: Chapter 28

I charge out of the house, yanking off my tie and ripping open my shirt.

Whatever buttons were left after last night fly off in the driveway. Fuck her.

She has screwed her way through nearly every bedroom in my house, slept with family members I see every day. And she wanted to do it. There is nothing I wanted about Cara Conroy. So much so I could barely look at her daughter when she started hanging with Trace last spring. Every time she was around, it was a constant reminder of St. Carmen. In a way that Clay never was.

I swing open the door to my truck and climb in, starting the engine and peeling out of the driveway as fast as I can.

It’s light out, way past dawn, but I don’t know what time it is. The guys might be at work by now.

My hands shake, but I don’t know why. I’m not fucking mad. Or upset. I feel nothing. She’s nothing. Not special.

Traffic blurs in front of me, and I blink, feeling my eyes wet. I dig the heel of my palm in to clear my vision. They’ll probably be at work by now.

The road stretches in front of me, trees breeze past—cars—and I’m on autopilot. One arm stretched out with a hand on the wheel, the other propped up on the door, my hand gliding through my hair over and over again.

I can’t breathe. It hurts. My head is throbbing. Fuck.

A horn honks, and I snap to, veering to the side of the road. I stop and drop my head in my hand, tensing every muscle to keep the pain at bay.

I didn’t think about it for years. Every time it crept in, I pushed it away, not because what I had to do was so horrible, but what they wanted from me was.

People fuck for money all time, but they weren’t paying for sex. They were paying to fuck a servant. A nonperson.

I’d never had sex with a woman I didn’t like before that. I always knew her. Liked her. There had never been a one-night stand. It had never made me feel bad.

And after a while, I didn’t see Krisjen as anything other than what she really was. Beautiful. A good person. She’s bright and amazing. St. Carmen no longer existed when I saw her.

The last thing she deserves is me. She should have someone good. She deserves a clean slate.

I’ll never get out of this fucking hole I’m in.

She’ll never look at me the same.

I don’t know how I get home because I don’t remember the streets or the traffic lights, but I drift through my front door, hearing, “Hey.”

I turn my head as my brothers rise from their chairs, fully dressed. They blur in my vision, but I see Trace’s smile. He looks five again when he smiles like that.

“Damn …” he says, looking me up and down approvingly. My shirt is ripped open, and I don’t know where the tie is.

“You stayed the night,” I hear Dallas say. “Must’ve …”

But they all stop, their smiles fading as they look at my eyes. I turn away and start for the stairs.

I’m sweating. My clothes stick to my skin. The ceiling feels too low.

“What happened?” Army moves toward me.

“Nothing.” I climb the steps, afraid to look back at him. My hand shakes. I grab the railing to steady it.

“Why don’t you guys go—”

“I’m just gonna take a shower,” I choke out, my pulse racing in my ears. “I’ll follow.”

“Macon …”

“Go to work. All of you,” I call out, trying to lighten my voice.

“I’m close behind.”

I can’t breathe.

The door opens, and I turn, taking a long look at Trace’s face. He raises his eyebrows.

“Put some beer in the cooler.” I force a smile. “It’ll be a hot day. We deserve it, right?”

“Psh, yeah.” He smiles wide and races out the door, Dallas following, and I twist back around, heading for the top.

Army still stands there, watching me. I know he is.

“Macon …”

“I’m right behind you,” I say, not looking back. I reach the top and walk to my room. I step inside, close the door, and lock it.

I see my bedside table and barely feel myself walk toward it. But I don’t open the drawer.

Not yet.

I sit on the bed, letting the sunlight Krisjen always leaves spilling into my room cut into my brain. I wince at the glare in the corner of my eye, and the way it’s too hot on that side of my face. No clouds outside. I hate clear skies.

I rest my elbows on my thighs, draping my arms over my legs as I bow my head.

There’s dirt under one of my nails. I feel it like it’s a seed burrowed in there.

Sweat dampens my body. It’s so hot.

And every follicle of hair feels like it’s being pulled from underneath my skin.

Hair hangs in my eyes. Dirt on my shoes. I can feel it through the leather.

I’m sick of the dirt roads. The thought of seeing them again feels like a ten-ton weight on my shoulders.

All the same, all the time.

And food and people and the years and the talking. So much fucking talking. It’s all the same, every time. Every day.

Tomorrow won’t be any different. Neither will next week.

My eyes burn as I stare at the drawer. I vaguely feel my phone vibrate, but I cancel the call without looking and drop it on my bedstand.

Krisjen was right. She couldn’t keep me alive. I was always going to end up here. I thought if I had her, it would be more than this, because I wasn’t finding a reason to stay for them. For the Bay. I fail here. Every day is just more bullshit. I’m shit.

People don’t love me. They’re scared of me. They need me. My brothers might be attached to me, but only because I’ve always been here. Every moment of their lives I’ve been here, taking up space, on their case.

The phone buzzes again. I pick it up, ignoring the call.

I zone in on the wood grain handle of the drawer.

It could be over in one minute. Less, even. I could just stop.

I just want to stop.

The sun scorches my eyes, and I close them.

They’d get used to functioning without me. They may even feel guilty about the sigh of relief they’ll feel when I’m not around. But they’ll feel it.

I was never compassionate. Patient. Kind. I’m someone people put up with. Was I ever tender with her?

I was.

It was real.

She felt it, too.

She liked me.

She was always looking, even though I acted like I didn’t see.

I shake my head. No.

No.

She’s kind. She’s good at being kind.

It was fucking pity.

I’m so much less than what she could have and she knows it.

She’s just kind.

She won’t want …

I swallow hard … me in …

I growl, digging my fingernails into my hair … five years. “Krisjen …” I gasp.

