Dream House

by Stephanie Fournet

  “I’ve got you,” I say, snuggling her into me. Then I home in on the laughing, fleeing boys and wish I had slingshot or boomerang skills. “THAT WAS UNCOOL, YOU—”

  FUCKERS?

  DOUCHEBAGS?

  ASSHOLES?

  “MISCREANTS!”

  You know you’re an adult when you have to clean up your put-downs so you don’t tarnish your four-year-old’s vocabulary.

  But the fucker-douchebag-asshole-miscreants just laugh harder at my scolding.

  I sigh and rub Maisy’s hot little back.

  “You’re okay.”

  She pulls back, the lenses of her glasses fogged with tears and outrage. “Th-Th-They was mean, Mama.”

  I nod. “What they did was mean, Maiz. They shouldn’t have done that.”

  She nods, mirroring me and swipes her nose with her arm. “Th-They scared all the lil’ ducks.”

  “They scared you and me too,” I say, inviting her to acknowledge her feelings.

  Maisy looks over her shoulder at the pond. Most of the ducks have reconvened on the opposite bank, their ruffled feathers already unruffling.

  But I see it the moment she does.

  Maisy’s bag of bread is floating on the pond's surface a good six feet out of reach.

  Shit.

  “MAMA, NO!” Her howl echoes across the water, startling a few of the closer ducks. And the tears start all over again.

  As she sags on me in distress, I check my watch. Maisy really just needs a nap, but Tyler’s appointment won’t wrap up for another half hour.

  I let her rage at the universe for a while, feeling a healthy dose of empathy, but by the time she lets me carry her to the car, her head is heavy on my shoulder, and we’re both sweating.

  We wind up waiting in the parking lot of the clinic with the engine running and the AC stirring my frizzed hair. At the top of the hour, I call the OT office to send Tyler out. I usually go in and follow up with the therapist, but I’m not waking Maisy again.

  Tod walks Tyler out, and as soon as I clap eyes on my brother, I know the session wasn’t great.

  He makes his way into the front seat as I roll down the window to check in with Tod.

  “Hey Stella.” He smiles at me with practiced charm. Tod has a butt chin, but that’s not why Tyler doesn’t like him.

  “Hey.”

  His eyes cut to Tyler, and his smile atrophies into a lip curl. “Today was tough,” he says.

  I nod. “Looks like it.”

  “Taylor was super frustrated when we worked on small motor.”

  My brows leap. “You mean Tyler.”

  “Huh?” Tod frowns at me, and then it hits him that he’s been calling my brother the wrong name for an hour. His hand flies to his mouth. “Oh. Wow. I’m so sorry.”

  I force a smile that might look more like I’m baring my teeth. “Don’t apologize to me.”

  His eyes widen a fraction, and he takes me in for a second before shifting to my brother. “I’m really sorry, Tyler.”

  Tyler doesn’t give him the courtesy of making eye contact. My brother’s jaw is tight, and he’s staring at his hands like he’s never seen anything more disgusting.

  I look back at Tod.

  “Look, I know I’m not his usual OT, but I did take a close look at Bobbi’s notes before we got started today. He was real motivated at the beginning of the session. He just had some trouble with the manipulatives, and it wore him out.”

  I’m wincing because Tod is talking to me like Tyler isn’t right here. Like he can’t hear and understand everything.

  “But he did a great job at first, and it was good to see him putting in some fresh effort,” Tod says, laying it on thick. “He needs to be practicing at home every day.”

  It’s everything I can do not to palm my forehead. Every damn time we come, they tell us he needs to practice more. Every time I remind Tyler to practice his exercises, he just grunts or leaves the room.

  “I know he’s a smart guy, and he gets bored,” Tod says, making me dislike him a little less. “He probably has zero interest in moving dried beans from one bowl to another with a pair of tweezers.”

  The noise Tyler makes beside me sounds like suppressed violence.

  Tod looks at my brother with a wicked grin. “I told him he should try hooking a rug for his girlfriend and—Look, there he goes, blushing again.”

