Five Brothers
: Chapter 13

“Ineed to get home,” I tell Army.

He pulls me by the hand, up to his house. “Just let us fix your car before Macon wakes up and sees we just cost him five hundred more in tires.”

Which he’ll have to pay for, because it’s one of his brothers’ fault—again—that they’re ruined.

Trace and Dallas hop out of the truck, and Army releases my hand, heading over to them. But I grab his hand again. “I can’t crash here tonight.”

He stops and looks at me, but I don’t know what I’m trying to say. He squeezes my fingers. “Sleep in Liv’s room,” he tells me. “Your brother is over with Santos’s kid. We’ll do your tires now, and you can leave in the morning.”

He walks off, and I start to protest, but then he barks at Dallas before he reaches the front door. “Where the hell you going?” Army asks him.

“To bed.”

“Help us,” he orders him as Trace lifts the door to the garage and they start rolling out fresh tires.

But Dallas just laughs under his breath and disappears into the house.

Army clenches his jaw but lets him go, and I tuck my wet hair behind my ear. Rain kicks up mud on the ground, and I pull off my heels, bare feet in a puddle.

“Army, stop,” I call out. “I can afford a tow truck and my own tires. I can’t stay here.”

“I’m not going to try to fuck you!” he shouts.

Trace stops and turns to me wide-eyed, and I just close mine for a moment.

“Not tonight, anyway,” Army adds. “Get out of my hair and go to sleep.”

Embarrassment washes over me, and I can feel myself sweating. A tickle of a smile curls Trace’s lips.

I hold up my middle finger, mouthing, “Fuck you.”

He pouts, using his own dialect of sign language while mouthing, “But I love you.”

Asshole.

I spin around and head inside, throwing my shoes into the living room as I search for a phone. Mine is still in my car, but one of them always seems to leave one behind in the house. I rummage through the living room, checking chargers, and then into the kitchen, but the light over the stove and the one in the hallway bathroom suddenly go out. I look around for any other sign of light.

The electricity has died. I look outside the living room window, seeing that the lights on the street and the ones across the road are dark, as well.

“Krisjen!” Army shouts. “Check the breakers!”

Nope. I don’t live here.

I find a lighter and flick it to life as I head around the pot of water on the kitchen table that’s filling up from the leak in the roof. I walk upstairs instead, going for Iron’s phone, which is probably still in his room. He couldn’t take it to prison.

I stalk down the hall, his door dead ahead, but a sound hits my ears, and then I notice something under my feet.

I lower the flame and see water on the floor.

What the hell?

I hold the flame above my head, but I don’t see any leakage from above.

And then I hear the sound again. The crying.

Dex.

Peeking my head into Army’s room, I see Dex standing in his crib and walk over, making sure he’s okay. I touch his head full of straight brown hair and feel his pajamas, making sure everything is dry.

I caress his little cheek. “I’ll get you something to drink, buddy.”

Leaving his door open, I grab towels from the closet in the hallway and lay them over the water.

Then I notice where it’s coming from. I walk toward the bathroom, my feet stepping on the stream that flows out from under the door.

I hesitate a moment, knowing something’s not right.

I push it open.

Macon sits on the floor, his back against the tub, and the sink is lying on the tile. Water from the broken main gushes out of the pipe, and I can smell the vomit. My stomach coils. What happened?

He has one knee propped up, his arm resting over it, and his head turned away. I drop down in front of him, checking for blood or any sign of a broken bone.

He just sits there, though. Eyes open. Calm breathing. “Krisjen!” Army calls for me.

I don’t move.

A cup from the sink rolls over the water, and I pick it up, holding it under the stream spilling from the pipe. I fill it and then twist the valve, shutting off the water. I set the cup and a clean hand towel on the little table next to the tub.

I breathe hard, taking his face and trying to turn it toward me, but he gently jerks away.

I lean in, smelling him. I don’t think he’s been drinking.

What the hell happened? Did he do this?

I feel him watching me, and I look up. “What happened?” I ask in a whisper. “Are you hurt?”

He doesn’t reply.

“What can I do?”

“Leave.”

I shudder inside. I don’t want to leave. Did he get sick? Maybe he leaned on the sink too hard? Or fell into it?

Or … he got angry and ripped it off the wall.

