Neat

by Steiner, Kandi

Or maybe I was still stuck in a memory of last night. I could still feel his hands running gently over my spine, could hear the tender way he moaned my name in the middle of the night, could feel his lips pressing to the back of my neck before his hands slipped between my legs…

  I bit my lip against a blush and a smile, sipping the delicious mixture of champagne and orange juice from the flute in my hand.

  “I’ll take that as a yes?” Mom asked.

  I blinked, blotting my lips with the linen napkin in my lap. “Hmm?”

  She chuckled. “You’re so cheery today, but I swear, you’re a million miles away,” she commented. “I asked if you’d started unpacking at the shop yet, if things were coming together?”

  A flash of last night hit me — paint and lips, music and eyes, a sigh and a kiss and a…

  “Yes,” I said, unable to hide my smile this time. My cheeks flushed as I traced the tip of my finger around the lip of the flute glass. “Things are coming together quite nicely.”

  My parents likely thought I was high, for how much I’d smiled at church that morning and now at brunch with them and my brother, Malcolm. I hated spending time with them — they knew it, I knew it — but every Sunday, our family was forced together.

  At least, that’s the way it was when I was in town.

  I’d been able to escape the Stratford way of life when I was in college, but now that I was back — and, even though not living with them, technically living under a roof that they owned — I had to play by their rules again.

  Dad beamed proudly, glancing at me over his menu. “That’s my girl. I can’t wait for the grand opening. We’re going to throw the biggest party this town has seen.” He cleared his throat, looking back at his menu — even though we all knew he’d order the same thing he always did and order it for Mom, too. “As long as it’s in proper order, of course.”

  That was his nice way of saying that if he was going to show face and endorse my little project, it would have to be something bright and shiny and perfect. God forbid anyone with the Scooter blood in their veins make even the slightest mistake. He was still trying to fight off the rumors circling around town after the mayor of Stratford was called out for owing him a hefty debt from his nights in our underground casino.

  Daddy didn’t like stains on the family name, and he’d do anything to avoid them.

  My brother, Malcolm, seemed bored at the table that morning. He was the spitting image of my father, only about a foot shorter and fifty pounds lighter. He was drinking champagne without the orange juice chaser, and constantly looking at his watch — no doubt counting down the minutes until he and Dad would go golfing.

  When the waiter came, Dad ordered two eggs over easy, three slices of bacon, cheesy grits and one single pancake — for both him and Mom, of course. She hadn’t ordered a meal for herself in the time I’d been alive, and I wondered if she even knew what food she liked anymore or if she just ate whatever her husband decided was fit for her.

  Mom was the perfect southern belle that morning, her short hair freshly dyed brunette again — like no one in this town knew she was old enough to have grays — an Easter-egg-yellow sundress covering her shoulders and knees, and a classic string of pearls around her neck. She smiled and nodded and spoke when spoken to, chiming in when it was classy and helpful but keeping her mouth shut otherwise. She’d had years of training, and I knew part of it was that she grew up in a different time than I did.

  Still, I wondered what went on in her head, what she would say if somehow I could rip that filter she wore to shreds. I had been around my mother for more than eighteen years of my life, and I still had no idea who she really was.

  “So, things are all set up, then?” Dad asked when the waiter was gone.

  “Pretty close. The different areas of the shop are in order for the most part. I need to work on the schedule, on what classes I want to offer consistently and brainstorm the first few special workshops. I’m waiting on some additional supplies and a few furniture items, too, and I’d like to get some art and décor on the walls before I consider announcing the opening. But, I think we’re getting close.”

  My heart squeezed, because I couldn’t believe I’d turned it around in such short notice, that everything I’d imagined coming to life was within my grasp.

  It wouldn’t have been possible without a certain man whom I couldn’t stop thinking about.

  My brother seemed to have read my mind, because he harrumphed a laugh, chugging what was left in his champagne flute before refilling it to the top. “I heard you had some help yesterday.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him, but he just smirked. I loved my brother — truly, I did — but he was a kiss up, and always liked to be on Dad’s good side. Not that it was hard for him to be the favorite child, since he stayed out of trouble for the most part and did any and everything Dad asked of him.

  I, on the other hand, would do the exact opposite of what my father expected on principle alone.

  He’d told me one time in high school when we were in a fight that I was the favorite child, that I was all our parents ever talked about. I realized then that maybe part of him resented me for it. But what he didn’t understand was that they talked about me because they wanted to change me, to stop my embarrassment on the family.

  He was their pride and joy, and I was not after that title.

  “Oh?” Mom asked, polite as ever. “Was it one of your girlfriends?”

  I snorted, because my entire family knew there wasn’t a single girl in Stratford whom I got along with.

  Dad gave a disapproving grunt of his own. “Let me guess, it was that gay friend of yours, right? What’s his name?” He waved his hand with a wrinkled nose. “Christoph or something?”

  “Chris,” I corrected, rolling my eyes. “His name doesn’t morph into something more flamboyant just because he’d rather love a man than a woman. Also, there’s no need to refer to him as my gay friend. He’s my friend. No adjectives needed.”

  Dad waved me off again. “I’m sure he was helpful in the décor department.”

