Chapter 6: Damaged Goods: Chapter 5

Age fourteen

“We should probably head back.” The words come out of my mouth finally, after Bailey and I have been in these woods for what feels like centuries.

We buried Mom today. Then ran here and went to war against nature. We’re both bleeding and exhausted and confused.

Bailey hoists my arm and drags me back to our cul-de-sac. She is bearing my full weight under her slight shoulders.

She grunts in pain every step she takes, but I don’t make it easier for her because I’m too busy feeling sorry for myself.

When we get to the cul-de-sac, she heads to her house, not mine. I’m sure people are looking for us. Our phones have been turned off since Dad said he’d kill us if he heard a ringtone during the ceremony.

At her house, Bailey brings me dry clothes from her dad’s closet and draws me a warm bath, throwing a bunch of girly bath bombs in there to make the water pink and smell like marshmallow.

When I get out, I pad barefoot downstairs and find her in the kitchen. Her clothes are still damp, and her hair looks like a hay bale. A mouthwatering scent of fresh pastry and spiced meat curls from the oven.

She made Mom’s secret recipe for my hands-down favorite meal. Burek. It’s a pie with meat in it, and it’s freaking delicious. I first had it six years ago during a family trip to Turkey. Mom swore she’d learn how to make it and ended up giving it her own twist—hers didn’t only have lamb meat but also creamy mushrooms and melted cheese.

Bailey’s burek—fresh and hot—is a replica in both appearance and taste. Down to the sesame drizzled on top, glued by egg yolk, and spinach-potato dip next to it.

The pastry is crispy as it snaps between my teeth. The different tastes unfold in my mouth. I tip my head back, letting my eyelids drop. “How?” I groan. “It’s uncanny.”

Bailey grabs a seat across from me, her face and dress still caked in mud. “This one took seven times to get right. The dough has to be super thin.”

“Tell me her secret ingredient.”

“And lose my edge on you?” She curves an eyebrow, blasé. “Dream on, Cole.”

“You should do as I ask. My mom just died.” I finish the rest of the thing in one bite and lick my fingers, releasing them with a pop.

“Dude, you can’t even turn on the oven. You once microwaved a raw turkey on Thanksgiving.”

“Dad should’ve never given me the task.” I grab a bunch of paper towels and dab the residual oil from my face.

“He didn’t. He asked you to give it to Rosie!” She is on the verge of laughing but bites it down. I think she thinks I’ll get mad if she ever shows she is happy again.

I glance down at my watch, and shit, it’s already ten at night. How long have we been gone? Are Jaime and Mel still at our place?

As if reading my mind, Bailey bites her lower lip. “Everyone’s probably looking for us.”

“I’m not ready to face the world yet,” I admit quietly.

“That’s not true. You’re facing me,” she points out.

“You’re not the world.” I shake my head. “Almost eight billion people on this planet, Bailey Followhill, and you’re hands down my fucking favorite.”

“I may be your favorite.” Bailey slides her hand across the surface, lacing her fingers through mine. “But you’re my only. And that scares me, Levy. A lot.”

I’m about to ask her what she means by that when her front door flies open, crashing against the wall.

Jaime, Mel, Daria, and Penn flood inside in a burst of heated conversation and sniffles.

“Bailey? Lev?” Mel’s anxiety sucks the oxygen clean out of the room before she even enters it all the way. “Are you there?”

“In the kitchen, Mom.” Bailey hops to her feet, blocking everyone’s way from accessing me.

In this moment, I can’t imagine myself ever letting her fall in love with someone else. I will always want every piece and atom of Bailey Followhill. Every cell and smile. Every goddamn breath she takes belongs to me.

It scares me, the things I am capable of doing to keep her. I don’t think I have boundaries. No healthy conscience. If it’s her or the entire fate of humanity, I’d still not spare it a moment of thought—fuck the world. I choose her.

“Oh my Marx, I’m so going to murder your asses! You scared us half to death!” Daria lunges at her baby sister, shaking her shoulders with her pink-tipped salon nails. “I’m going to kill you, Bails.”

“Wow, Dar. Total great choice of words. Very sensitive. You should write speeches for presidents,” Bailey grumbles as she politely untangles herself from her sister’s clutches.

“I’m just getting heavy Pisces energy in this room right now.” Daria frowns, looking between us. “Did something bad happen?”

“Yeah,” I say flatly. “My mom died.”