I hold his eyes while his soften on me. “You look pretty,” he whispers.

And I study the drop streaming down his wet face, telling myself it’s just water from the broken pipe. I want to touch him. I want to help.

I hold back.

Rising, I walk away and start to close the door. “I’ll take care of Dex,” I tell him. “I’m right downstairs.”

And I twist the lock on the inside of the door, leaving him alone.

Iset the glass on the breakfast table the next morning, listening for Macon’s footsteps on the floor above me. He’s usually up by now.

I cleaned up the water in the hallway, fixed the breaker, and got Dex a snack and a drink, and put him back to sleep before the boys even got done with my car last night.

Then, I slipped into Liv’s room before they came upstairs.

Once Trace and Army were in bed, though, I still couldn’t sleep. I left the room three times over the course of the night to gently try the bathroom door, still finding it locked every time. I almost woke up Army, because I started to get scared. Something was definitely wrong, and maybe leaving Macon alone wasn’t the best idea.

But the fourth time, about three thirty in the morning, the door was finally open and the bathroom empty. The water on the floor had been cleaned up.

I stare at the icy, yellow drink I just placed on the table, but then I grab it again and pour the smoothie into a black mug. I set it at Macon’s seat.

I’m still in my dress, I haven’t slept, and I probably wasted my time, making him something for breakfast, but it’s only 6:00 a.m. and Mars is still asleep. I already called, and he told me to leave him alone.

Sounds like he had fun with his new friend in the Bay, at least. He didn’t want to rush home. Not sure why that makes me happy.

Army and Trace drift into the kitchen, Aracely busy cleaning up the mess the boys made when they got back last night.

“What the hell happened to the sink?” Dallas shouts, heading to the moka pot.

No one answers him, and I busy myself, wetting a dish towel before I sit down at the table to clean the mud still on my feet.

A long pair of legs walks past, and I instantly recognize Macon’s work boots.

“It’s on the goddamn floor,” Dallas keeps going. “One of you fucking her on it or something?”

I flit my gaze up, seeing Dallas throw me a look. Macon pours coffee, Trace pours cereal, and Army busies himself making Dex’s breakfast.

“Dallas, knock it off,” Army tells him.

But I go back to cleaning my legs. “We were on your bed, actually.”

“Good, you can wash my sheets.”

“You’re just a fuckboy, Dallas. I’m not auditioning to be your wife.”

Trace pours milk and grabs a spoon; Macon sits.

Dallas scoops some sugar into his mug. “Oh, I wouldn’t marry a slut.”

“You couldn’t keep a Saint anyway,” I mumble. “We’re hard to impress.”

“That hasn’t been my experience.”

I look at him, smiling as I rest my chin on my hand. “Oh, tell me about it.”

Please. Tell me everything. I’d love to know who he’s had.

Amy, obviously. That doesn’t mean he knows us.

“Bitch.” But he says it nice and soft, and I almost smile. It’s good to be back to normal.

But Army slams a piece of silverware down on the counter. “Shut up!” he yells at Dallas. “Just stop!”

“Or what?” Dallas taunts.

But it’s me who answers. “Or I’m going to stay forever.”

“You’re probably pregnant already.”

I scoot into the seat next to Trace, resting my head on his shoulder but still looking at Dallas. “Uncle Dallas. I like the sound of that.”

“Would you even know who the father is?”

I lift the coffee to my lips. “Well, it’s definitely a Jaeger.”

Trace snorts, dropping his head and shaking with laughter.

Food hits my forehead, and I jerk, watching scrambled egg spill from my skin onto the table.

“Ohhhh,” Trace murmurs.

I kind of want to cry, but I sort of want to laugh, too.

“Goddammit. Are you gonna do something?” I hear Army ask, but I can’t see who he’s talking to.

And before I even see him coming, Dallas reaches over and grabs me by the neckline of my dress and hauls me onto the table.

“We’re going to look back on this and laugh,” I squeal. “We’re not sleeping together.”

“Can we shower?” I retort.

Trace’s laughter fills the room, and I feel a whole container of sugar dump on my head. I cry out, kicking on top of the table. “You’re gonna love me! I swear!”

“Fuck off!” Dallas growls.

But I hear a faint voice pierce the commotion, different from the others. “Krisjen …”

I turn away from Dallas’s onslaught, trying to open my eyes. Dishes tumble to the floor.

