Page 18

She leaves the house in big shoes and a tiny dress.

The curve of her ass teases the hemline.

He drops a cushion on his lap.

And wonders where the hell she’s going.

At the dentist getting a root canal.

At the gynecologist getting a pap smear.

At Ricky’s place getting what sometimes felt like a combination of both.

Those are all places I’d rather be instead of idling outside Ponderosa Falls Community Center.

A tan hand pats me on the knee in what I know is meant to be a comforting gesture, but only makes me feel worse. “Don’t be nervous.”

I brush Jackson’s hand away. “I’m not.”

I’m tired because my brain missed the whole concept of a day off and woke me up at the crack of dawn anyway.

I’m nauseated because my body thought yup, this is the perfect time to get your period .

I’m pissed off that I have to be here, and I’m pissed off that I have to be here with cramps, and I’m pissed off that after, I have to be somewhere else I don’t want to be.

But I’m not nervous. It’s just a meeting. I’ve been to what feels like hundreds of them. I was just on a three-a-damn-day dosage of them, ranging from group to private to anger fucking management. The one-a-week regiment Lux has forced onto me will be a walk in the park. I can handle it.

I just don’t want to go. That’s why I linger in my brother’s truck for five minutes longer than necessary, fingers curled around the door handle, but my ass firmly glued to the seat.

“Hey.” Jackson pats me again. “You want me to walk you in?”

And just like that, the thought of my brother escorting me to my Alcoholics Anonymous meeting like a father dropping their kid off at their first day of school motivates me to move. “Nope.”

“ Hey ,” Jackson says again after I climb out of his truck, making me pause before I shut the door behind me. “I’m proud of you for going.”

I smile, but there’s nothing happy about it. “Yeah, well. Don’t really have a choice, do I?”

That face that maybe, sometimes, in some lightings when you squint from a distance, looks a whole lot like mine crumples thoughtfully.

I eye the overexaggerated divot between his brows cautiously. “What?”

“I’m just trying to remember the last time you did something you didn’t wanna do.”

I slam the car door.

With a huffed exhale, I turn on my platform heel and stride towards the gray, single-story building with my chin high, my shoulders back, my face blank. I don’t falter when I push through a set of double doors and every eye in the drab, echoey room falls on me.

An hour. That’s all it is. That’s all I have to get through. A single, boring hour.

Bypassing the crowded snack table, I flop into the first empty chair I see. The uncomfortable plastic creaks beneath my weight, and again when I shift, once more when I tuck my hands beneath my thighs.

Not nervous , I remind myself as I glare at my bouncing knee. You’re not fucking nervous.

“You need some money, kid?”

Startling, I glance at the man with the white hair and a pale, weathered face sitting beside me, leaning in all conspiratory-like. “Excuse me?”

Gray-blue eyes remain steadfastly fixed on my legs, and right as I’m deciding whether or not to shove my boot up the old creep’s ass, he tuts. “Those tights, girl. You need new ones.”

Following his gaze to the ladders in the well-worn, not-quite-opaque nylon material, I snort. “I’m good.”

“Aren’t you cold?”

It’s October in California—that word’s not even in my vocabulary yet. I only wore the extra layer because the hemline on this dress is a lot north of short and I didn’t think my bare asscheeks hanging out would make all that great of a first impression.

“Here.” Surprisingly, he doesn't thrust a ten dollar bill at me—just one of the five chocolate chip cookies stacked on his wrinkled palm. “Not enough meat on your bones to keep you warm.”

I roll my eyes, but I accept the dry-looking baked good, dramatically ripping off a chunk and waving it at the old man. “Happy, Grandpa?”

He harrumphs. “I ain’t old enough to be your grand nothing.”

I’m one-hundred-percent positive he’s at least a decade older than both of my actual grandparents, but I keep that to myself.

Picking at the cookie that’s actually not all that bad, I slump, crossing and uncrossing my legs as I wait for this stupid meeting to finally begin, trying to ignore the obnoxious huffs coming from beside me.

When I hear something lowly muttered about the youths these days , though, I can’t resist. “Can I help you?”

“What are those?”

He’s staring at my shoes. At the chunky Mary Janes with platform soles as thick as a brick and the shiny black material broken up by red, faux suede hearts that are, admittedly, slightly inappropriate for the event at hand.

And for a girl with an ankle injury, but hey, I needed the three-inch confidence boost.

Stretching my legs out, I thud my heels together. “These are shoes , old man.”

He pulls a face like he’s not quite sure they are. “You got a vested interest in breaking your neck?”

