: Chapter 8

“I seem to remember Macon having to quit a job to come home and raise you,” Army tells Dallas.

Krisjen drives off, and I stare after her car as it disappears around the trees. What the hell is she doing? I didn’t start up with her because I thought I would be rid of her when she left for college this fall. I started up with her because she’s hot and fun.

But she shouldn’t still be here. She has choices. Why does she look like she’s treading water?

“Stop being a fucking coward,” Army tells him, “and start taking your anger out on whoever really deserves it.”

“I can’t.”

“Leave her alone.”

“But I haven’t gotten a reaction out of her yet.”

I draw in a breath, my shoulders feeling heavier today.

Army moves into Dallas’s space. “You’re giving her an awful lot of attention for someone who’s supposed to hate her.”

But Dallas doesn’t back up. “You’re not scary.”

Not like Macon, he means.

“You’re draining me,” Army nearly whispers, and I can hear the fatigue in his voice as he talks to Dallas. “It’s a drag being around you anymore, and if you’re not going to tell me what’s wrong so I can help, then you just need to shut up. Or else you won’t have to worry about Macon, because right now I’m the one who wants to snap your fucking neck.”

“Tryst Five, then?” Dallas taunts.

But Army fires back. “No, still Tryst Six. You’re assuming you’re irreplaceable. There will be more Jaegers.”

I can’t help but smile a little. None of us can keep up with Dallas, except Macon, and he only accomplishes that because most of us aren’t completely certain that Macon won’t actually kill him. Looks like Army is finally learning to lead.

Dallas says nothing, simply spits on the ground and jumps into one of the trucks. He takes off the opposite way from Krisjen, into the swamps, and I don’t look to see where Army goes.

I pull out my phone, still staring off as Clay picks up.

“Hey,” she answers.

“What’s going on with Krisjen?” I ask.

“Huh?”

I wait, hearing a horn honk and realize she’s in her car.

Krisjen’s not one to hide things. Not like my family. If something is wrong, Clay knows.

Finally, she sighs. “Her dad left. Like eight months ago.”

I feel like I knew that. She might’ve hinted at it in passing. I was probably drunk or something.

“He took all the money, including her college fund,” Clay tells me. “That’s why she didn’t participate in the debutante ball with me last spring. She couldn’t afford it. He started over, a mile away on Barony Lane, with his sidepiece, and won’t front any child support until …”

“Until?”

She clears her throat, probably nervous about betraying a confidence, but she knows better with me.

“Until he knows all the kids are his,” she explains. “Mars looks …”

I nod, finishing for her. “Different from Krisjen and Paisleigh …”

Jesus Christ. What a fucking dick. He has more money than he will ever need, and at the very least, he knows Krisjen is his daughter.

I wish you all could have all the money you ever wanted, so you can see that’s not the answer.

That whole fight with Iron makes more sense. What is her mom’s plan to take care of her kids?

“He left Mrs. Conroy the house,” Clays explains, “the cars, and her jewelry, which she can sell but won’t.”

Because she’s spent a shitload of time accumulating that life.

“And I heard …” Clay pauses, and I hear her engine shut off. “What?” I press.

She hesitates, exhaling. “So Krisjen didn’t tell me this, but my dad called this morning, and …” she says.

I tense, waiting.

“Some of the men at the club were circulating an old photo of Krisjen.” She lowers her voice as if someone can hear her in her car. “One she sent Milo back when they were together in high school probably, and like the asshole he is, he didn’t keep it to himself. Jerome Watson is saying that she’ll be his. Her mom, apparently, is pushing for it, because he’s rich, and …”

And she can’t sell her jewelry, but she can sell her daughter. Yeah, fuck.

“She would’ve been a minor in that photo, Trace,” Clay explains. “My dad called her mom. He called her dad. No one is answering. He waited until Watson hit the parking lot and then gave him a bloody nose.”

Really? Heh.

“My dad’s known Krisjen since she was a baby, you know? He was really upset.”

“Don’t worry about anything,” I tell her. “Tell your dad not to, either. We got it from here.”

“We?”