“Krisjen?”

I blink, everything going still as everyone stops.

Macon sits at the head of the table as Army leans halfway over it, one hand on my arm, the other fisting Dallas’s hair.

Macon stares at the table, the look in his eyes settling like a hole in my stomach.

I release my grip on Dallas’s chest.

“Make me another one?” Macon asks me. He holds the mug with the smoothie, tipping it back and emptying it down his throat as he rises from the table. “And dinner tonight,” he says. “Something different than what’s on that fucking menu. Please.”

He leaves the table and heads for the garage.

“I can get you something from town,” Army calls out to him.

But Macon shakes his head, his voice sounding strained.

“Just her.”

Ican’t stop stealing glances out the restaurant window. As if I can see Macon a hundred yards down the dirt road inside of his garage.

I’ve been distracted all day. I borrowed Trace’s truck, took Mars home, and cleaned up the house, while Bateman picked up Paisleigh from my grandparents’. He’d stay with the kids until my mom got home, which I’m grateful for, because I don’t want to go home right away when I take Macon his food tonight. I keep checking the clock, dropping plates, forgetting flatware—because something is wrong, and I can’t see him right now. The door is open, but not even a glimpse.

What was going on last night? Macon loses his temper, but that was …

He crumbled. Collapsed on the bathroom floor, and he stayed in there almost all night.

If it were Trace or Army, I could bully them into spitting it out, but Macon is impossible. He bitches about having to do everything on his own, but I doubt even he believes that he doesn’t have to. Men like him don’t feel like men unless they do it alone.

I shake my head, piling the dishes into the tub, because the busser never showed and neither did Summer. They’re probably together.

Macon’s voice drifts through my head again. Just her, he said. Two little words that made me feel so important. To someone who’s important.

The savory scent of soup fills the kitchen, and I lift the lid on a pot simmering over a burner.

Inhaling deep, I almost shiver at the warmth under my skin. It’s in the high seventies today. Definitely cold enough. For the tropics.

My phone buzzes, and I reach into my apron, grabbing it as I replace the lid.

Bateman.

“Hey, how is everything?” I answer.

“Baby, I have to leave.”

I pause. “Please …”

“She’s late,” he tells me. “I have to go.”

“Please don’t do this.”

“And she hasn’t paid me.”

Jesus Christ. Is this really happening? Again?

“You have to come,” he says, “or I’m calling their father.” Yeah, good luck getting ahold of him.

I rip off my apron. “I’m coming.”

I hang up, seeing Mariette pause mid-pour as she fills a pie shell.

“I’ll be thirty minutes,” I tell her, running out the door. “I’ll be back, okay?”

She expels kind of a strangled, stressed sound, because she offered to be understanding, but we’re busy right now.

“Half an hour!” I shout, pushing through the door.

“I’ll hurry.” I jump in my dad’s car and race out of the Bay. I shouldn’t have taken a job. I should’ve stayed at home with Mars and Paisleigh. I figured Army was right and I needed something to do with my time while they were in school, but it would be nice for them to see a familiar face when they get home. Someone who’s not paid to be there.

I just don’t want to fucking be there. It doesn’t feel like my home anymore.

I cruise down the driveway, screeching to a halt in front of my door, and kill the engine, jumping out. My mother’s car isn’t here. No surprises there. She’s courting a new boyfriend, on the hunt for husband number two. There’s not time for kids, I guess.

Bateman opens the door before I even get there, stress etching lines on his forehead. “I’m really sorry about this, honey,” he says. “It’s not your fault. I know that.”

“Go,” I tell him, walking into the house. “It’s not your fault, either.”

It’s Thanksgiving tomorrow. I get it. He’s got things to do.

Nor should he work for free.

He grabs his bag, walking out the door. “They’ve had dinner. No homework over break.”

I nod. “Happy Thanksgiving.” And I help him close the door.

He’s gone, and I pause. That might be the last time the kids ever see him.

Did he say goodbye?

Knowing him, probably not. He assumes he’ll be back once she straightens her shit out. He’s been with Paisleigh since she was two.

“Krisjen!” Paisleigh exclaims, and I turn to see my sister dragging a plastic dinosaur on a leash. “Can we watch a movie?”

