I turn off the water. “I’m fine. Give me a few.”
There’s a tension-filled silence. He knows what he’s done. I know what he’s done. Neither of us can fix it.
“I thought you would be out all night,” he says. “Heard you and Chevy had dates.”
Mom told me once Dad’s a man worth forgiving. There are billions of other words she could have said before she walked out the door, but that was her chosen parting advice. One more confirmation that I am what the good people of Snowflake say I am: cursed.
I rub my face as beads of water track down my body. The girls and then crashing at Chevy’s place—that was the plan. But thanks to Breanna Miller, I ran late, and when I met up with Chevy and the girls, my brain wasn’t there, it was with Mom.
I had heard Dad was back in town early from his security run for the club, so I cut the night short. I was the moron to assume coming home might solve my problems.
“Told you I’d be home when you got back in town,” I snap. “I keep my promises.”
Silence. The word promises cutting through both of us like a blade.
The door shuts and I silently curse. A long time ago, in a world I barely remember, the two of us used to talk. About stupid shit. About anything. The sound a motorcycle makes before it drops into gear. The best spot to catch bluegill. Which MMA fighter deserved to win. Detective Jake Barlow said Dad worshipped me. Goes to show how jacked up his theories are.
I slide the curtain and the metal rings jingle. The cracked mirror’s fogged and it distorts my image—slashing my face in half so that one side is higher than the other. Creating an external image of what I am on the inside: unbalanced.
I take my time toweling off and slip on a fresh pair of jeans. When I open the door to the bathroom, the cooler air nips at my skin. Dad leans on his forearms against the chest-high narrow table in the kitchen area of the front room. His eyes switch from the television on the wall to me.
Dad has red hair with a brown tint and his recently grown-in thin beard is the same color. I matched his height last year and surpassed him in what he can bench-press the year before. When we’re standing side by side, people can spot the minute ways we resemble the other, but I know what Dad sees when he looks at me: blond hair, blue eyes. He sees Mom.
According to the weatherman, it’s supposed to be a hot day. Scorching. He also reminds those of us who don’t live under a rock that tomorrow is our first day of school. In slow motion, I turn my head to Dad’s bedroom. The bed’s made and there’s no one in sight.
The woman—she’s gone. My wish was granted. As much as I thought her leaving before sunrise would heal the oozing wound inside me, it didn’t. Sunrise wasn’t my breaking point. I broke earlier this morning when the light flipped off. I was just living in denial.
“We need to talk,” Dad says.
I agree. We do. About Mom, the detective, the file, but it feels wrong to discuss anything associated with Mom now. “I haven’t slept yet. Later?”
“All right.” Dad focuses on the coffee cup next to his hand. “Later.”
I head for my room, and when I reach the door, Dad stops me. “Razor...”
I pause, but I don’t respond. I’m not doing this and Dad knows better than to push me.
“I heard about the detective and we’re going to hash this out—me and you.”
He’s aware of my stance on conversation this morning. Besides last night with Breanna Miller, I’m not in the habit of repeating myself.
“The club needs you to be reachable,” he continues. “When all the board’s back in town, you need to be there at a moment’s notice. They’re going to want to hear what the cop had to say. Plus the Riot’s getting too close to town and Emily’s coming for a visit soon.”
Emily—the daughter and granddaughter of the two most powerful men in the club. Not to mention she’s the girlfriend of one of my best friends. Over a month ago, blood was shed over Emily between our club and the Riot. All of us wonder if blood will be shed again.
“You see the Riot,” Dad says, “you call the club. Only the board is allowed to engage.”
I enter my room and Dad raises his voice so I can hear past my now-shut door. “I mean it, you don’t engage.”
I lie on my bed and pinch the bridge of my nose. I hope the Riot busts into town. There’s an edginess inside me. Something stirring like a cold front on the verge of colliding with warm air. Too many demons are hovering near me and the one thing that can release the pressure is a good fight.
Bring it, Riot. Show me your worst.
Breanna
THERE’S A PICTURE on the fridge Mom and Dad had taken of the kitchen when they moved into the house. Back then this room was bright yellow, open, and there were vases of flowers scattered everywhere. Twenty-six years of wear and tear later and three meals’ worth of dishes stacked up from nine people and you’d have today’s version of the same kitchen.
Addison sits on the counter with her eyes glued to her cell while I prerinse dishes, then load them into the dishwasher. She lifts her legs as my two youngest siblings chase each other around the island.
It’s after eight. One of them is in kindergarten, the other second grade. Because elementary and middle schools began a few days ago, you’d expect at some point my siblings would tire and pass out, but I’m convinced that when they’re depleted of their own energy, they suck me dry of mine.