I yank open the drawer, my heart pounding and my head splitting, but I hear a voice.

“Macon?”

I look at the phone on the table.

“Macon, are you there?”

Iron?

I pick up the phone, and it feels like fifty pounds as I lift it to my ear.

“Are you there?” he says again.

I can’t talk, but I’m breathing hard. I pull the phone away from my ear, seeing a number I don’t recognize.

“How are you …” I clear my throat. “How are you calling me?”

“A friend has a cell phone.”

I missed the sound of his voice.

“I thought if you saw the prison on your caller ID you wouldn’t answer.”

He’s right. I wouldn’t have answered. I hate that he knows that about me. “You need …”

But I stop, about to ask him if he needs money but deciding to shut my fucking mouth. He can have whatever he wants.

“Are you safe?” I ask, the tears straining my voice.

“So far, so good.”

I was worried about Iron in prison, but not because of his safety.

When people like him go to jail, it’s only the start.

“You know,” he starts, “I was thinking of that time you took me to the Cocoa Beach Air Show.”

I remember. Sand. Clear day. Lawn chairs, kids with earmuffs, aviation geeks with their binoculars and coolers.

“Just you and me.” His voice softens, and I can tell he’s smiling. “I had wanted to go the year before, but Dad was just too busy. I know he tried, but it was what it was.”

Yeah. My parents had suitcases. Up in the attic, never used.

“We never got to go anywhere, and I just wanted to see it, because of the pictures I’d seen online,” he tells me. “I didn’t think it was real. Like planes and pilots and people who had adventures like that every day were something that only existed in movies. It was the first time I realized how big the world was. And what people can do.”

We don’t even use the suitcases now. We don’t go anywhere. They don’t even ask.

“Those planes flying in formation,” he goes on. “All the people in uniforms …”

I listen, still hearing the sounds of the jets whooshing past, slicing through the air.

“Everything in the Bay was draining, and that day was so full of energy.” He pauses and then continues. “The music, the crowds … You probably don’t remember it, but I never forgot what a good day that was.”

It was. It was noise that wasn’t stress. It was distracting. I didn’t think about home all day. I remember noticing that on our way back home.

“It was a good day, more so because you smiled a lot,” he says. “I felt special. Like it was something we both shared, and I don’t know why that felt so important, but it did and it stuck with me. I remember thinking we’d be closer because of it.”

I close my eyes.

“I’ve had too much time to think in here already,” he says. “I forgot how I wanted to be one of those pilots someday. Be a hero. Do brave things.” He pauses. “They wouldn’t take me now, would they?”

A knife slices my heart.

He’s a felon now. The military doesn’t take you with a record.

He breathes hard, and I grip the phone, forgetting the drawer.

“You don’t realize how badly you wanted something,” he tells me, “until you find out that it’s no longer an option.”

I stare at my shoes.

“I’m sick of regret.

“Sick of just surviving,” he adds. “But I’m going to be a pilot. I don’t know how.” His tone is steady and resolute. “And I don’t care if you don’t support me, but every path has to be carved by someone, so I’m making a new one.”

Something stretches my throat.

“I’m not coming back to that house just to exist,” he states. “You understand?”

I smile, just a little.

If I’m not dead, then I’m not done.

I can do this.

If he can do this—keep going—so can I. It’s going to be over eventually. No one lives forever. I can do more before I go.

I can show my family that we keep standing back up. I’ve got another fight in me.

Drawing in a lungful of air, I rise off the bed and whip off my jacket. “I’m building you a new room,” I say. “If you’re not home on time, I’m painting it lavender.”

I hear a muffled chuckle. “Well … I also like peach.”

I smile. “Talk soon.”

“Yeah.”

I hang up, tear off my clothes, and wrap a towel around my waist. Opening my bedroom door, I yell. “Aracely!”

In a few seconds, I hear her footfalls on the stairs, and she appears at my door. Her eyes drop to my towel, and she almost looks away.

I swipe up my shirt and hold it out to her. “Have the …”

But I stop, taking a moment to correct myself. “Would you please have the buttons on this fixed?” I ask her politely. Then I hand her the pants and jacket. “And take this suit to a tailor as a reference for sizing. Have them make me three more. You pick the fabric. Shirts, ties …”

Her face falls a little, but I don’t linger for questions. Swiping my phone off the bed, I hand that to her next. “Put this on the charger. And find a time on my calendar next week to talk to me. You’ll start handling my schedule, and we need to talk about you taking over managing Mariette’s.” My brain floods with everything I want to do, and my mouth can’t keep up. “I’m giving you joint control with her. Understand?”

Her eyes go wide, but then I see it. The smile. She nods.

Taking the pants back from her, I dig out my wallet and slip out a credit card.

I hand it to her. “Go buy groceries and text my brothers to be home by six for dinner. No stopping at bars.”

She takes the card. “What do you want me to make?”

“I’m cooking.”

Her arms fall, and for a second she looks like she’s going to drop the clothes. I shove the pants back at her and start to walk away.

“And …” I fire back. “Start organizing a … like a block party or something. Let’s get everyone together. The whole Bay.”

Her eyes bug out again.

I narrow mine. “Are you writing this down?”

She fumbles for a second and then gestures to her head. “I got it,” she mumbles.

I walk toward the bathroom but point to the suit in her hands as I go. “And have that cleaned.”

“Are you sure?”

I shoot her a look before I close the door, knowing she can smell Krisjen’s perfume on it as well as I can.

I twist the shower handle, pull off the towel, and step under the spray, inhaling hard as the cold water rushes over my skin.

I force full, deep breaths, even, in and out, as I fist my hands and feel the rush of the ice charging my body.

Just one more day.

I can stay for one more day.

Like my mom did.