Mars is behind her, strolling from the kitchen to the stairs.

“Pack an overnight bag,” I call out, loud enough for them both to hear.

Mars pulls off his headphones. “Huh?”

I take Paisleigh’s hand. “Pack a bag.”

“Why?”

“We’re going for a sleepover with the Jaegers,” I sing, looking down at my sister.

She gasps, beaming.

My brother twists up his lips, because he wants to go, but he persists in acting like everything about me is annoying.

“Let’s go!” I start running up the stairs with the kids. “Leaving in ten minutes!”

They start tossing everything they could possibly ever need into a bag as I dial Army.

He answers on the first ring. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Can you come and get me?”

He pauses only a moment. “Where are you?”

“I’m home. I’ll explain later.”

“Are you okay?”

“No, I’m waiting,” I retort. “Hurry.”

I hang up, grab a few things myself, and hear a honk outside in less than ten minutes. They must’ve been working this side of the tracks.

“Let’s go!” I yell to the kids.

Mars and Paisleigh spill down the stairs with their gear, and I swing a duffel over my shoulder and pull out a baseball bat from the foyer closet as they pile outside.

I throw my bag and theirs into the back of the truck and open the back door, pushing them in next to Trace.

“What’s the bat for?” Army looks over the front seat to me.

“It’s a surprise.”

I open the front passenger-side front door and haul myself up, forcing Dallas over.

“Gimme a break,” he growls.

“Take Lamplight Glen,” I tell Army.

I see him staring at me out of the corner of my eye, but I crank up the radio as a song I like comes on.

Shifting into gear, he hits the gas, and I fist the bat as he speeds out of my driveway, takes a right, and jumps onto Lamplight Glen. My palms sweat, but I turn up the music more, and even Dallas just stares at me like he’s not sure I won’t kill him if he touches the dial.

“Take another right,” I order.

Army cuts a sharp turn, and I hear the tires skid as he charges onto Barony Lane.

“Stop,” I tell him.

“Wha—”

“Stop right here!” I yell.

He hits the brakes next to a silver Bentley Continental parked in front of a quaint, Spanish-style brick cottage, a beautiful little piece of heaven made for two.

I hop out.

“What are you doing?” Army shouts.

The music pumps, the night air blows through the palms overhead, and I swing the bat back, bringing it down hard onto the driver’s side window. It smashes through, the glass shattering, and I hear a bunch of swearing go off inside the truck.

“Oh, son of a bitch,” says one.

“We’re going to jail.”

“Krisjen!”

I grind my fists into the handle of the bat and throw my arms behind my head one more time before swinging hard, crashing the end through the windshield.

Whipping around, I climb back into the truck, everyone staring at me.

Trace speaks first. “Was that …?”

“Mm-hm,” I reply.

“Why did you do that?” Paisleigh asks.

I flip the visor down, forcing my breathing to even out as I check the lipstick I don’t actually have on. “A friend locked their keys inside. I was helping them get in.”

And I flip the visor back up.

“That was Dad’s car,” Mars says.

“Looked just like it, didn’t it?”

Army snorts, drives off, and I see Dallas shake his head. Trace starts laughing, and I lean my head out the window, closing my eyes and letting the wind blow through my hair.

“Who wants ice cream?” Trace calls out.

“Me!” Paisleigh cries.

I’m not taking them to my relatives tomorrow. My father can send a cop if he wants to deal with me about his windshield, and my mother can send one, too, if she wants the kids back.

The next morning, I open my eyes, feeling a body next to me. Fog clouds my brain, and I roll over the other way to get room, so I can go back to sleep. It’s too damn hot in here.

But as soon as I move away, I land on another body.

“What the hell?” I breathe out.

Blinking my eyes open, I lift up off the bed and look down, seeing Clay half-underneath me.

She bats her eyelashes. “You were so good.”

The person on my other side laughs, and I turn my head over my shoulder, seeing Liv, smiling wide.

“Y’all …” I climb off Clay, and they both crack up.

I crashed in Liv’s room with Paisleigh, but I don’t see her. I grab my phone, checking the time. It’s only seven. I wipe my eyes. “Shit.”

They’d been staying at Clay’s house. I didn’t expect them here.

Liv kicks me. “Get out of our bed.”