  My jaw drops in outrage. I spare the quickest possible glance to confirm that Tyler is, in fact, red with humiliation but also vibrating with wrath.

  I grip the steering wheel and swivel my head back to Tod. He must see murder in my glare because he actually takes a step back from my car door. The grin he was wearing a second ago is MIA, which is a good thing because if he were still flaunting it, Tod might have been eating my elbow.

  I suck on my top lip and remind myself that even though Maisy is asleep in her booster seat, physically or verbally assaulting this man would not be in her best interest. This is just one of the ways motherhood has made me a better person.

  When I’m calm enough not to spit, I open my mouth. “Tod.”

  He swallows. “Yes?”

  “Tyler is never working with you again.” This isn’t a request. It’s not a discussion.

  His forehead wrinkles. His butt-chin drops.

  “Oh… well, we—”

  “Is this something I need to take care of so he never works with you again? Or is this something you can take care of?”

  His jaw hinges like a ventriloquist dummy. “I-I can take care of that.”

  I nod. “Good. That’s good, Tod.” I begin to roll up the window. “Goodbye, Tod.”

  I pull onto Coolidge Drive and blow out a long breath. Tyler sighs beside me.

  “Rage is exhausting.”

  “Mmm.”

  I glance over at him as we pass Lafayette General where he endured three surgeries and two weeks in ICU. I don’t know how much of it he remembers, but we both remember the rehab hospital, and that place makes me shudder.

  I’d honestly rather be in ICU.

  But Tyler isn’t looking at the hospital. He’s still looking at his hands, his nostrils flared. Jaw tight.

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  Tyler raises his face to the ceiling and inhales deeply through his nose.

  This is a big no.

  I make a right onto South College Road, but traffic is almost at a standstill, so we don’t get very far.

  It may be dangerous territory, but if I don’t go there, who will?

  “Tod’s a turd,” I say, admiring my alliteration.

  Tyler sniffs.

  I sneak a peek, but he’s not smiling. Not even a little.

  “He’s a turd, but do you think he has a point?” I settle my right hand on top of his left on the center console, but he tugs his away.

  He’s not doing it to be mean, but it hurts anyway. Probably because what I’m asking hurts too.

  Traffic starts rolling again, and I almost hit the brakes when I hear it.

  “Ye...sh.”

  My heart raps at my throat. I throw him a quick glance. “Yes?”

  Tyler throws one back and nods.

  “About practicing your exercises?” I clarify to make sure we’re on the same page.

  “Ye...sh.”

  Two yeses and one nod. That’s better than usual.

  I swallow and try to pace myself. We stop again at the light at Bacque Crescent. “What can I do to help?”

  Tyler frowns and licks his lips. He looks like he’s about to say something. He tries more than once, but then he shakes his head, blushing again.

  Something high in my chest, right over my heart, tells me not to push. So I listen. “When you’re ready,” I say, instead. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

  It’s only when we pull into the Exxon station on the corner of Johston and South College so I can fill up that Tyler settles his hand onto mine. It’s just for a second, but, boy, does it test my tear ducts.

 
When we turn onto the drive behind our house, I’m wiped. Tyler’s wiped. And Maisy is still down for the count, which is going to make her eight o’clock bedtime a gameshow-worthy challenge. But seeing the big house makes me feel… held.

  Like our lives are hard, but we’re in the right place to make the best of them.

  Lark’s Jeep pulls in behind us before I close the garage door, and that feeling? That snug feeling of being buoyed only grows. When I see in the rearview that Nina is riding in his passenger seat, it grows a little more.

  Because maybe she’s in the right place to make the best of her life too.

  I kill the engine and leave the garage door open so we can all go in together. Despite my exhaustion, I’m smiling when I step out of the car because Lark made good on his offer to drive Nina, and, I can’t explain why, but that makes me disproportionately happy.

  When Lark’s Jeep rumbles to silence, I wave at them. “Hey, y’all.”

  At my greeting, Tyler opens his door and looks behind us.

  “T, could you get Maisy?” I ask.

  I grab my purse and sling it over my shoulder, but Tyler doesn’t move.

  He’s glaring at Lark the way he glared at his hands just minutes ago.