I hang up, heading for the house. I like Krisjen. I always have. She’s sweet to people, and I don’t want that ruined, because I think that’s why I was drawn to her. Neither of us has grown up, but where it’s just pathetic on me, it’s hopeful on her.

I step into the kitchen as Army pulls chicken nuggets out of the freezer. I snatch the bag out of his hand and toss it back in. “Get Dex,” I tell him. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“You’ll see,” I say. “This could be it. Come on.”

Krisjen and I have screwed at least twenty times, but I’ve never been inside her house. I know which one it is, and I’ve passed it a million times, but the Conroys hire elsewhere for their landscaping, and when we hooked up, Krisjen never wanted to do it at her place.

Which made sense. I can be seen with a Saint. Her parents can’t see her with Swamp.

Army parks, and I walk up the long driveway to her house, avoiding the door at first. The Spanish revival has characteristics similar to my house—the clay shingles, the stucco exterior, the lead-paned windows and wooden front door. But her house is white, in excellent shape, and I know from her social media that she has a huge T-shaped pool on the back patio, which itself has as much square footage as the damn house. Or at least looks that way on Instagram.

I spot her crossing the room in front of the window, and I step over the flower bed, tapping on the glass. She jerks around, then sees me. I nod once and head for the door.

No idea if her mother is home, but I don’t think she usually is. Rather not bump into her, in any case.

Krisjen pulls open the door, and I stroll in, not waiting for an invitation. “Hey,” I say, looking around the shiny foyer. There’s a mirror on the ceiling. In the foyer. I shake my head.

“What’s up?” I hear the surprise in her voice.

I face her, Army stepping in, his kid hanging half off his shoulder. “Kids eat yet?” I ask her.

“About to.”

She’s studying me like I’m going to piss in her house.

I whirl around and head into the living room—or one of them anyway. “What are you cooking?” I shout.

But I just hear her yell behind me. “Hey!”

It’s too late. I already spot the kitchen to my left and head for the doorway. “It smells good in here,” I call out.

“It smells like her,” Army adds.

Paisleigh and Mars sit at the kitchen island, but we’ve never formally met.

Krisjen charges after me, her voice on my tail. “What the hell are you guys doing?”

But then I stop, scrunching up my nose as I turn to Army. “Do you smell that?”

He nods, hesitant. “Broccoli.”

I pick up the plate in front of the little girl, inspecting that shit that’s popular in homes with women. Thank God Macon eighty-sixed that crap the day he took over. The only green things I eat are jalapeños.

“Krisjen, what are you doing to these kids?” I eye the little girl. “You want to eat this?”

But the middle schooler next to her pulls down his headphones instead. “Who are you?” Mars asks.

I like the scowl on his face. It’s protective.

I pick up the grilled cheese on Paisleigh’s plate and take a bite.

The butter hits my tongue, and my taste buds fucking implode. “It’s actually pretty good,” I tell Army.

There’s ham on it, and the cheese is on the outside of the bread. Weird, but massively edible.

Krisjen sets her hands on her hips. “It’s croque monsieur.”

“Croque what?” I try to ask, but my mouth is full, and she just rolls her eyes at me.

Army takes it. “Looks like ham and cheese to me.” He bites off a hunk, his eyebrows shooting up and nodding at me in approval.

“Haven’t we seen enough of each other?” Krisjen asks.

But I look at the kids. “You guys want ice cream for dinner?” Paisleigh nods so hard her head nearly falls off.

But Mars is skeptical. “You’re the Jaegers,” he says. Then, he looks to Army. “Are you Macon?”

“That’s Army,” Krisjen tells her brother and then points to me. “That’s Trace.”

“Come on.” I start to move for the door. “Get your shoes on. We’re going to make sundaes.”

“Yay!” the girl shouts.

“Trace!” Krisjen yells, but I ignore it.

I grab Dex from my brother and swing the one-year-old around my head, leading the way as the kids jump off their stools and follow.

“Is that your son?” Paisleigh asks as we walk out the door. “This?” I hold out the baby to her. “I found it outside. It’s not yours?”