I climb over her. “Well, I’m not taking Iron’s.”

“Why not?” She links her hands behind her head as Clay lays hers on Liv’s chest. “Dallas really is the softest guy. He just needs love.”

I shake out the wrinkles in my hoodie. “He needs a punch in the stomach.”

“God, yes,” Clay chuckles.

He still hasn’t warmed up to her, either.

I pull on the sweatshirt and sweep my hair up into a ponytail. Paisleigh better be in the house. How the hell did she get out without me hearing? Stealthy little shit.

I head for the door, doing a quick sweep of my notifications. Nothing from my father about his broken window.

Good.

“We cleaned up down there when we got in last night,” Clay tells me. “Don’t let them destroy it.”

“Yet, anyway,” Liv adds.

It’s everyone’s day off. Her brothers are definitely going to have some fun.

But I nod anyway, leaving the room.

As soon as I close the door and turn, I smell turkey. I stop, close my eyes, and inhale. Goose bumps spread up my arms. Ah, yes.

I didn’t think they’d actually cook. Not that they don’t know how. Macon and Army, especially, have taken care of their siblings for nearly a decade, but I don’t know … No one in this house seems in the mood for anything other than alcohol lately.

I check the bathroom and see that the sink has been replaced, no evidence that anything had been wrong. I pull out a new toothbrush from my toiletry bag and swipe toothpaste across the bristles.

I clean my teeth, rinse, and drop my toothbrush in the cup with the others, even though I probably shouldn’t keep my toothbrush in here. Dallas will clean the toilet with it.

I open the window before I leave to let in the sweet fall breeze and practically hop down the stairs, feeling delighted with energy. I don’t know why, and I’m not going to ask. We deserve some fun.

I look around for my sister, finally finding her in the pool with Army and Dex. She doggy-paddles, her little head bobbing side to side as she smiles.

I squint. She’s wearing her swimsuit.

I pull back, laughing. Told her to pack the necessities, and all she probably heard was “we’re going to a house that has a pool.” She hates ours because there’s no deep end and she likes to cannonball.

I check the turkey, really just to get another whiff, and start to make coffee. I pass by the second kitchen window, spotting Macon in the garage—as usual—but then I see my brother and stop. He’s sitting in one of their trucks as Macon leans in the driver’s side window, telling him something I can’t hear.

My twelve-year-old brother scoots up in the seat, fists the steering wheel in both hands, and I straighten, realizing he’s about to drive. “What?”

He shifts, the car lurches, and I hurry over to the screen door, looking down into the garage and watching him pull out.

No. I dart my gaze to Macon, but before I can shout for Mars to brake, he turns the truck, slams on the gas, and parks along the fence.

He climbs out, headphones around his neck, and looks up just enough to catch the keys Macon tosses him. Without a word, he climbs in our mom’s Rover and slowly backs it into the garage, only stopping once to pull forward again to correct himself.

I realize my mouth is hanging open, and I close it. How long have they all been up?

Macon starts to turn back toward me, and I dive back into the house before he sees me.

No one died, I guess. And Mars is doing something that’s not on his phone for a change.

I back away, leaving them to it, only sporadically checking over the next few hours to see that they’re both still in there. Mars moved on to touching up my paint, in a mask with a spray gun, with Macon watching him. Once in a while, he grabs his mug, and I see the soup container I left him in the fridge during my shift last night on the table behind him. He refills the mug with soup, and I just barely contain my smile when I see him chew. He’s eating. That’s good.

I make up some cheesy potatoes, while Clay comes down and sticks her seafood stuffing in the oven. It smells awful.

The boys come in and out, one of them sticking something on the grill outside, and Paisleigh puts on dry clothes, staying in the living room with Dex and dancing to music.

I pull on a pair of tight jean shorts and roll them up just above my knee, and then borrow a cropped white blouse from Liv, buttoning it up to my neck. I brush out my hair, put on a little makeup, but can’t stop smiling at how I could never show up to my grandmother’s looking like this on a holiday.

I walk downstairs in my bare feet, turning off all the lights before I start lighting any candle I can find. Wind blows through the windows, making the flames flicker, and everything smells like flowers and food. I almost feel like my head is floating. Or like heaven is hanging low today, and I can smell it.

“What’s this?” Army asks, looking around at the firelight as he enters the living room.