  “Tyler?”

  At my call, Maisy stirs in her booster seat. “Mama?” Her voice is pitched with alarm and confusion. I open up the back door and lean in.

  “It’s okay, Maisy Bug. We’re home.” I unclip her chest harness and buckles, but I’m not going to get her heavy, sleep-sodden body out of her car seat from this position. “T, can you help?”

  But when I look over, his face is like iron. Cold and unforgiving. He steps out of the car and slams the door behind him.

  Maisy and I both jump.

  Tyler doesn’t move fast, but in this moment, he moves with angry purpose. When he gets through the laundry room door, he slams that too.

  Shit.

  I crawfish out of the back seat. Nina and Lark are standing on either side of his Jeep, wide-eyed.

  I bite my bottom lip, feeling like I need to make some kind of excuse for his behavior. I have a pretty good idea of the cause, but I can’t share that.

  “We just got back from OT,” I say, wrinkling my nose. It’s true. We did. And it wasn’t the greatest session. “It’s been a day.”

  I skirt the trunk of my car to gather up Maisy, and as if wanting to give credence to my words, she whines.

  “I’m hungry.”

  I hitch her onto me, her tired legs barely keeping purchase around my hips. “Ooph!”

  Before I can even see my path clear to the door, Lark has darted ahead and opened it for us. He even stands by the steps and spots my ascent.

  “You look like you just woke up,” he teases Maisy over my shoulder. “Do I get to call you Lazy now?”

  Her shoulders twitch with an unstoppable giggle.

  “You been sleeping all day?” he asks her. A quick glance behind me shows that he holds the door open for Nina, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Maisy as he does.

  She mutters her reply into my shoulder. “We went to the park, Bark.” Then she hears the humor in her own words and bolts up. “Park. Bark.” She bubbles over with giggles, fully awake now.

  “Can I put you down, Maisy? You’re heavy.”

  Instead of answering she kicks her legs until I set her on her feet.

  “Mama, I’m hungry,” she says again and then pushes her way through the swinging door to the kitchen.

  “What’s for dinner, Mama?” Lark teases behind me.

  I turn and give him the evil eye. Maybe not as evil as what I gave Tod, but it’s close.

  “Oh.” His brows lift in wary concern. “It has been a day.”

  I hang my purse on the hook by the garage door and half fall through the swinging door. Maisy is pushing her chair to the fruit bowl, eyeing a banana. Good idea. We are fresh out of leftovers and I’m pretty sure sandwich night is out since the remainder of our bread is probably at the bottom of a duck pond by now.

  I open the fridge and stare. Ground meat, which I’d intended for spaghetti and meatballs—Nanna’s recipe—but mixing the breadcrumbs, seasoning, parmesan, and forming them into balls to cook even before I kick off the sauce seems like climbing Everest.

  The feeling of eyes on my back makes me turn. Yep. Lark is watching me. He’s grinning. But his grin isn’t mischievous. It’s… hopeful?

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  I snort.

  Yeah, it’s rude. But, c’mon. Really?

  “Not unless you stocked up on frozen pizzas and you’re willing to sell them to me for a small profit.”

  He laughs, catching the back of his neck with one hand. The underside of his bicep grabs my eye and a flash of dark hair peeks from inside the sleeve of his T-shirt.

  Breath halts. Neurons stall.

  I drag my gaze away from the ivory skin over startling muscle and focus on the lettering of his T-shirt. Certified Rock Hound. The words hover over a blue hunk of rock. It’s not lost on me that the T-shirt seems to stretch over a hunk of rock too.

  “Sorry. No frozen pizzas,” he says easily. “But I’m okay in the kitchen. Whatcha got to work with?”

  I can’t process the muscles and skin and underarm hair AND his words at the same time, so I pivot to the shelf with Nanna’s recipes. “Ground beef,” I mutter, pointing my finger along the row of index card boxes until I reach the one that says Meat Dishes.

  This box is one of the lucky ones. Fully intact and never been washed. I flip through the stack, looking for something basic and good. Not burgers. We don’t have any buns. Not meatloaf. Tyler and Maisy would mutiny. Not stuffed peppers for the same reason.