She throws her head back, giggling. “Nooooo!”

I hear Krisjen growl behind me and finally hear her lock the front door, following.

Army and I strap the kids into the car, and I vaguely hear some grumbling behind me, but Krisjen climbs in, and we take off.

The drive isn’t far. We’re barely leaving her neighborhood, actually.

We turn right, climb a hill unusual to find in Florida, and then swing left, the gas lanterns on both sides of the street coming into view and all lit.

A buzz spreads under my skin. Like it always does when I come here.

A canopy of trees hangs over the sidewalks, the soft glow of the lamps lighting the mild fog, making me feel like I’m nowhere near Sanoa Bay.

Nowhere near St. Carmen.

I remember the day I first worked on this street, and while it was beautiful, that’s nothing compared to how it looks at night. Like every house has a mom, and there’s an apple pie cooling on the windowsill.

Army stops in front of a 1930s Tudor-style cottage, white rock with patches of wear that charmingly reveal the natural brown underneath. The second floor has a lone window where the roof meets at the point, and the shutters have clearly been repainted over and over for a hundred years.

A knocker that I know is an owl adorns the green front door, and unlike most homes that have square windows, this one features domed panes.

Trees loom on both sides of the walkway to the front door, but Army pulls the truck into the driveway and toward the back of the house, out of sight.

“What are we doing?” Krisjen asks.

But I don’t answer. “Come on,” I tell the kids, opening my door.

Paisleigh scrambles, trying to pull off her seat belt. Mars follows me.

I bypass the side door and take the walk to the front of the house, wanting Krisjen to see it this way. Pulling out my keys, I unlock the door and push it open, stepping aside to let everyone else enter.

The kids run, Army following with Dex, and Krisjen rushes after her siblings. “Stop!” she yells. “No.”

But I pull her back and sweep her into my arms.

She kicks, frowning at me. “What are you doing?” she bites out. And then she shouts, “Mars! Paisleigh!”

“They’re fine.”

“Are you house-sitting?” she asks me. “Why do you have a key?”

I smile and carry her inside, bridal-style, kind of getting turned on by how pissy she is since she stopped sleeping with me.

“Let me down,” she whines.

“No.”

“Dude,” she scolds. “Come on. They’re going to break something. I need to get them out of here.”

Heavy footfalls pound upstairs as the kids explore the cottage, and I keep the lights off, so we don’t alert the neighbors that someone’s here when we’re not supposed to be.

She squirms in my arms, and I heft her up again, adjusting my hold. Funny. She never felt this heavy on top of me.

“I never really liked your house.” I give the door behind me a slight kick, closing it. “Or Clay’s, or most of the houses on this side of the tracks.”

I head left, down the two steps on the hardwood floor, into the living room that features a brick fireplace. The owner probably only uses it in conjunction with the air-conditioning just so they can stand the heat for a little bit of ambience.

“Your house is too refined,” I tell her. “Too cold.”

The smell of brick, leather, and a woman’s perfume, probably still lingering on the high-back cushioned armchairs from the last time the owners were here, fills my lungs, and I can’t imagine that any more than two people should ever live here.

Two people reading in those armchairs. Laughing over a bottle. Eating and taking a bath in the old tub upstairs, and listening to records and never unable to hear each other. Never forced to shout or do more than whisper. No fighting. Nothing breaking.

“But this house …” I muse, looking around. “I could live here.”

I feel her staring at me, and I’m sure she’s wondering if I’m drunk, because she believes I’m not capable of any decor other than beer-can pyramids and Samurai swords. Of course, I do have two Samurai swords in my room at home.

I step farther into the room, and she hooks an arm around my neck to steady herself.

I walk her past the mahogany bookshelves and the antique vase on a pedestal in the corner. “I would love to have my own business someday, too,” I tell her. “A place where people come to sit and talk over beer.”

“Like a bar?”

“A pub,” I retort.

“Is there a difference?”

“Yes, there’s a difference.” I scowl down at her. “A bar is drinking and drama. A pub is …” I pause, looking around the room as if the word I’m searching for is written on the walls. “Community. Somewhere you feel at home.”