Dallas and Trace set food on the table.

“Kind of a tradition in my family,” I say. “We keep the lights off and light candles all day.” I pause, searching their faces. “Do you observe Thanksgiving?”

I saw turkey and assumed, but they’re part Seminole. I should’ve asked.

“Don’t worry,” Army says over his shoulder as he heads into the kitchen. “We cook. It’s a good family day. And we are a little English.”

“And German,” Trace adds.

Followed by Dallas, “And French.”

“Definitely Spanish,” Liv chimes in, she and Clay walking past me.

There are piles of food on the table, and I look around as I set down my dish. “You guys eat pizza on Thanksgiving?” I ask, noticing one that’s half cheese and half old-world pepperoni.

“Everyone is allowed to make their favorites,” Trace tells me. “Like a giant potluck.”

“Cheese fries,” Liv holds up a plate, plucking one from the pile under melted cheddar.

There are burgers and hot dogs, black beans and rice, tamales, some kind of roast pork that I think Mariette made for them, and I know there are plantains somewhere on the table, because I can smell them. There’s also street corn, shrimp, and crab cakes. Army carries the turkey to the table.

I look toward the window, knowing Macon and Mars are still in the garage. Going to the freezer, I pull out some ice cream, grab a few toppings, and put it out for him.

The kids’ music channel that Paisleigh and Dex are listening to plays a rendition of “Shout,” and I start singing along as everyone sits and loads up their plates.

The kids laugh, Mars enters the kitchen and washes his hands, and I can’t hold back the smiles as I make Paisleigh’s plate.

“Oh,” she coos when I serve her an actual hot dog on Thanksgiving.

Army carves up the turkey, and I pause for a second, just enjoying the moment. It won’t last forever, just hopefully for today.

I grind my fingers in my fist, feeling the small cut I didn’t notice until this morning. Glass from my dad’s windshield must’ve hit me.

I’m a rabble-rouser, it seems.

No matter how Milo treated me and how I fought back, I’ve never thought of myself as a fighter. Until now.

Luckily, my dad doesn’t seem to be pressing charges. I haven’t heard anything yet.

Which means he doesn’t know it was me or … he knows it was me.

“‘Shout, shout, let it all out,’” I sing.

The music goes off, and I see Army with the remote in his hand. I fall quiet. They want to talk at the table, of course.

But then Macon strolls up. “Turn it back on,” he orders his brother.

Army looks at him but doesn’t argue. The music plays again, Macon sits, and I take the only seat left, slowly lowering myself into a chair at the foot of the table. I feel like I shouldn’t be sitting there, but I seem to get stuck with this seat a lot.

I lift my eyes over the food, to the other end, but Macon doesn’t look at me.

“To the first family of St. Carmen,” Clay calls out, holding up her glass. Everyone follows, and I take the Coke I poured myself. She looks around. “The traitors are at your disposal.”

Then our eyes meet, and I laugh. “Yeah, we are …”

“Woo-hoo!” Trace cheers.

Glasses clank, everyone tips back their glasses—Dallas and Trace with bourbon already—and we dig in, sampling everyone’s contributions to the table.

Paisleigh eats two bites of her hot dog and wastes no time in standing up in her chair, leaning over the table, and grabbing a slice of pizza.

“Paisleigh!” I chide, laughing at the same time.

But Trace holds out his plate, stuffing the insides of a tamale into his mouth with the other. “Yeah, pass me one, kid,” he mumbles over his food.

She doles him out a slice.

“Pepperoni for me,” Liv tells her, holding out her plate, too.

I shake my head and scoop some black beans and rice onto my plate. It’s amazing how quickly etiquette disappears around family. True family.

But she’ll remember this Thanksgiving.

The air outside sweeps through the house, making flames fight to cling to their wicks, and curtains blow like the trains of dresses. Music plays, Mars goes for a second ear of corn, and I find myself watching everyone more than I’m eating, because nothing lasts, no matter how tightly we hold. This table won’t look the same next year.

Just like, I’m sure, it doesn’t look the same this year with Iron gone. Maybe next year others will be, too. Liv will spend it with Clay’s family, or not come home at all, waiting until Christmas.

Maybe Trace will go for it, leave to work at some small inn somewhere that has a pub where he can learn the trade.