  I ground my teeth, but as much as his comments about my best friend perturbed me, I preferred that frustration to what I experienced when my brother spoke again.

  “Nope. I heard Logan Becker was there. All. Day. Long.”

  My parents both snapped their eyes to me then, Dad’s brows furrowing and Mom’s mouth popping open in a shocked O as they waited for an explanation.

  “Calm down,” I said, holding up both hands like I’d just been accused of doing meth. I ignored the way my heart pounded hard inside my chest, hoping they couldn’t see right through the lie I was about to tell. “He’s good at organizing things, which I learned from our punishment this week.” I gave Dad a pointed look. “Thanks for that, by the way. I’m sure you and Uncle Mac loved thinking that one up.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dad lied. I knew it was a lie, but I didn’t press him on it. “And don’t turn this on me. Why was Logan Becker at your shop?”

  “Unpacking boxes, building furniture, hanging art, setting up and organizing supplies in a way that would make sense for classes. He was helping,” I emphasized. “Which is more than any of you three have done, and you’re my family. So, back off.”

  Mom seemed to relax a bit, reaching for her mimosa for a sip, but Dad narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be hanging out with him outside of what’s necessary during your training at the distillery.”

  “Yeah, well, you also didn’t think it was a good idea for me to pierce my nose, but, here we are.”

  “Do not get smart with me, young lady,” he barked, and Malcolm snickered, which earned him a swift kick to the shin under the table.

  “Relax,” I said as my brother rubbed his leg. “I’m not hooking up with Logan Becker, Dad.”

  Mom gasped. “Mallory Loraine!”

  “What?” I shrugged. “That’s what he’s thi
nking. That’s why he’s all freaked out.”

  “That’s enough, Mallory,” Dad warned under his breath, and it was just as our appetizer of cinnamon bread was brought to the table. He smiled at the waiter, thanking him, and glared at me one last time before he unraveled his napkin. “I just want to remind you to keep your distance and remember the deal we have in place. I wouldn’t want you to lose everything you’ve worked so hard for over something stupid.” His eyes hardened, but then he pulled his gaze away, smiling at Mom and reaching over to squeeze her hand. “Now, I think we’ve had enough of this talk at the table. Malcolm, tell us how things are going in the marketing department.”

  That launched the conversation back into Scooter Whiskey territory — the most comfortable subject for my father — and launched me back into my own thoughts. I let myself tune out, hearing my father’s warning as I envisioned Logan’s smile, his honey gold eyes, his ridiculous arms that I’d felt up close and personal last night.

  My chest tightened, because I never considered all the things that would come after a night like last night. And now that I was sitting at the table with three reminders of why I never should have even thought of kissing Logan, let alone going through with it, I realized how careless I’d been.

  Normally, I wouldn’t have cared. Normally, I would have freaking married Logan Becker, if it meant giving my father an ulcer and distancing myself more from the family name.

  But normally, I didn’t have an art studio on the line, and not a prayer of making it happen without my father’s help.

  My thoughts were a hurricane as I sat mute through the rest of brunch, and by the time I got home, all I wanted to do was take a hot shower and sleep the afternoon away. I walked straight upstairs, slung my keys and purse on the coffee table, and started stripping.

  But I stopped right in the middle of the room.

  Nothing in my apartment was how I’d left it. The dirty dishes were washed and laid in the rack to dry, my bathroom counter was wiped down, my hair product all put away on the shelf, flat irons and curling irons tucked away into a basket on the counter that I forgot I even owned. The bed was made, the tables cleared, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say the floors were swept and mopped, too.

  And every single wall was decorated with my paintings, sketches, photographs, and awards.

  They were everywhere — the sunset photo I’d captured on the white, sandy beach in Alabama, the self-portrait sketch I’d been assigned to do my second year in school, the shockingly bright and vivid painting I’d done of a trio of jazz musicians on the street in New Orleans. Even my diploma — which, before, had been curled up and tossed into a box of other worthless things — was flattened and framed, the wrinkles of my treatment of it barely visible.

  I covered my smile, shaking my head as I looked around the room. “Oh, Logan Becker,” I whispered to myself. “What kind of strange creature are you?”

  In the middle of the bed was a note, scrawled on the same sketch paper I’d left him one on that morning. When I picked it up, I laughed again at the stick-figure drawing — a girl and a boy in a very promiscuous position, her bent at the waist, him behind her, both of them smiling.

  Thanks for the coffee, and for a great night. Made the bed, but fair warning — there’s still paint on the sheets. I thought about washing them, but decided I wanted you to go to bed with a reminder of me. Try not to get too turned on without me here. See you at work. — L

  My cheeks shaded, and I pressed my hand to the heat there, shaking my head at the note.

  I was in a special kind of trouble now.

  Logan

  Later that Sunday evening, all my brothers and I were gathered around the fire pit in Mom’s backyard, kicked back, each with a drink in our hand. The night was quiet, save for the sounds of us sipping and the soft music coming from inside the house. Mom was in there making dinner, singing and bopping along to her favorite Fleetwood Mac album. Something about the quietness made me miss the summer, when the katydids chirped loud throughout the night, and the fireflies flickered on and off in the yard.

