I’ll have a break between my second and third clients, and I can pick him up then, but that’ll be a couple of hours. When I explain that, Tyler just shrugs like it’s no big deal. Still, I set my number, Pen’s number, and, after just a moment’s hesitation, Lark’s number in his favorites, so reaching someone with a car is easy. Just in case. I’d love to set up an Uber account for him, but inputting addresses and destinations is a bridge too far.
Maybe that can be something we practice. Something to give him more freedom.
But until this morning, Tyler hasn’t wanted anything like that.
And the fact that he wants to go to a fabric store is blowing my mind. But I take it as a good sign. An important sign.
Thirty minutes later, I’m dropping him off at Ambassador Row shopping center. None of the stores that line the strip mall are open yet except Sally Beauty Supply, and I don’t see Tyler killing time there.
I’m white-knuckling the steering wheel when I look over at my brother. “You’re really okay waiting?”
He nods, but it’s the smile he’s wearing that convinces me. He looks excited. A little nervous, but excited in a way I barely recognize.
I point to some tables with umbrellas outside of Athena Greek & Lebanese Food. “You can sit over there in the shade until ten.”
Tyler makes a noise that I interpret as, Duh. I can see that.
I look back at him, a sudden thought sending me into a panic. “Do you need money?” Shit. I have maybe two dollars in my wallet and my debit card, and I love my brother, but I can’t trust him with that.
But Tyler’s smile turns into a smirk. He leans forward, reaches into his back pocket, and pulls out his wallet. He pries it open to reveal a thick slab of cash.
“What the hell, Tyler?!”
Still wearing a smug grin, he says one word I should have expected. “Da...d.”
Dad. Of course. Judging by the stash he’s showing me, Dad probably slips him a twenty every time he sees him. Because that’s all my father knows how to do.
And even though it niggles at me that it’s the only tool in his toolbox, picturing my Dad doing this—secretly, without me ever noticing—softens something inside me.
“Cool.” And watching my brother tuck his thick wallet back into his pocket with that smug look is so familiar and yet so long-lost my throat tightens.
Jesus, when was the last time he looked so confident?
My eyes sting, and I have to blink at break-neck speed to keep them dry.
It doesn’t do much good because after Tyler unfastens his seat belt and pushes his door open, he turns to me and puts his sluggish tongue between his teeth.
“Th...Tha...n...k… you.”
He gets out and is closing the door before I can barely form a wobbly, chin-quivering, “You’re welcome!”
So I don’t hover and stare at him like some kind of weirdo, I drive away, blubbering like a psycho. I have to pull over outside of Tokyo Steakhouse to get a hold of myself and clean up my smearing mascara.
I’m still mopping my face when my phone rings. Rattled and worried it’s Tyler changing his mind, I answer before reading the screen.
“H-Hello?”
“Stella?”
It’s not my brother. It’s Lark.
I sniffle and sit up straight. “Yeah?”
“You okay?” he asks, concern overtaking his voice. “You don’t sound right.”
“Oh—” I clear my throat and fan my face with my free hand. As if he can see me. Ridiculous. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m good.”
“Babe, are you crying?” His question and the way he says Babe grip me deep in my middle. It makes me feel like… like I’m precious.
And, wow. Wow.
I try on the feeling, tingling and new.
I mean, I know it’s probably just me and how raw I feel right now and him calling at this exact moment. But I know I’m not the kind of person someone else considers precious.
Still, this feeling—even misinterpreted—is damn good.
“Um… maybe,” I say, answering his question when I can finally speak. “Just a little.”
“What’s wrong?”
And there it is again, another rush of that liquid gold emotion. His voice is so soft it turns my blood to honey.
I swallow and try to shake it off. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.” And this is true. I smile, thinking of Tyler’s triumph. “Happy tears.”
“Oh… Oh,” and I can hear the grin in his teasing voice. “I knew last night was good, but I didn’t think—”
I burst out laughing.