I raise my eyes, seeing Macon through the strands of hair blowing in my face. He dips a spoon in and out of his mug, staring at the melted ice cream dripping from its end, and I suddenly feel like my arms are made of steel, and so are his, and if he reaches around and I reach around, we’ll hold the table together.

But he doesn’t look up at me.

Liv serves me some of her cheese fries, which I dip in ranch, and Clay periodically checks my plate to see if I’m eating her stuffing, and then gives me a quick scowl when I haven’t yet touched it.

Finally, I roll my eyes, scoop up a glob, and shove it into my mouth, grabbing Trace’s shot of bourbon and washing the mouthful down with the only thing on the table that tastes worse.

Trace laughs, and I cough, swallowing about three more times to get everything down my throat.

Another bottle eventually comes out, and Trace spikes my drink—and Army’s when he goes off to put Dex down for a nap.

We talk a little, even Dallas relaxing as the liquor starts to take effect, but then Clay rises and Liv follows.

“Would rather stay, but …” She starts to clear their plates. “Mimi is expecting us for pie.”

Her grandmother. The one who doesn’t like that Clay is a lesbian, but she’s old and alone, and Clay knows she and Liv win at the end of the day. She has everything. No one can hurt them.

Within five minutes, they’re gone, Dex is asleep, Paisleigh and Mars have gone down the street to the bounce house at the Torreses’, and the tapers on the table flicker in the wind, only a few inches left to burn.

My mother hasn’t called.

My phone hasn’t rung at all.

Paisleigh hasn’t noticed.

“You gonna clean up?” Dallas asks.

It takes a minute to register that he’s talking to me. I put my phone back face down, looking up.

But Army shakes his head. “Ignore him, Krisjen.”

“We fed her and her brother and sister,” Dallas points out. “It’s the least she can do.”

Army rubs his hand over his eyes and up into his hair, looking suddenly exhausted.

He rises, taking his and Liv’s empty plates with him to the sink.

“Everything comes at a price.” Dallas eyes me. “Saints know that more than anyone.”

I pick up a black bean at the edge of my plate. We forgot dinner rolls. I love bread on Thanksgiving. “Yes, we’re always willing to pay for a kindness,” I murmur.

But I should’ve shut up. He’s looking for an invitation to continue the conversation.

“Everything you do is for money,” he spits. “You fuck the right sons—bosses even—as a way to elevate yourselves, because nothing in life is really about skill, talent, or knowledge. It’s about who’s willing to do whoever it takes to get what you want. The house, the club memberships, the board positions …”

My throat is tight. I swallow.

“And then, years later,” he goes on, “after you’re done having Jerome Watson’s children—so paternity isn’t contested, of course—you can have discreet affairs, right?

I raise my eyes. I guess that’s how it’s done in some marriages.

“You’ll meet him in hotel rooms,” Dallas continues, “or maybe his house in the Bay …”

Meaning I’ll be fucking one of them. Probably in the motel down the road. While wearing Jerome Watson’s huge, shiny rock on my finger.

“And you’ll let him rail you against a wall, because you like the smell of his workday on him, his dirty nails digging into your ass, and his tongue on your tits. It makes you feel alive.”

Dallas’s eyes sparkle. He’s dying for me to make a move, so he can make one back. I know that feeling. That incessant temptation to poke the bear, so you don’t have to feel guilty about channeling your anger onto someone you’re not really mad at. They’re just there.

“You know why?” he presses.

It’s a rhetorical question, but I know the answer. “Because I wish I could love the man I was married to in our home every day just like that.”

The problem is, Dallas is right. I want nothing to do with Jerome Watson.

I’d sell my body, but I know as sure as I’m sitting here that he’d be having an affair within weeks of the marriage, and just like Dallas said, I’d seek one out eventually to find even an hour of happiness—or an hour of mere escape—once a week.

And after it was over, I’d climb back into my clean, white Mercedes convertible with his sweat on my skin and the feel of Bay cock still inside me. I’d go home to wipe away the guilt and shame with pills or drinks before the feelings had have a chance to rise to the surface.

I lower my eyes, a memory playing in my head. “You know, I saw your parents in town once,” I say, feeling my collar suddenly chafe my neck. I don’t undo the buttons, though. “Just once, though. They didn’t cross the tracks much.”

