker. She can handle being made fun of for her name, but someone poking fun at her sister’s learning abilities? That’s a step too far.
The Mercers are very protective of one another.
Frowning, my mind strays to Rath. Dimitri. I’d spent all of last night thinking up ways of teaching him to read without making it into a whole thing. Defensive is too gentle a word for him when it comes to his reading skills. “That’s really mean. Math is hard, and plus, I’m sure Izzy is better than a lot of people at something else.”
Izzy immediately straightens. “I’m good at softball!”
Lizzy agrees, “Way better than Shelly.”
“See?” I smile at them, picking at my burger, trying to think of something profound to impart. “The thing about bullies is that their main currency is your reaction to them. If you don’t give them a reaction, they’ll stop bothering.” At their skeptical expressions, I nod. “Yeah, that seems pretty hopeless, I know. Because bullies are also really good at knowing what gets a reaction.”
“Are girls mean to you?” Izzy asks, seeming to warm up to the discussion some.
“Sometimes, yes.” I think of Charlene, and how to explain to these two innocent children that girls are easy compared to the boys. “In my experience, when a girl is being mean, it means she sees me as competition. It’s one of the worst compliments you can get.”
“What did you do?” Izzy says, staring up at me with sad eyes.
I take a furtive look at Tristian, who’s watching me back. I’m not sure what he’s thinking, but I know that this is a complete sham. Because I don’t do anything except make it worse for myself. I roll over. I comply. “I can tell you how I wish I handled it,” I offer, a white heat blazing in my chest. “I wish I’d fought back harder, even when it felt pointless. I should have not cared so much, and then maybe I wouldn’t have been so easily hurt. I should have asked for help, from someone worth trusting. Someone who cared.” It’s an idle, wistful thing. No one’s ever cared. Not about me. But maybe about these girls.
“You should have a big brother,” Izzy decides, nodding with such confidence that it almost makes me laugh despite the black thing gripping my heart. “Big brothers make everything better.”
I give her a smile that feels rusty and wrong, thinking of the tapestry of bruises currently occupying my skin. “Not all big brothers are as good as Tristian is to the two of you. You’re very lucky to have each other.”
Tristian suddenly clears his throat, voice deceptively cheery. “Hey, we better get started on these sandwiches.” I watch as the three of them begin eating, but my appetite is long gone, snuffed out by the lump that’s settled in my throat. Tristian must notice that I’m not eating, because he nudges me with his elbow, voice low. “Eat what you can.”
Mechanically, I raise the burger, determined to only bite off as much as I can chew.
For once.
Lunch is nice after that. Even if I’m still lost in a fog of self-pity, I still do my best to put on a good face for Tristian. But the truth is that I’m worried for them—for the life they’ll have in this world. Right now, they’re so sweet and open, laughing with their big brother about some mobile game they’re all competing in.
It’s interesting to watch Tristian with them, so absent of the cold artifice I’m used to. He’s relaxed here, just as confident but far less intimidating. He’s attentive, asking about their homework, interrogating them on the state of their bedrooms at home, making sure they eat enough. I can see little girls all around the lunch room, eying him dreamily, and I know that plenty of them are jealous of the sisters for having such a cool, handsome, and sweet brother.
It doesn’t begin really smarting until the ride back to town.
“What will you do later?” I wonder, breaking an abnormally solemn silence. He hasn’t said more than three words to me since we left.
“Later?” he ask
s, sparing me the barest glance as he accelerates through a yellow light.
“Later,” I flatly confirm, staring out at the scenery. “When some asshole forces one of them to their knees and shoves his—”
The truck jolts sharply. “Don’t you fucking dare finish that sentence!” he barks, knuckles white around the steering wheel. “They are ten!”
I shrug, unaffected. “They won’t be forever. Those things happen.”
“Not all girls are like you,” he answers, giving me a hard look. Quieter, he adds, “Not all guys are like me.”
“More than you think,” I argue. “Ask any woman. Most have had some kind of experience at some point in their lives. Hell, I’m only nineteen and I’ve yet to meet a guy who didn’t..." I trail off, snapping back to reality enough to feel uncomfortable.
“That’ll never happen,” he says, jaw tight. “I’ll fucking kill every guy on Earth if I have to.”
I look at him, searching his face, but he mostly just seems annoyed. I want to know, though. I want to know how he reconciles protecting one girl as he’s hurting another. I want to know what he tells himself to make it feel okay.
He flips on the stereo, drowning me out, before I can gather enough courage to ask.
The brownstone is scrubbed clean when we arrive home.
It’s taken all of yesterday and the whole morning to get it back together following the party. The stink of beer and cigarettes have vanished under a fresh lemony scent. Everything is back in its place.
I enter the kitchen and find Ms. Crane sliding a casserole dish into the oven.
“Is there anything I can do?” I ask, eager to take my mind off the lunch. “I know I wasn’t much help yesterday with the party clean-up.”
Ms. Crane flaps a hand at me. “I’m used to picking up after pigs, girl. These little frat fucks are barely house-trained. But I have a secret to making it all go by quick.” She reaches into the pocket of her knitted cardigan, revealing the top of a flask. “My little helper.”
Blinking, I awkwardly offer, “Well, the house looks great. You’d never know there were a hundred people in here.” I wrap my hand around my backpack strap. “If you don’t need anything, I’ll head upstairs. I’m supposed to help Rath with something tonight.”