: Chapter 7

Dallas’s back rises and falls in the next bed.

He sleeps on his stomach, his mouth half-buried in his sheets, and I’m actually surprised.

He has sheets.

Milo’s were barely ever on his bed, and Trace learned quickly that I wouldn’t sleep over on just a mattress.

But Iron has sheets. And now Dallas? There must be some evolutionary leap for men beyond twenty years old. Can’t say for sure unless I see Army’s and Macon’s, too.

Dallas’s arm hangs over the side of the bed, his black hair nearly covering his eyelids, and I let my gaze glide down his naked back to where the gray sheet drapes just low enough past his hips for me to tell that he’s not wearing anything underneath. He literally came to bed after Iron put me in his and stripped himself naked with me in the room. I was already asleep, but … he wouldn’t sleep naked normally, would he? Not while sharing a room with his brother.

At least I’m dressed in Iron’s white T-shirt. He put me in a pair of his boxers, too, but then he woke up a couple of hours later and took them off again. He must not have gone back to sleep afterward, though, because I woke up alone a few minutes ago.

I pull the shirt, making sure it’s down, and then slide my hands between my legs, over my underwear. I close my fingers around myself, wincing. I feel like I’m bruised down there. It hurts a little.

Trace is a little bigger, but somehow, I’m sorer after Iron. I was sore after the couch, too. Iron goes harder. Deeper, maybe. I guess it was him after all.

The scent of coffee fills the room, drifting in from downstairs, and I close my eyes, rubbing myself just a little like it’ll soothe the ache. But I also don’t want the ache to go away, because it’ll be the one place he remains once he’s gone.

I open my eyes, about to get up, but there’s Dallas. Staring straight at me.

I freeze for a second. How long has he been awake?

I jerk my hands out from under the covers.

“You’re in pain,” he whispers. “It makes you prettier.”

What?

Then he turns his head, facing the wall and going back to sleep.

This house, I now realize, is about to get a lot less friendly without Iron around.

Pulling off the sheet, I pull on Iron’s boxer shorts and leave the room. Macon’s door, across from Liv’s, is still closed, as are Trace’s and Army’s. Soft blue light spills through windows, and I shiver as I head down the stairs. It’s probably about 6:00 a.m. By nine, I won’t be cold. The temperature outside always warms up quickly.

I hear water run in the pipes around me and feel my nostrils tingle as I inhale the frying bacon and the faint scent of butter. I take a left into the dark, empty living room, and stop at the entrance to the kitchen. Iron works at the stove, and I start to speak, but I stop, watching him.

The muscles in his back stretch and tense as he cooks, but his shoulders have relaxed, and every movement is fluid. Reaching for the salt, putting it back. Stirring something in the pan. The toast pops up, he grabs it. Everything one fluid pace. Calm, tranquil, serene.

Quiescent.

Stormless.

Fuck.

My mouth opens a little, feeling the lump of nausea rise. So many times I wished he would’ve calmed down, but now all I want is to see him fight. I want to know the spark in him is still there, undefeated.

He turns and sees me, smiling a little, and I plop down on a chair at the island. It hurts to breathe. Removing the glass lid of the cake dish, I swipe some chocolate frosting off one of the two pieces that remain from the dessert Mariette had me send over for Iron yesterday. I lick my finger, my mouth watering at the taste of the sugar.

I do it again, but a fork appears in front of my nose, and I laugh under my breath, taking it. He’s making breakfast for everyone, but I don’t want his breakfast. He doesn’t make breakfast. Army does. Iron making everyone a meal feels like an apology and a goodbye and defeat. He can make breakfast when he comes home.

I dig in, stuffing as much chocolate in my mouth as I can, and watch him wait about three seconds before he yanks open the drawer, pulls out another fork, and joins me.

We laugh, and I meet his eyes as he takes the seat across from me, both of us devouring the rest of the cake.

We start racing for the finish, seeing who’s going to get the last bite, and I giggle as we’re both shoving in more than we can chew and swallow. He stabs the last bit with his fork, and I can feel the crumbs around my mouth as he looks at me and chews.

“We need more,” he says.

I nod, hopping off the stool and running for the freezer as he runs for the cabinets. He pulls out mugs and spoons, while I grab all the ice cream I can find. There’s a gallon of vanilla, some cherry chocolate chunk, cookies and cream, and a whole container of untouched strawberry.