“No, but I’m starting to get one in breaking yours.”

The man gasps, one leathery hand flying to a frail chest. The other hand, he sticks in the air and waves frantically in a quest for the attention of the Black woman standing near the coffee machine, smiling at the half-circle of people huddled around her. “ Erica! The new girl just threatened me.”

Beneath my breath, I cough, “ Snitch .”

One slitted brow crooks, a gold nose ring catching the godawful overhead lights and glinting as the woman—Erica, I guess—tilts her head to one side. “Did you deserve it?”

I answer for him. “Yes.”

Erica laughs. “Leave her alone, Silas.”

Don’t stick your tongue out at an elderly man, Charlotte. Do not do it.

I don’t. Only because the gaze of the person I quickly gather is the boss around here lands on me, and while her smile remains, I’ve been on the receiving end of enough gentle reprimands—and a lot more not-so-gentle ones—to know one when I see it.

“We try to keep the violence to a minimum around here. Okay?”

Hunching further down in my seat, I grumble something affirmative.

She nods, pleased, before clapping her hands. Clearly, that’s some kind of cue I don’t know yet because everyone shuts up and finds a seat, waiting expectantly as Erica drops onto the blue plastic chair directly opposite me. “Why don’t you start us off, new girl?”

Fuck my life.

“How was it?”

Shit. Uncomfortable. Pointless, considering all I did after chanting that fucking Serenity prayer was introduce myself before metaphorically zipping my mouth shut. “Fine.”

White-knuckling the steering wheel, Lux sighs. “How are you?”

Shit. Uncomfortable. Pointless. “Fine.”

“Lottie.”

Mimicking the tired noise she makes, I open my eyes and lift my head from where it rests against the passenger window; where it’s been resting since I first found Lux in the driver’s seat instead of Jackson, and promptly decided pretending to be asleep the whole drive home was the mature thing to do.

And it worked. She let me. But we’re home now, and the jig is well and truly up. “What, Lux?”

I’m expecting a lecture. A verbal lashing for my attitude. Literally anything but the quiet, “I’m sorry,” I actually get.

Briefly, I consider asking her to repeat herself. Until I remember that Lux, as much as she might hate the thought, is just an older version of me with slightly softer edges, so I’m probably more likely to get told to fuck off. Even the clarifying question I settle on is a little risky. “For?”

“Not picking you up the other day. That was shitty.”

It was. But something about admitting that, admitting it hurt me, feels like… I don’t know. Losing. “Was Alex really sick?”

Lux nods. “I swear, every time I send that kid to daycare he comes back with the plague.”

Okay. That’s one question answered. And the other, one I already have the answer to, but I just don’t know if I believe it. “Why’d you send that Finn guy?”

“He offered. I trust him.” Lux pauses. “He doesn't know.”

“I know. He offered me a beer yesterday.”

Lux’s swallow is audible. “Did you take it?”

“No.” The noise of relief she makes stabs at a very soft, very irritable part of me. “Wouldn't have been a big deal if I did.”

If we weren’t already parked, I think my sister might’ve slammed on the brakes so she could give me the wide-eyed, slack-jawed look that says exactly the same thing her mouth does. “Are you kidding me?”

My arms cross over my chest, defensive and protective and sullen all at once. “I don't care what you think. I’m not an alcoholic.”

“I’m sorry, where, exactly, did you spend the last hour? Where did you spend the past month ?”

“I only went to rehab because of you.”

“You went to rehab twice .”

“And the first time, fine, I needed it. But I got better. I recovered.”

“Jesus, Lottie.” Lux stares out the windshield, her side profile all harsh lines, her lashes fluttering as she blinks rapidly.

When she sniffs, I frown. When she gives the poor, strangled steering wheel a break and uses the back of one hand to swipe at her eyes, I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. “Are you crying?”

She is. I see her tears, clear as day, when she shifts to pin me with her glossy-eyed stare. “I feel so fucking sad for you right now, kid. Because that kind of thinking is gonna be the death of you.”

I say nothing.

“Don’t you care?”

I don’t answer that either. I don’t flood with the instinctual, desperate urge to assure my sister that I don’t want to die. Not because I don’t want to live. I’m just… apathetic. About either scenario.

I… I don’t know. I do know, however, that hearing that wouldn’t reassure Lux in the slightest so I keep my mouth shut.

Lux sniffs a little louder. “I’m so fucking worried about you, Lottie, it makes me sick. I can’t sleep. I just stare at the ceiling and worry.”

I don’t mean to, I don’t want to, but I spit, “Sorry for the inconvenience.”