“Hey,” he says with mock offense. “I didn’t mean for it to be that funny.”
I ignore his statement about last night being good. Good isn’t even in the same time zone. Good is the intensity of the sun at dawn and last night was high fucking noon.
“I’m feeling a little emotional. Tyler took a big step this morning.”
“Oh?” Lark sounds interested. Invested. This, too, does funny things to my insides. I have to ignore that as well.
“Yeah. Yeah. I’ll tell you about it later.”
“Can’t wait.” He’s smiling. I can totally picture it. I smile too. And then I hear a horn honking on his end of the line.
“Where are you?” I ask, frowning.
“Walking to class,” he says, his tone flattening out. “Some asshole just got impatient with those of us in the crosswalk.”
I do not like the thought of some idiot driver harassing Lark in a crosswalk. Fuck him.
“Fuck that guy,” I say out loud.
Lark gives a startled laugh. “Wow. Strong language from such a pretty mouth.”
You know the Snapchat filter with golden butterflies and sparkles? Yeah, that’s me right now.
This is getting out of hand. I shoo away those butterfly sparkles.
“Um, so, did you… did you need something?” I ask, and then cringe because I sound like a jerk.
Lark groans. “Sorry. I should let you go. I just—”
He stops, but I’m literally hanging on the edge of the driver’s seat.
“You just what?”
He’s quiet for so long, I can make out the sounds of a truck rumbling past him.
“You were gone when I came down just now, and I wanted to see you before I left.” His voice downshifts to a lower register. “And maybe kiss you good morning.”
Is there a Snapchat filter for lady parts? Golden butterflies? Sparkles? Fireworks? Volcanoes?
“Oh—” The sound is sort of breathless, sort of strangled, and the only one I can manage right now.
When he speaks again, I hear the return of his confidence. “And I wanted to see if you felt like working on your business plan this evening.”
My eyes drift to the visor mirror I was using to clean up my crying mess. I’m not at all surprised to see my mouth hanging open.
“Sound good?” Lark asks when I’ve been speechless for way too long.
“Y-yeah. Sounds… That sounds great.”
It’s Pen who picks Tyler up an hour later, and no matter what she and I offer, Tyler is not giving us anything. I have no idea what he bought. No idea what he plans to do with it. Pen just said he came out with a large shopping bag that was more empty than full and he flat out ignored all her questions.
Alrighty, then.
He’s still in his room when I get home after a short day at the salon, and for the first time I can remember, I don’t hear the TV. He’s listening to Jason Mraz. Jason Fucking Mraz.
Don’t get me wrong. I love Jason Mraz. Who can get through “I Won’t Give Up” without breaking into song, vowing I gotta learn what I got and what I’m not and who I am?
Not me.
But pre-accident Tyler would have snorted with laughter before stealing my FireStick remote and changing my Spotify playlist from Beach Pop to Raised on Rock. In my apartment. While Maisy was napping.
So the curiosity is eating me alive.
So much so that I h
ave to take my laptop and hide out in the living room on the opposite side of the house so I can’t hear croony love songs like “If It Kills Me” and “More Than Friends.” But that’s okay, because in advance of my little business planning session with Lark later today, I start making spreadsheets. A spreadsheet with lists of changes I need made to the dining room to convert it to a salon. Another with a list of equipment I’ll need to purchase. Another I’ll share with Pen for marketing. Business cards. Signage. Website. She’s already offered to help me with all of this, but once I get going, I can picture everything, and it starts to seem, well, doable.
By the time I leave to pick up Maisy from daycare, I have made six spreadsheets, and I feel inordinately proud of myself.
I’m making Maisy a peanut-butter banana snack when Lark comes home.
I might also be sort of dancing to “Remedy” as I’m doing it.
“Whoa.”
I look up at Lark’s shape filling the doorway and freeze—butter knife in hand and hip cocked to one side.
Maisy’s at the table with her Paw Patrol Dino Rescue HQ, and she stops zooming Marshall’s car and snaps her gaze between Lark and me.