We set the table, scouring the fridge and cabinets for every topping imaginable. Whipped cream, nuts, and some fresh blueberries and kiwi already cut up from last night. We also find M&M’S, hot fudge, marshmallows, and some Christmas sprinkles, but I can’t imagine anyone in this house has been making cookies for Dex, so I won’t think about how they’re probably still around from when Liv and Trace were little.

“What the hell?” I hear somewhere behind me.

I look up, seeing Trace run his hand through his bed-head hair as he scans the breakfast table. Remnants of the black writing from his Halloween costume are still dried on his stomach.

He shakes his head, flips on some music, and takes a seat, immediately digging in as I uncover the ice creams and stick fresh spoons in them.

Filter’s rendition of “Happy Together” plays as Army enters with Dex. Dallas follows, and I take a seat next to Iron as Macon steps in, his back already covered in sweat from being in the garage.

Everyone fills their mugs, toppings being passed around, and Dex sees all the candy and starts kicking his legs.

Macon looms, washing his hands, and I toss a marshmallow in the air and catch it in my mouth in front of the baby. He giggles.

“It’s easy to catch shit with a big mouth,” Dallas gripes. “Even easier when some shit isn’t as big as others.” I drop my eyes to the direction of his dick, chewing my marshmallow.

Trace laughs under his breath; Dallas throws us both a look. I can’t hold back my grin. I guess Trace is bigger than him, too. Not sure why that pleases me so much. No, wait. I do know.

Something moves in the corner of my vision, and everyone shifts or quiets just for a moment as Macon takes a seat at the head of the table. Army glances, and I start to look but don’t. Trace, Dallas, and Iron don’t make eye contact as he begins loading ice cream into a mug, too.

I drop a few marshmallows on the table in front of Dex and take a bite of my ice cream as I grip the handle.

“So …” I take another bite. “Why do you all put ice cream in mugs?”

Trace jerks his chin to his brother. “Macon,” he tells me. “He always did it.”

Army holds his up by the handle. “Easy to transport without freezing your hand.”

“Or having your body heat melt the ice cream too fast,” Iron adds.

“It’s also easier to scoop off the high sides of a mug,” Army explains.

“And when it does melt,” Trace chimes in again, “then you can just drink it.”

And he tips it back, demonstrating for me as he catches a glob of ice cream in his mouth.

I close my fingers around my handle again, too aware of Macon’s presence at the table.

They’re right. Whenever I eat ice cream, it’s not usually at a table. It’s on the couch in front of the TV. Having a handle is great. “Got to wonder why bowls even exist now.”

Iron chuckles, and I watch as Macon squirts some whipped cream into his mug, quickly shooting out and leaving a dollop on Dex’s nose. The boy jerks, stunned, and then pats his hands up and down in excitement as he grins wide at his uncle, who winks at him so covertly, I don’t think anyone else sees.

My heart starts beating harder, watching them. I’ve never seen Macon playful. His interactions soften with Dex.

Army dives down and sucks it off his son’s nose, making the kid giggle.

“We couldn’t keep Oreo ice cream in the house when I was little,” Iron muses. “It was my favorite, but it was also Dad’s.”

“Mom would buy it; Dad would eat it all before the next morning,” Army tells me. “Iron would be so disappointed.”

Trace stares off. “I don’t remember that.”

“We were too young,” Dallas reminds him.

His eyes remain on his mug as he eats and tries hard to look like it doesn’t bother him that he remembers so little.

“He didn’t do it forever,” Army points out to me. “Dad would go in phases. Eat the shit out of something he liked until he got tired of it. Iron soon got all of his favorite ice cream to himself again.”

“Only because Macon started hiding it from him,” Iron points out.

I look over at Macon. He eats, staring straight ahead as if we’re not all sitting here.

“When Mom got sicker,” Iron continues, “and Macon had to do the shopping, he would stuff it underneath the frozen pizzas in the deep freezer for me.”

The table quiets, only Macon still lifting the spoon to his mouth, and for the first time I feel like I actually belong at the Jaeger table. I’m not the only one silenced by the reminder that their older brother thinks of them. Always.

Iron steals glances at Macon like he’s waiting for any recognition or word from him.