  “Aha!”

  Salisbury Steak with Smothered Onions.

  Pausing on the card, I scan the ingredients. Ground beef. Check. Seasoning. Check. Onions and mushrooms. Check-check. The only thing I’m missing is white wine and beef broth for the gravy, but I think I can improvise with red wine and chicken broth, and no one will notice.

  Nanna used to make this with mashed potatoes, but that is also not happening tonight. Rice will just have to do. But who doesn’t like rice and gravy?

  “Salisbury steak. Good choice.”

  I nearly jump out of my skin. The man is reading over my shoulder.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to spook you.”

  I glare at him. “You seem to do that a lot.”

  He shrugs. “Old habit. I’m one of seven kids. If I didn’t learn stealth, I would have been followed by a handful of rugrats every time I walked out the door.”

  I’m still stuck on the one-of-seven part. “Seven?” Too many questions surface. “Are you the oldest?”

  Larks lips purse with a dismissive grin—as though being born first is for suckers. “No way. Second to oldest.”

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  His blue eyes brighten and at this close range, I confirm that they are definitely not colored contacts. “Oldest sibs are cautious Type A’s. Second-borns can take it easier.”

  The irony is too much. “That’s rich. I’m second-born.”

  A line forms between his brow. “Really? I would have thought Tyler was younger.”

  I give him the stink eye. “Thanks a lot.”

  “No, no.” He raises his hands, shaking his head. “You don’t look older. You just act—I mean you just seem—Were you always the responsible one?”

  I have to admit, his facial acrobatics during this little speech have been pretty amusing to watch, but my answer still comes out dry as sand.

  “Yes. Even before the accident. Even as kids.”

  Mystified, Lark studies me. “Huh.”

  “Ask Pen if you don’t believe me.”

  His brows draw together. “Oh, I believe you,” he says, but it’s clear he’s mulling over something else. “I just feel bad that you got cheated out of your birthright.”

  “My birthright?” I laugh at the words.
r />   Lark’s grin is lupine. “Yeah, the easygoing, rebellious, sociable—”

  “I’m easygoing,” I say defensively.

  His mouth quirks but he says nothing.

  I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t have time for this. I need to get dinner on the table.”

  “Is what a first-born would say.”

  My sudden wish that I had something to throw at him just underscores his point that I’m not easygoing. So I growl and turn to the fridge.

  With more force than produce requires, I slam two onions and a carton of mushrooms on the counter by the sink.

  “When I was a kid, Mom would send me and my older brother Bear out to her garden to pull weeds and pick hornworms off her tomatoes. I used to sneak off to the bayou and leave Bear with the chores.”

  His voice comes over my shoulder, but I don’t look at him as I scrub the first onion under the faucet.

  “You have a brother named Bear?”

  “All of us are animals. That’s my Dad’s touch,” he says offhandedly. “Anyway, Bear used to get so pissed.”

  I think about when Tyler and I were kids. Mom and Dad didn’t speak to each other after the divorce if they could help it. We’d spend every other weekend at Dad’s, and Tyler would always, always forget some of his stuff. His book bag. His good shoes. His ADD meds. Things he really needed.

  This would inevitably lead to a fight. Part of me thinks he did it on purpose as some kind of revenge against them both.

  But I couldn’t take it. By the time I was seven and he was nine, I started picking up after him and making sure we were both packed.

  We stopped sleeping at Dad’s when I was in eighth grade, but I don’t think I really stopped picking up after Tyler.

  “Was it Bear’s couch you were crashing on before you moved in?” I’ll admit there’s a hefty dose of acid in my question.

  Lark chuckles. “Yeah.”

  “Hmph. Figures,” I mutter, scrubbing the second onion with something close to violence.

  And then all of a sudden, the onion is gone.

  Well, not gone. It’s still under the stream of cold water, but it’s between Lark’s big, rough hands.

  “What are you doing?” I ask with a scowl.

  He doesn’t look up from the task when he answers, so I’m just staring at his profile. “I’m helping.”