Lark gapes at me like I’m not fully dressed. Like I’m Salome performing the Dance of the Seven Veils right here in my kitchen and he’s bound to lose his head.
It’s a look that literally no one has ever given me, and I feel both powerful and an unwieldy sense of recklessness in the face of it. Like I’m a six-cylinder sports car on a hair-pin turn that’s slick with black ice.
I’m about to go over the guardrails, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Lark runs a hand over his mouth and visibly composes himself. After a moment he croaks, “Good day?”
And I can’t help my grin.
“Great day.”
He nods.
“You?”
He carries on nodding, a secret smile taking over. “Not as good as my night, but I’ve got no complaints.”
Memories of last night hijack my body. I’m all thumping heart and fluttering insides.
“You didn’t drive to school today,” I observe, wanting to steer us toward less stimulating territory.
“Nope. I walked.”
“It’s a nice day.”
Lark shrugs. “I needed to work off some energy.”
His pointed look sets me off again. My body responds like he’s flipped a switch. It’s all I can do not to drop the butter knife I’m holding and move to him.
It’s a good thing Maisy’s here. I have no idea what we’re doing, no idea where this could possibly lead. I’ve kept my promise about not avoiding him, but now I have to keep my head. I have responsibilities.
A lot of responsibilities.
And he’s still in college, for Christ’s sake.
I straighten my spine and grab this conversation by the horns. “So, I kind of went spreadsheet crazy.”
Interest replaces that look of innuendo in his eyes, and I’d be lying if I said I am not both relieved and crestfallen.
“Do tell.”
I point him to my laptop that’s now on the kitchen table and finish making Maisy’s snack. Lark pulls out a chair.
“Hi Bark.”
“Woof.”
I turn in time to see Maisy go slack with giggles, but Lark has pulled the laptop to him, pretending he didn’t just bark at my daughter.
It’s beyond adorable.
He pours over my spreadsheets, asking a question here or there. Can I get salon equipment and supplies wholesale? Yes. Will I be able to retain my current clients? Hopefully.
“What about health insurance?” he asks, frowning.
I roll my eyes, taking my spot at the end of the table, closer to him and out of range of Maisy’s Paw Patrol rounds. “Now that I’m not paying rent, it’s my biggest expense.”
Lark frowns. “So, your employer doesn’t pay for that?”
I snort. “I’m considered a contract worker. No group coverage.”
His frown lowers. “What about Tyler? Do you cover him.”
“Medicaid,” I say, shaking my head. “And my Dad takes care of what that doesn’t cover for him.”
“Do you get to claim him as a dependent?”
I nod.
“He’s on federal disability? He had enough work credits to qualify?”
“Yeah,” I answer, but then frown. “How do you know all of this? What are you, like twenty-two?”
Lark’s shoulders square. “Twenty-three.”
Am I imagining it, or does he sound defensive?
“Take it easy, old timer,” I tease, but inwardly, I’m cringing. He’s still five years younger than me.
Five years.
A host of unwelcome comparisons leap to mind. Like, when I’m thirty-four, he’ll still be in his twenties. When I’m fifty, he’ll just be forty-five.
When I started driving, he was only eleven.
Eww.
“What’s that face for?” He’s scowling.
I make my expression go blank. “Nothing.”
Lark narrows his eyes. “You’re lying.”
I lick my lips, stalling.
He arches a brow, waiting.
Fine. “You’re just really young.”
He glares. “I’m not that young.”
I wrinkle my nose. “You kind of are.”
Larks jaw hardens. “I’ve lived a lot.”
“Sure.” I nod. Not sarcastically, I swear.
But the blue of his eyes flashes like lightning. “You wanna know why I know all this stuff? Insurance? Dependents? Federal disability benefits?”
My brows climb. “Um…” Do I want to know? Yes. Do I get why he’s pissed at me? No. But he is pissed at me, so I must have done something to offend him. “I didn’t mean to hit a nerve. I’m sorry. I do want to know.”