But Macon inhales a deep breath and tosses his spoon down, rising to his feet. “It’s a full day,” he tells everyone. “Make time.”

He pours a cup of coffee and leaves the room, disappearing into the garage again.

No one says anything, but the mood has shifted, the smiles and joking from a minute ago quiet now.

The grandfather clock in the living room chimes, and reality steps back in as they all shove a few last spoonfuls into their mouths and get up. Trace sets his mug in the sink and then bends to retrieve a few garbage bags from the cabinet underneath. He starts cleaning up the trash from the party, while Dallas heads upstairs, the shower starting within seconds.

I watch all of them go about their business, not speaking, and it’s not because of Iron and what’s about to happen. The house and everyone’s moods are always at the mercy of their oldest brother.

And I don’t think it will get better with Iron out of the house.

An hour later, we’re all standing inside the jail.

“Feel free to pack away my shit,” Iron tells Dallas. “Maybe get yourself a bigger bed.”

His younger brother flexes his jaw to cover up the shake. “Everything stays at it is,” he says quietly.

Iron reaches out and hugs him, Dallas’s arms staying at his side for only a couple of seconds before he embraces him back.

Iron moves to his youngest brother, holding him tight. “Stay sharp,” he tells him, pulling back. “Be better than me, okay? It wasn’t worth it.”

Trace nods and looks away, blinking the water from his eyes.

Army takes his turn, Iron having said his goodbyes to Dex at home.

Macon isn’t here. He didn’t come out of the garage, and I know Iron waited, but eventually we had to leave.

“He hates me,” Iron says to Army, his chin trembling a little.

But Army shakes his head. “He loves you. That’s why he’s not here.”

I bite my tongue. Bullshit. “This could be it,” my ass. What if Iron fucking dies in there? What if he makes dangerous connections and comes out ruined? All he needs is his brother to tell him he’ll miss him.

And to tell him that he can come home again.

“Do your time and get back to us,” Army says.

Iron gives him one last hug, and I stand there, not sure if I should move in. I’m not even sure why he wanted me here. I’m not his girlfriend.

But he stops in front of me. “Thanks for … your friendship.”

I let out a small laugh, shaking my head.

“I mean it,” he tells me.

I reach out and hug him, feeling his arms around me and his kiss on my cheek.

I joke in his ear, “Just don’t ask me to wait for you, okay?”

“Not me,” he says, letting me go. “But … you will be a Jaeger someday.”

I look at him.

“You feel it, don’t you, Krisjen?” His eyes light up. “You belong in that house.”

I swallow. Maybe I feel it. Maybe I feel it because I have nothing else and I’m too scared to try. Hiding in the Bay for the rest of my life would be easy. I love it there.

He looks over at his brothers and then back to me. “Dallas, you think?”

“Oh, fuck you,” I breathe out.

He laughs and hugs me again.

“Get home,” I tell him.

They lead Iron away, the cop at the front desk buzzing the officer and Iron through, and I can’t help myself. “Call as soon as you can,” I tell him.

He disappears behind the door, and we all move, watching him through the window. In moments, his black T-shirt is gone from our sight line, and I feel like my heart is being ripped out. Where are they taking him? Will he be okay? I just want to follow—

“We gotta get to work,” Dallas says, interrupting my thoughts. “Come on.”

They leave, and slowly, I follow them out, wishing I could at least see where Iron will be sleeping. As if it’s a summer camp and I get to approve it before I let him stay.

I walk next to Army, trying to hold back, but I can’t. Someone needs to say it. “Look, I know Iron kind of asked for this,” I say to him, “but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s scared shitless.”

Outside, clouds are covering the sky and Trace and Dallas head through the parking lot.

“He looks up to Macon,” I bite out, “and Macon doesn’t show up for anyone. I never saw him at any of Liv’s games. He didn’t even put in an appearance at Dex’s birthday party. All Iron needed was a kind word from him, and Macon—”

But Army turns, glaring down at me, and I lose my train of thought. “Once,” he states, “when we needed Macon, he was there for all of us.”

“Well, not anymore.”

“You don’t get it.” He searches my eyes. “I love Iron, but all he did was think about himself. It’s our turn, dammit. Macon needs us now.”

I watch him walk off, realizing he’s just as angry at Iron as Macon is.

Army hides a lot.

“Order up!”

