Page 41 of The Deals We Make

“Like you would be unhappy if you got a quit chart with thirty different things to do with rope on it.”

I look at him. “Fair.”

It takes a minute to get the line set up. Calista doesn’t meet my eye as I head to the first step. I’m pretty sure the whole pile is going to collapse into the hall if I start on the bottom step, but I do it anyway.

At first, it’s slow going as we all settle into the process. But eventually, we all find our rhythm. I can hear my brothers outside on the driveway, laughing and teasing each other.

Niro keeps calling HaloDaddy.

Clutch teases King about some shit I don’t catch, but it results in King throwing a water-damaged book we found at him.

Bates makes arrangements with Niro for the two of them to take Cat and Vi out to some new restaurant Vi wanted to try.

It’s the beat of my life.

Other people’s stories.

Other people’s lives.

Living on the periphery.

But most of the time, I watch Calista. She’s quiet, and I almost miss her feisty responses and quick-witted comebacks. She’s wearing jeans that hug her ass and a thick sweater. Her long hair is up in a ponytail, and I think back to Switch’s comment about rope.

I’d love to tie her up. Shibari is an art form as much as it’s arousing to take a woman when she is utterly helpless but to yield. I can see Calista roped in my head. Red lipstick. A thick ponytail that moves all her hair away from the knots. I could hold on to it and make her spin slowly.

When we were young, I never thought of her as more than a friend. When she ghosted me, I tried not to think of her at all. But now that she’s back, all I can seem to think of is the two of us naked.

Don’t know why I suddenly can’t wait to cuff my hand around her narrow and fragile wrists and hold them over her head, even as I remember the conversation I had with the Sicilians this morning.

I stare down at the stack of old National Geographic magazines from 1986 and hand them to Calista. “Should probably think about selling those. Bet your mom could get some money from them.”

Calista takes them from me. “She doesn’t need the money. She just needs her home back. Plus, if I leave her with a pile of things to sell, she’s never going to do it. They’ll just get stacked back on the stairs.”

“What are you doing?” Mrs. Moray suddenly shrieks from the landing above us.

“They’re just clearing the stairs like we talked about,” Calista says, coming to stand by my side.

“Why is Tiberius here?” she asks.

“Just came to help Calista, Mrs. Moray. You need to be able to get down these stairs.”

“I don’t want you here. You made Calista leave.”

I shrug, then look at Calista. “Didn’t make your daughter do anything she didn’t want to,” I say.

Tears swim in her eyes. “I saw what you’re doing. You’re throwing it all away. Don’t listen to him, Calista.”

“We’re not, Mom. I promise.” Calista moves closer to the bottom step. “Only ruined things. Things with mold on them.”

“My things,” Mrs. Moray says. And there’s enough hurt in her voice to put aside the cruel words she just threw my way.

It gives me an idea. “One second.”

I clear the mess of the bottom five steps where junk has slipped and piles collapsed. “Let me get you down here so you can see better what we’re doing.”

Once the pathway is cleared, I jog up the steps and help her down them and into the living room, where a small but considerable pile is neatly stacked by the window. “Look, Calista saved all the good things.”

Mrs. Moray looks at the pile and then out of the window at the skip.