Lark’s glower melts, but even behind what looks like remorse, I see something I don’t like at all.
Pain.
“What?” I ask, my voice softening.
“I know about all of this from helping my folks.”
He says the words so gently, so reverently, I lean closer.
“Helping them?”
Lark’s frown is back. “You remember what I said about working in the salt mines?”
“How could I forget?”
He nods. “Went in right out of high school. Thought I’d work there the rest of my life.”
My stomach tightens like I’m bracing for a blow. “But you don’t anymore.”
“Did you hear about the mine collapse in 2016?”
I gasp.
Oh my God. That was years ago. I was pregnant with Maisy. Dashing from my salon station every twenty minutes to go toss my cookies in the bathroom.
But I do remember.
People died.
“It was on the news,” I mutter, mouth going dry.
He nods. “National news.” Lark says this with such authority, such recall, adrenaline makes my fingers go numb.
“You were there?” My voice sounds more like a squeaking hinge than anything human.
“Not in the passage that collapsed, but on site.”
Even though he’s right in front of me, my stomach still bottoms out at the thought of him on the edge of a disaster.
“Oh God,” I whisper.
The muscles around Lark’s mouth firm. His gaze downshifts to the table between us. “Me and the rest of the crew I was on were evacuated almost immediately. But my dad…”
I suck in a breath. But his dad’s okay, right? I know he goes to see his parents pretty often. Both parents. And all his little brothers and sisters. Why does he look so grim?
“My dad was in the tunnel that collapsed—”
“Jesus, Lark.”
He nods. “He was trapped for over thirty hours.” His voice dips to a register I’ve never heard. Lark swallows, and it’s obvious by the pallor around his eyes that even thinking about those thirty hours is living hell.
; “None of us who got out left the site that whole time,” he says, his gaze far away. “People say that the buddies you work with are like family—” Lark shakes his head and brings his focus back to me. “But when it’s really your family…”
I’m nodding. Our eyes lock. Because I know exactly what he’s describing. This is something we share. A terrible something I’d rather not own and I’d rather he not know.
“Tyler was in a coma for forty-two hours.” Each one of those hours seemed like a year. “We didn’t know if he’d ever come out.”
“He was floating to the ceiling,” Maisy chimes in, never taking her eyes off Paw Patrol Marshall’s toy car.
I flick my gaze quickly to Lark. He doesn’t look surprised by this tidbit that I’ve heard a dozen times, but I read an apology in his eyes. As though he’s sorry we’ve let this serious topic unfold in front of her.
“She’s grown up with it,” I say with a shrug.
But as if she’s demonstrating just how mundane the topic of near-death experiences is, Maisy slides down from her chair.
“Marshall’s bored of this car,” she mutters. “He says we need to look for Skye.”
Skye, another Paw Patrol character, is in Maisy’s room. Along with a load of other cartoon toys. With her plastic dog in hand, she scampers across the kitchen floor and leaves the door swinging behind her.
Lark is watching me as though seeing something he hasn’t before. “I just can’t imagine,” he murmurs.
“Can’t imagine what?”
“You. Maisy. Tyler. In the middle of all that,” he says, frowning. Lark shakes his head. “We had practically all of New Iberia at our doorstep wanting to help out. Watch the little ones. Cook meals. Donate blood. Did you have support like that?”
My sigh is answer enough. He nods, still frowning
“What happened to your dad?” I press on. “Was he injured?”
Lark’s lips purse. “Physically, yeah, he had some injuries. Dehydration. A broken rib. Abrasions. But that wasn’t the worst of it.”
Lark’s hands rest on the table on either side of my laptop. Maybe I should, but I don’t fight the urge to reach across Nanna’s table. Before I even make contact, Lark grabs my hand tight.
As soon as he does, I know reaching out was the right thing to do. It’s like clouds burning off overhead the way his face brightens.
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