I cock my head, using my shoulder to rub behind my ear to catch the sweat trickling down. I grab the plate, and then another, taking a second glance and tossing it back under the warmer. “This was supposed to be rice!”

I’m not yelling. It’s just loud. There are fifteen conversations going on in the restaurant, not to mention Aracely carrying on her conversations as she moves plates about the room, even if it means shouting.

I’m glad it’s busy, though. It helps to keep me from thinking about Iron and what he’s doing right now. It feels like we dropped him off a year ago, instead of just yesterday.

The cook grabs the plate. “Give me three minutes.”

“I don’t have three!” I blurt out, and snatch Summer’s plate from her, spooning the rice from her dish onto mine.

“Krisjen!”

“My order was first,” I tell her. “My rice.”

I carry the food off, swiping a ketchup bottle and pinching it between my elbow and hip as I go.

“I’m considering this payback for that onion ring incident!” Summer yells. “We’re even now!”

“Affirmative.”

I set the plates down in front of the two ladies, one of them so beet red, they have to be tourists.

I drop the ketchup at table eleven and grab the Coke I left at the bar, setting it in front of Sam Martinez, who comes in only when his wife puts tuna sandwiches in his lunch, which he hates but doesn’t have the heart to tell her.

“Here you go,” I tell him, dropping a fresh straw next to the drink.

“Thanks, hon.” He cuts into his steak. “Keep ’em coming.”

“Will do.”

My phone rings in my back pocket, and I pull it out, seeing Bateman’s name on my screen. I answer it, holding it to my ear as I start clearing the dirty dishes at table twelve. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Krisjen …”

He’s breathless. I pause.

“I’m sorry about this,” he says. “But you have to come home.”

I stop, standing up straight. “What’s wrong?”

“Your mother is two hours late from her lunch appointment,” he tells me. “And I told her I could stay only so long today.”

But I tear off my apron, leaving the dishes as I ask, “Why are you even there? The kids are at school. My mom dropped them off this morning.”

“No,” he retorts. “It’s some staff-development thing that I’ve had on my calendar since August. The kids are off today, and I have my own errands to run. Your mom assured me she’d be back by two.”

I dart my eyes up to the clock above the breakfast bar. It’s after four.

“Can you please stay?” I ask him. “I’m really sorry, I just—”

“And your mom also hasn’t paid me in five weeks, either.”

I hesitate. “What?”

Bateman doesn’t say anything for a moment, and while I’m grateful he’s continued to come, I can’t imagine anyone else would’ve. What the hell is going on with my parents?

“I’m sorry. This isn’t your problem,” he tells me, “but I can’t get ahold of her, and I’ve had it. I need to leave.”

For today or for good? I exhale hard. “Oh—okay. I’m on my way.”

“Thanks, babe.”

I hang up and swing around the counter, taking out my bag.

“Order up!” Mariette calls.

I dial my mother. I’m not worried, but if she’s on her way home, then I can stay and finish my shift at least. The call goes to voicemail, and I hang up, immediately dialing my father, who I know won’t answer.

“Krisjen! Order up!”

I wait for his voicemail and clench the phone in my hand, turning away from the customers at the counter. “I promise,” I grit out over my father’s voicemail, “you won’t be able to walk out of your fucking house someday without hearing my name. You are going to be sorry I was ever born.”

I hang up, slide my phone into my pocket, and take my backpack. I don’t blame my mother. She always paid Bateman, and if she can’t, it’s because of what my dad has done to us.

I don’t like the way she’s handling a lot of this. She has things to sell. The house. Her jewelry. She has options.

And yeah, trying to pimp me out is a whole other discussion, but if nothing else, my mother is a survivor, and none of this would be happening if my father hadn’t ditched us without a cent.

I toss my apron into the laundry basket as Summer stops next to me. “Are you okay?”

“I have to go.” I don’t even look at her. “I’m really sorry. I’ll try to make it up another time.”

“You’re supposed to cover the bar tonight,” Aracely snaps.

“Can I get some napkins, please?” someone calls out.

Followed by the bell. “Order up!”

“Seriously?” Summer begs me. “Not now. It’s busy.”

“I have to,” I tell the new girl. “It’s an emergency. I know I suck. I’m sorry.”

“Go,” Mariette tells me. “It’s okay. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

I flash her a grateful smile. Then I look back to Summer, ignoring Aracely. “I’ll get you back. I promise.”