Army stands at the sink, looking out the window into the garage, but I know he’s listening.

“Your dad was on his bike.” I glance at Trace. “And he pulled up to the Harbor Point Fishing Boat, stopping at the curb.”

It’s an old houseboat, sitting on a circle of land right in the median on Main Street.

I smile, remembering. “She’d been waiting for him. She came in close, bowed her head, and kissed him. He slid his hand up the back of her thigh.” I glance at Macon, but he still stirs the ice cream in his mug. “You must’ve been at least twenty or so at the time, because I was old enough to remember.”

He still doesn’t look up, his chest barely moving as he breathes.

“That long married, and they were still like that. But then when she pulled back, he slapped her on the ass, and she smiled before climbing on behind him.” I laugh to myself. “I asked my mom why he hit her and why she liked it.”

Dallas is frozen, unblinking. A whisper of a smile curls Trace’s mouth.

I tell them, “My mom said, ‘Make no mistake, honey. She’s the boss of him.’ Years later, I understood.” I soften my voice. “Women love being owned by a good man.”

I wouldn’t do anything Jerome Watson told me. But I would for someone.

“Someone I can’t keep my hands off,” I say more to myself. “Someone who climbs on top of me and pins my arms above my head before we’re both fully awake in the morning. Without a word. Slow and quiet. I’m the first thing he wants.”

No one moves. Army barely breathes.

“He’s late to work all the time,” I go on, “because I make the mistake of walking around in my underwear, and now he’s hard and needs his wife on her knees.”

We can hear the children playing in the distance outside, as the wind kicks up and blows a napkin on the table.

“I used to want to do certain things with my life when I was younger,” I tell them, “but now I don’t know what the hell I want, except just to be in love with someone and love our family. To be with people I care about and have great days and a football team living in our house, helping other people make memories and making sure we all smile ten times more than we cry.”

I don’t give a shit about tomorrow. I never did. I just wanted to be good for people.

When I rise, Trace rises with me. I stop, looking at him, but even he doesn’t look like he knows why he did it. I take my plate, and he follows my lead, both of us carrying them to the sink.

But Army is there, stopping Trace short and taking his plate. “You guys go. I’ll clean up with her.”

Macon sits back in his seat, gaze still down, and Trace looks back at Dallas.

“Now,” Army orders.

Trace casts a look at me, like he wants to take me with him.

He leaves my side, and after a moment, I hear Dallas’s chair move away from the table.

The oldest is still there, because Army doesn’t give him orders.

I veer around Army, setting down my plate, but he grabs my face in both hands. I gasp, forced up on my tiptoes as he presses our foreheads together.

“It’s going to be one of us,” he tells me. “Not Jerome Watson. You’ll be ours, or I’ll make sure we all fuck you before we give you back, so nothing compares. So you always regret leaving us.”

I can wonder if it’s my son he’s playing Daddy to …

I look up into his eyes, feeling his hard body against mine. Army?

He presses me into the fridge, hovering over my mouth as his fingers work my shirt.

What …

In three seconds he’s peeling my blouse off my shoulders, the breeze coming through the windows caressing my breasts. I bring my arms up, covering myself.

“We’re going to keep you,” he whispers. “Will it be Iron? Trace? Who do you want?”

He kisses me, wrapping his arms around my waist, but it only lasts a second before I hear my name.

“Krisjen …”

Army goes still, and so do I. I turn my face, seeing Macon at the table not looking at me.

But he speaks. “Come here.”

He sits there. I don’t move.

“Come here,” he tells me again.

My heart drops into my stomach, and I don’t even think. Keeping my arms over my breasts, I go to him, Army’s hands falling away.

I walk up to Macon’s chair at the head of the table, and he stands, rising above me. He tips up my chin, looking down at me, and I can already feel his arms around me. So tight. His breath on my temple and the warmth of his chest.

He reaches behind his head, pulling off his shirt, and I know he’s going to lift me up. He’s going to lift me into his arms and look into my eyes and not look away.

But he doesn’t do any of that. He slips the shirt over my head, covering me.

Then he looks at his brother. “You know she’s not her, right?” he asks him, a stern look in his eyes. “You do realize that?”

I glance back at Army and then up at Macon again.

Her? Who are they talking about?