Hence pub. Public house. It’s a gathering place.

“Somewhere comfortable,” I go on, “where the music’s not too loud and the food is good. The atmosphere feels like you’re in a book. A fireplace and wood everywhere—the furniture, the bar, the walls.”

I gaze around the living room, her body warm under my fingers. She’s soft. More so in the thighs, and I like it. I can feel the ribs in her back. I never noticed that before.

I smile a little, continuing. “The customers are as good as friends, and it’s mine. Someplace kind of sleepy except on Saturday nights when there’s live music and the floors are shaking as everyone sings along. People to talk to. People happy to be there. Happy to see you. That’s a job I would like.” I look down at her. “And then I’d come home to someplace quiet. Someplace like this that’s mine, too, and I’m alone and …”

I hold her blue gaze.

“Someplace I’m alone and …”

And I don’t have to smile if I don’t want to.

But I don’t say that out loud.

“Macon wouldn’t want to hear any of that,” I admit. “That sometimes I want to leave. He’s nearly killed himself keeping our family together. Dallas would piss all over my dream, and Army and Iron don’t need to hear my whining. You’re the only one I’ve told.”

She stares at me, and I fall silent.

Did I make it weird?

I’m not sure why I told her.

“I don’t think I’ve ever held you like this before,” I tease.

“It wasn’t that kind of relationship.”

Yeah. We shared meals. Takeout on the way back to my place. Breakfast the morning after sometimes. This is probably one of the longer conversations we’ve ever had. Talking wasn’t what we wanted each other for.

“I’m glad you left my bedroom the other night.” I set her on her feet. “I think it takes everyone some time to figure out what they want and what they’re worth. Some people spend years settling for something, because it’s better than nothing, before one day we finally realize that it’s actually not. Nothing is better than the wrong thing.”

Wrong things kill our insides.

She stands there, still looking up at me, but her hand hasn’t left my neck.

“It’s a winter place,” I finally explain, gesturing to the house. “Fred Corcoran and his wife come down here from Boston every November before Thanksgiving, but I saw some of the staff here a few days ago, cleaning, laundering sheets, and stocking the fridge in preparation for their arrival.”

I move her hand down into mine and pull her along, back into the foyer, toward the kitchen.

“I got a key a couple of years ago to check in on the cat when they took a weekend away,” I tell her over my shoulder, “and they never asked for it back, so …”

“There’s no alarm system?”

“I guess with the security detail cruising the neighborhood they figured they didn’t need one.”

“And, of course, you have free rein to come and go,” she says more to herself than me.

As a landscaper, absolutely. No one looks twice if my truck is on the street. Or in this very driveway.

She stops and turns to me. “Would you really live here alone? Forever?”

It seems so unlike me. I love everyone, right?

I hook my arm around her neck. “I think that’s why I liked you so much,” I tell her in a low voice. “You seem the same whether you’re around people or not. You never put yourself away.”

I do. A lot.

Her mouth opens like she wants to ask something, but I just laugh, planting a smile on my face. “It’s just a fantasy, Krisjen. I won’t ever leave the Bay. Except to go to Orlando,” I add. “I would love to go to Disney World. Have you been?”

“Huh?”

Of course she has. They probably have a condo.

We walk into the kitchen, the light from the fridge brightening Army’s face as he pulls ice cream out of the freezer. The kids sit at the island, and I start pulling toppings out of the cupboard, knowing where everything is.

“Do you live here?” the boy asks. “I thought you all lived in trailers or something.”

“Mars …” Krisjen chastises.

But I nod. “We do. We’re just breaking and entering.” Then I lean down to Paisleigh, pressing my finger to my lips. “Shh …”

She goes wide-eyed.

“They don’t live in a trailer,” Krisjen tells her brother, pulling out mugs and spoons.

I pull off the lid off the ice cream and start scooping. “We live in a humongous …”

“Amazing …” Army adds.

“Incredible …” Krisjen points out.

“Dilapidated …” I tell Mars.

“And rotting …” Army jokes but not really.

“Mansion.” I drop a scoop of ice cream into a mug.