“Yeah, you will.”

I laugh a little and spot the to-go bag under the warmer. I grab it. “I’ll take this,” I tell Mariette.

Macon wasn’t home for lunch, but we saw his truck pull in a half hour ago. Mariette probably thought he’d be hungry.

I hurry out of the restaurant and make my way to the Jaegers’ house. I didn’t tell Mariette that I wasn’t sure I’d be back at all, actually. If Bateman isn’t paid, he won’t return, and I’ll have to be home. What the hell would happen if I went to college in January?

I veer right, into the garage, and find Dallas, Macon, Trace, and Army all working on an old Cadillac. A gold one that everyone knows belongs to the mayor of St. Carmen.

It’s amazing how long the Jaegers have survived by making themselves useful to the right people. Public enemies but private friends.

“I have to leave early,” I tell Macon. He sits at his workbench, inspecting something that looks like it came out from under the hood of the car. “I won’t be able to cover the bar tonight.”

He twists his screwdriver slowly, the bolt spilling off onto the table.

Seether’s “Careless Whisper” plays in the background.

Macon doesn’t reply.

“What’s wrong?” Army asks me.

Macon takes the screw, rubbing his eyes.

I study him. “N-nothing,” I reply to Army.

I inch to the side to see if I can see Macon’s eyes. The bags are darker, and I set the food down in front of him so he sees. Is he okay?

My phone rings again, and I pick it up without looking.

“Where are you?” Mars asks.

“I’m coming,” I explain. “I’ll be home soon.”

“Okay.”

“’Kay. Bye.”

“Will you be back tomorrow?” Army asks me.

I meet his eyes, the concern taking me off guard. I’m easy enough to replace.

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I—”

“We need to know,” Dallas cuts me off.

I start to back away, out the door. “I’ll try.”

“Don’t,” he replies, leaning back underneath the hood. “You’re replaceable. By a dozen girls who won’t bring me a cold cheeseburger.”

Army glares at him. “My cheeseburgers are always fine.”

“Probably because she wants to screw you next.”

Macon fits the head of the screwdriver into the bolt, not blinking as he twists it slowly.

It spills out of the notch. He puts it back in.

He breathes in.

Then out.

In. Out.

Little turn of the tool.

Another little turn.

Breathing in. Breathing out.

Army goes on. “Stop treating her like shit.”

“She knows how to hit back.”

Macon’s jaw flexes.

“Dallas, shut up,” Trace finally chimes in.

Macon squeezes the screwdriver. His knuckles are white. His hand shakes.

My stomach churns. Does he know we’re here?

“Come on.” Dallas doesn’t stop as he saunters up to me.

“Where’s the fire you had for Iron?”

“Leave her alone,” Army growls.

Macon’s hand shakes again. It won’t stop. My gaze flashes between his hand and his face. Am I the only one seeing this?

But Dallas keeps going. “We’ll leave the door open,” he taunts me. “I’m sure you’ll be back tonight.”

I back away from him.

“What the hell is your problem?” Army yells at him.

But a small voice finally pipes up. “Go take care of your family, Krisjen.”

I turn, following the direction of the whisper. All eyes turn to Macon as he rubs his own with his thumb and forefinger. I’m probably the only one who sees it. The way they’re watering.

“Mariette will have you back whenever you want,” he says, his voice gravelly.

His brothers watch him warily as he rises and moves away from the table.

“Do I tell Mariette to turn customers away?” Army asks him.

“Tell her to close the fucking doors for the rest of the day for all I care.”

Dallas moves as his brother passes, and Trace comes out from under the hood, watching him. Everyone finally noticing what I did minutes ago.

“Now get out,” Macon barks at them. “All of you. Now.”

I back toward the bay door, his brothers following and scramming before Macon hits the button and the door comes falling down. Locking him back in solitude.

Slowly, I walk to my car, while the boys drift out into the street.

“I don’t see how we can’t find any employees without fucking kids to take care of,” Dallas gripes behind me.

Something’s wrong. How can they not see it?

Is it Iron? Or …

But I just climb in my car and sit there for a second, tears starting to stream, and I don’t know why. It’s changing.

The Bay can’t change, but it is.

He looks like he’s dying.

Liv gone. Iron gone.

Macon …