  I’d tried my best to get my mind off Mallory, but had mostly failed. Church had been a small distraction, and I’d gotten in a good workout afterward, using my own bodyweight as torture until my muscles were aching and sweat was rolling off every inch of me. But now that I was quiet again, my hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey and my eyes watching the fire dance, all thoughts bounced back to her.

  I hadn’t heard from her.

  I expected a text when she got home and seen that I’d cleaned up her place, but nothing came. Neither of us had initiated talking about last night, and the longer the silence stretched between us, the more my stomach turned.

  I wondered if she regretted it.

  I wondered if she was across town right now, cursing herself and thinking through excuses to blow off work tomorrow to avoid seeing me.

  I wondered if I’d ever be the same again, now that I’d had her.

  I knew the answer to that last musing, though I chose not to admit it. Instead, I lifted my glass, taking a sip of the amber liquid inside it and glancing at my older brother across the fire.

  Noah could barely sit still, and every two seconds, he was pulling his phone from his pocket to spout off a text before tucking it back in. Tomorrow morning, he was getting on a plane to Salt Lake City to go see his girlfriend, Ruby Grace, for the first time in a month.

  Jordan sat next to him, possibly more drunk than I’d seen him my entire life — and that was to say, he had a slight buzz. His eyes were glossy, lids heavy, and a permanent smile was fixed on his face — which, again, was rare, considering he smiled about as much as I left my bed unmade in the morning. The high school football team had finished out their season with an epic win at the state championship game Friday night, making it the second time he’d lead them to that victory as head coach. The trophy was inside, set up as a centerpiece on the dinner table for us to celebrate around tonight.

  And Mikey, who was sitting on the other side of me, was the complete opposite of his oldest brother. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him smile, and watching him now — his eyes on the fire, his hands empty, no longer strumming on a guitar like they normally would have been around a fire before dinner, I wondered if this was one of those moments in his life where everything changed — namely, who he was.

  I’d had a few of those pivotal moments in my life, and I knew there were some things you bounced back from, and other things that permanently shifted you. I guess if the love of my young life left me to go to Nashville when I’d always thought we’d chase her dreams together, I’d be fucked up, too.

  Noah let out a frustrated sigh, kicking back in his chair with so much force he knocked a bit of whiskey out of the glass balancing on the arm of it. He wrapped his hand around it to steady it again, but his foot immediately started bouncing, taking his whole leg with it.

  I smirked. “Nervous, bro?”

  “I can’t fucking sit still,” he said, stating the obvious. “I should be excited to get on that plane in the morning, but instead, I feel so nervous I might actually vomit.”

  “Why in the world are you nervous?” I asked. “I was joking. I thought you were just so excited you couldn’t wait for that six a.m. wake-up call.”

  “I haven’t seen her in a month,” he pointed out, wiping the sweat off the outside of his glass with his thumb. “What if she hasn’t missed me. What if she’s having the time of her life out there and not thinking about me at all. What if I get there and I’m only in her way and she can’t wait for me to leave. What if she met someone who—”

  “I’m going to stop you right there,” Jordan said on a laugh. He held out his hands. “Ruby Grace loves you, Noah. She’s probably so excited she can’t sit still on the other side of the country. It’s okay to be nervous,” he added with a shrug. “It’s been a while, and you guys went from living in the same town to being long distance overnight. It’s going to be
different. But the love you have?” He shook his head. “That’s the same. If anything, it’s stronger.”

  “But—”

  “She walked out on her fucking wedding for you,” Mikey said, cutting off Noah’s rebuttal.

  We all grew silent, turning to face our youngest brother who had said more to us in that sentence than he had in weeks.

  “If that doesn’t tell you that woman loves you, then I don’t know what will.” He tossed a rock he’d been turning over in his hands somewhere behind him, standing. “I’m going for a walk. Tell Mama I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

  He didn’t say another word, and none of us tried to stop him. He disappeared down the driveway, only the moonlight guiding him past that.

  Jordan’s mouth turned to the side as he watched him go. “We’ve got to do something to help him.”

  “It’s only been a couple months,” Noah said. “I’m sure he’s just grieving.”

  “Maybe,” I chimed in. “But, we may also have to come to terms with the fact that the young, carefree Mikey we knew before is gone now. I mean, didn’t we all hit a point in our lives where all that perpetual joy left? When we realized the world could be a really fucking cruel place?”

  My brothers were silent then, each of them remembering a time in their life when it happened, just as I was remembering mine. I was almost positive it was the same moment for all three of us — that unforgettable summer day when we lost the man who’d raised us.

  Noah turned the subject to Jordan, asking him to recount the game Friday night. Mom had gone out of town with him to watch the game, but Mikey had asked to stay behind, so Noah offered to stay back with him. And I’d been at home trying to figure out dad’s laptop — which I still hadn’t told my brothers about.

  My stomach turned, because for some reason, I didn’t feel like I could open up to my brothers about anything going on with me — not the punishment I’d received at work, not the laptop I’d found, and definitely not the fact that I’d slept with Mallory Scooter and liked it.