Army passes behind me, grabbing his kid, who is climbing across the counter. “There are holes in the walls,” he says.

“A leaky roof,” I go on.

“But it rains in the kitchen”—Krisjen grins—“which is kind of cool.”

“There’s no central air-conditioning,” I tell the kids, “and the water tastes like mud.”

“And there are bones in the backyard,” Army says, “because every animal in a ten-mile radius comes to our house to die.”

Mars laughs as he eats a spoonful of ice cream.

“The lights go off in thunderstorms,” Krisjen tells them, “and it always sounds like a creaky shutter and smells like early-morning fog and old wood.”

Army looks at her over his shoulder, Dex trying to climb out of his grip.

“The ceramic tile floors are this beautiful red-orange color, and the stairs are all uneven like a Dr. Seuss house.” She smiles to herself as she makes Paisleigh’s sundae. “Because they’ve endured years of all the Jaeger boys, and all the people before them, running and stomping up and down them and moving furniture on them …”

The glow on her cheeks brightens with every word, and I meet Army’s eyes, both of us going silent.

“And kids learning to climb them,” she continues, “and there’s a thin hole about three inches long on one step halfway up that I’m always worried will give me a splinter, but I hope it never gets fixed.”

I know that step.

She really loves our house, doesn’t she?

“Why don’t you want them to fix it?” Paisleigh asks.

But Krisjen doesn’t answer her sister. Because beauty is in the small things and character is in the flaws, and learning that fact can’t be taught or told.

I’ve never loved my house, but Krisjen sees it as magical.

Army’s eyes fall as Dex swats at him, and I finish doling out the ice cream.

“How can you see if the lights go off in a thunderstorm?” the little girl asks Krisjen.

But I drop the scooper, replying, “Like this!”

And I dive down, force my head between her sister’s legs, and haul Krisjen up onto my shoulders, high in the air.

“Trace!”

I plant Krisjen’s hands over my eyes, and I hear a peal of laughter from the little girl.

“Don’t break anything,” Army grumbles.

I hold out my hands, blindly feeling for the refrigerator. “No promises.”

I open the door and pull out a small plastic container of something I can’t see. “Okay, is this the ice cream?”

“N—”

“Yep!” Krisjen laughs. “That’s it.”

More giggling from the other side of the island.

I uncap it and start dishing out scoops into a mug.

“Krisjen!” Paisleigh shouts.

But all her big sister says is “Shh.”

“And some sprinkles,” I singsong, grabbing something that feels like olive oil. “Must have sprinkles!”

“Oh no,” Paisleigh groans.

I can hear her palm hit her forehead.

“And I need some chocolate sauce.” I reach to my right, feeling for a container.

“No, not there,” Krisjen tells me, still covering my eyes. “To the left. More. More. There.”

I grab what I’m sure is a pepper grinder.

“Krisjen, but …”

“Shh, I know what I’m doing, silly,” she tells Paisleigh. Then instructs me, “Now twist it.”

I smile, happy to hear the light tone in her voice again.

“Mmm, this is going to be so good,” I coo. “I can’t wait.”

I feel for a spoon, dip it into the mug, and scoop up a mouthful. “Ugh.” Mars groans.

Paisleigh giggles, waiting for me to take the bite.

“I can’t watch this,” Mars finally says, and I hear his stool scrape against the floor.

I take a huge bite of sour cream and gag, acting like I’m going to vomit as the little girl starts laughing hysterically.

I keel over, and Krisjen starts to fall, letting out a laughter-scream combo as her hands leave my eyes.

I try to catch her, but she topples to the side and into my brother’s arms. He holds her, both of them staring at each other for a moment.

“There she is,” he says, both of us clearly glad to see her smile back again.

We take our sundaes to the table, while Mars disappears upstairs and Paisleigh plays with Dex in the foyer.

“Thanks for this, guys,” Krisjen says, setting her mug down on the table. “I just don’t want to be a problem for Mariette or Macon. With my parents and their problems—”

But she doesn’t need to explain. “That’s how the Bay survives, even given all of its struggles and fighting and noise,” I tell her. “We never think we have to do anything alone.”