“I meant besides that.” Daria doesn’t even blush; she’s that much of a badass bitch. “Was Rosie a Pisces?”

“I think so.” Daria’s fucking crazy. Do I really want her gene pool for my future children? Fuck, for Bailey, yeah, I guess. “Why?”

Daria raps her pouting lips, nodding, like everything makes sense now. “She’s here with us. Pisceans have a hard time letting go.”

“Daria.” Jaime sighs, then turns to me. “Sorry, Lev, her coping mechanism is trying to lighten up the mood when things are…” He trails off.

“Tragic?” I finish for him.

“No, really. Do you know what Richard Ramirez, Osama Bin Laden, Ottis Toole, and John Wayne Gacy all have in common?” Daria parks her waist on the kitchen island.

“Deplorable mass killers?” Bailey winces.

Daria shakes her head. “All Pisces.”

“Oh.” Bailey nods seriously. “Can’t believe science hasn’t looked into that. Can they just stop with wasting all their time and money on finding a cure for cancer and get on top of this ASAP?”

And just like that, I feel a rumble bubbling up from my chest. Actual laughter. Bailey makes me laugh on the day I buried my mother. Incredible.

When everyone is done telling us how irresponsible we were for going MIA today, Jaime insists Bailey walks me home. Dad is waiting, and I guess neither of them trusts me not to run away again.

When I see Dad, I apologize and change into my sweatpants. Bailey is still around, busying herself, so I go to the kitchen to grab some water. When I flip the light switch on, it’s a total mess. Leftover food people have brought over, and there’s a bottle of whiskey with a half-full tumbler sitting on the counter.

Swallowing hard, I make my way to it. I’ve drunk a few beers here and there, but I’ve never actually drank. Thing is, Knight kind of swears by alcohol, and Dad and his friends use it too, when they need a clear head. Maybe I should try it.

My fingers wrap around the whiskey tumbler of their own accord, and I bring it to my lips.

I hear a voice behind my back: “Don’t you dare, Lev Cole.”

Bailey.

I turn around to look at her, not feeling shame or annoyance. Just exhaustion. “I need the pain to go away.”

“Not like this.” She steps forward. “Not by ruining yourself. I won’t let you.”

She takes the tumbler and washes it in the sink, then grabs the whiskey by its neck and walks off with it, God knows where, hiding it somewhere I can’t find it.

Then we both go upstairs and I feel like a small boy again.

She’s still shivering. Still hasn’t had a shower. She turns around, about to walk out the door. But I’m too selfish to let her go just yet. I grab the tips of her fingers before she’s gone and clutch. Her fingers immediately flutter over mine.

“Stay?” I croak.

Her face softens. “Never thought of leaving, silly.”

She sits in my room until I fall asleep. Literally.

She drags a damn rocking chair from my parents’ balcony across the hall and sits and watches me as I succumb to my exhaustion. Not just from today—from years of worrying and taking care of Mom. Of going to bed at night praying and bargaining with God that I would wake up in the morning and she would still be alive.

When I wake up the next morning, Mom’s not there, but Bailey is.

Her head rests on her shoulder, and her mouth is agape. She’s asleep. Guilt stabs at my stomach. Shit. She should’ve had a shower. Something to eat. Gone to sleep in her own bed. I move in my bed, about to stand and wake her up, but at the sound of my rustling sheets, her eyes snap open. She smiles as soon as our eyes meet.

I fucking love this girl.

“Hey, you.” Her voice is pure smoke and gravel. She’s so sexy, and she’s only fifteen. Fuck me sideways, we’re going to have some long puberty years. “Don’t bother looking for that whiskey because I hid it well.”

I shake my head. “Not gonna try that again. Thanks for stopping me.”

“Anytime.”

“Do you think it’ll ever stop hurting?” I ask.

“No,” she says softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Okay.” What the fuck? She should be saying yes, even if she doesn’t mean it. Has she ever met a book/movie/TV show before? Clichés were invented for a reason, goddammit.

“Grief is like a monster. That monster is hungry. It eats whatever’s inside you. But one day you wake up…and find out that it’s full. That it is satisfied.”

“What happens when it’s full?”

“It’s still a monster, but it’s no longer scary.”

“Sounds terrible.” I scrunch my nose.

She leans back in the rocking chair, mulling it over.

“Sounds like life to me. We’re bound to get hurt. Life is a journey, and no road worth taking is smooth and bumpless. Life is a borrow, not a gift, Levy. Take advantage as long as you have it.”