And neither does she.

Iinhale the cool air, the central air-conditioning alone possibly worth marrying her and moving in. “I like your room.”

We lie on top of her bed, fully clothed, the unfamiliar territory making me a little uneasy. Every time she left my bed this summer, I never gave one thought to where she slept. It’s kind of hard to picture her in this house. It’s all white and gold and clean and cold. Except her room. The walls are baby blue, and she has a canopy over her bed, because Krisjen was always told she was a princess.

I roll over her, half lying on her body as I bury my face in her white comforter that looks blue in the moonlight. “And this bed,” I muse. “It smells like jubilation and girl skin.”

I dive into her neck, nibbling gently.

She lets out a laugh and pushes me off. “Stop.”

I lie back, cradling her head in the crook of my arm and staring down at her. “I can do better.”

I’m not sure if I mean sex or something else, but she simply smiles. “I have no doubt. When it’s someone you really love.”

I wasn’t sure if I really wanted sex tonight, but now I do.

She gazes up at me, and I hold her eyes, not at all disappointed, though. I get tired of being fucked sometimes.

Army took Dex home an hour ago, and I stayed with her, only because I didn’t want to go home. She didn’t ask questions when I laid down on her bed. We need friends. Both of us.

“Are you mad at me?” she asks, not breaking eye contact.

No. I’m actually just grateful she knows I’m not clueless like all of my family and friends assume I am about everything. I knew she was going to bed with Iron as soon as she showed up at the party.

But I whisper, “Do you care?”

“Yeah.”

I can’t help but smile a little. “Are you mad at me?” I ask her.

“No.”

I hold her body tightly, still looking down at her. I’m not sure why I never did this to her sooner. It feels good.

“Do you miss him?” she asks.

I let out a breath and turn my eyes up to the ceiling. “I don’t know.”

I feel her eyes on me, and I shift, uncomfortable. Macon, Dallas, Army … we don’t go there. Iron’s gone. Talking won’t help.

Do I miss him?

“I mean, I love him and I hope he’s okay, but …” I shake my head, searching for my words. “That feeling like I’m waiting for something—or like something is incomplete—has always been there. I don’t really feel any different than I did two months ago when Liv left for college, or eight years ago when my mom and dad died.” I squeeze her arm in my hand. “It seems I’ve always been missing someone.”

I feel her slowly inch in as far as she can, molding herself to me.

I like her.

I can’t be Macon or Army. I can’t be Liv. I don’t feel like I have time to learn things. Space to stutter. Room to make mistakes. I’m stupid to them. I know I am. I know I’ll fail if I ever really try, so I just try to be funny instead. Or fun. If I can make the house brighter, maybe Macon will know I’m alive.

“I’m glad you told me your dream,” she says, her breath seeping through my T-shirt. “And you know what’s weird? I see it. Not really the ‘living in a cottage’ part. I’m still working on that.”

I chuckle to myself.

“But the forest-green leather seats on the barstools,” she goes on. “The candlelight flickering against the walls. The black chesterfield chairs at the tables, and you in a crisp blue button-down behind the bar.”

“Not a T-shirt?”

“Nope.” She tips her chin up, assertive. “You’re a gentleman now. A respectable proprietor with vast knowledge of the history of whiskey and the difference between aging it in American oak barrels versus French oak barrels.”

Do I really need to know that?

“And there’s a microbrewery on-site,” she continues. “Huge copper tanks you can see through the glass wall, and you call your signature beer—”

“It’ll be a distillery, thank you,” I fire back. “Rum.”

She smiles, tucking herself into me again. Green leather on the barstools … I was thinking black, but green sounds classier.

“It always gets better in my head,” I say. “More detailed. It’s a good dream.”

“It’s going to happen.”

I close my eyes, ready to sleep with the picture in my mind, but she does that thing where she drapes her leg over mine so the heat between her thighs is on mine, and I start to stir.

“Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to have sex?” I ask. “I mean, you could be practice for someone I really love someday.”

She kicks my leg, growling, and I shake with a laugh.