Before & After (12 page)

Chapter 20
:
After

Feet ache, pain so familiar

It is almost unfelt.

As she slips on tiptoes,

To a song she cannot sing,

Through eggshells and jagged edges.

And she never realized

The relief that could be found

In dancing through life to a tune

few
could hear, in combat
boots and

A smile.

(
Rike’s
poems to
Peyton)

It
takes almost a month for my parents
to realize I’m in Nashville. Brody vanishes one Sunday afternoon, and comes
back to his downtown, high-rise apartment with its black, modern furniture and
clean lines, spitting mad in the way only our father was ever able to achieve.

He’s
quietly furious, grabbing a beer from the fridge and tossing the cap while he
stalks through the apartment. I’m curled in a corner of the couch, leafing
through one of the sketchbooks Rike sent home with me, and I eye my baby
brother while he paces.

Brody
is the youngest of my three siblings, and the one I’ve always been closest to.
He isn’t quite the black sheep that I have been, but where Cassidy went to law
school and Sean joined Daddy’s campaign, Brody joined the Marines. He’s filled
me in on everything I’ve missed with him, and I’m so proud of him. He’s made a
good life in military
intel
, and if he ever chooses to
leave, he can make a better life for himself as a civilian. And he did it
without the help of our parents.

He
never bought into the political machine life that our parents created, and he
never appreciated how they pushed aside my problems to take the next Senate
seat.

But
we were kids, and kids can’t do much to protect themselves.

Maybe
that’s why I loved Rike. What drew me to
him.
He was
another broken child forgotten by the people who were supposed to care for him.

“Want
to storm around and break shit, or do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” I
drawl.

Brody
gives me a dark look, and I smirk. Because he might be all grown up and a
badass, but he’ still my baby brother. I cross my arms. “Spit it out.”

“Mom
and Dad want to have a family dinner.”

“Fuck,”
I mutter.

He
laughs, and nods. “Exactly. Better find something appropriate to wear.”

I
snarl a curse, and he snorts. “I wonder if I could wear the leather skirt and
my skull and crossbones shirt. I wore that last time. Bonus points for wardrobe
reappearances.”

Brody’s
eyebrows shoot up. “You remember that?”

“What?”
I ask, flipping my sketchbook back open.

“Wearing
that outfit. It was the day Rike met them. Do you remember?”

I
stare at him, confusion crowding me. I don’t. I don’t remember anything about
Rike meeting my parents, or why on earth I ever thought that was a good idea. I
shake my head helplessly and he sighs. The anger drains away and he comes to
the couch, brushing my legs as he drops down. I reach out and snag his beer.

It’s
still weird that my baby brother can legally drink.

“Do
you feel up to it?”

“To
seeing Mom and Dad? Fuck no. But I suppose I need to. I can’t avoid them
forever.”

He
shrugs. “You were doing a pretty damn good job of doing it forever before this
shit.” I wrinkle my nose at him and he laughs. “Fine. This weekend?”

“Ok,”
I say quietly.

“Good.
You want the little Chinese place tonight?” he asks, pushing to his feet. I nod
and yawn as he pads into the kitchen to order takeout and set up the dreaded
dinner with my parents.

I
really will have to go shopping before Saturday.

***

Brody
and I play a game, every night while the news plays quietly in the background.
It doesn’t really have a name, and he would say it’s nothing at all, but it is.

It
always starts the same.

“Do
you remember when you were going to senior prom, and Dad set you up with Tripp
Harris?”

I
roll my eyes. “How could I forget that? It was awful. Tripp spent weeks trying
to talk me into going and Mom bought that hideous dress and then I blew it
off—went to the cabin with Lacy and a few other girls. A couple guys. Dad was
so fucking pissed when I got home.”

Brody
grins. “You should have seen him in the two days before you came home. I’ve
seen Dad mad, but I don’t think it’s ever been that bad.”

I
shrug. Grin. “He could have called the cops. There was nothing stopping him
from that. It was his choice to keep shit quiet to protect the campaign.”

Brody’s
smile slips, and I shift. “Do you remember when you came to Knoxville for the
first time to visit me?” I ask.

This
is where the game is actually played. When I can get my brother to tell me
things I don’t know, filling in the events of the years that are still a black
hole. The journals have helped so much. I feel like I know who Rike and Scott
are. Instead of two strangers who were trying to share my life, they’ve become
two friends who are important for very different reasons. Lindsay—I twist,
shaking my head. I can’t think about
Linds
without
wanting to cry. Can’t imagine a girl as brilliant and beautiful and alive
trapped in a wheelchair.

I
shake the melancholy and listen to Brody spin out the story that was mine, and
try to ignore the pull of the three people I called family.

***

He’s
been trying to get in touch with me. I can’t talk to him, can’t hear his voice
without hearing it hoarse and broken as he came inside me. And I can’t believe
I was stupid enough to let that happen.

He
texts
a lot—more than I think Brody suspects, although he knows some of it. And I
told Rike before I left Austin where I was going and that I would be back. But
it’s been almost a month, and nothing has changed. I know more, but it’s
secondhand knowledge, the kind that comes from hearing about something instead
of experiencing it.

I
know he wants me home. But so far, Rike has respected my boundaries.

Rike:
What did you do
today?

Me:
Brody took me to a
clothing store I used to love, and I bought a couple outfits. We’re having
dinner with my parents this weekend, so I thought it was warranted.

Rike:
You promised me
you wouldn’t see them without me.

Me:
I don’t remember
making that promise. Besides, it’s harmless. Nothing will happen.

There
is a long pause, and then he sends a short response.

Rike:
Fine.

I
stare at the phone for a long minute, waiting for something else, but there
isn’t anything. So he’s mad, and I get to deal with my parents.

This
week is looking better and better. I grab my notebook and crawl into bed.

I
don’t write poetry often—despite it being something I love, I don’t think I’m
very good at it. But as I stare at the blank page, the words start coming. And
I write.

***

Brody
glances at me as we walk up the paved walkway to my parents’ overly large
house. He arches an eyebrow. “You ready, princess?”

I
make a face and nod at him. He grins and shoves open the door, giving the
housekeeper a quick kiss on the cheek before he yells, “Ma! Dad! We’re here.”

I
swallow my laugh and follow him more slowly, hugging Maria before venturing
deeper into the house.

It
looks exactly like I remember. A house that could fit so easily in a magazine,
the décor and pictures chosen to reflect who we are as a family rather than
what we love. My nose wrinkles in annoyance, but there is no denying that the
familiarity, so fucking rare these days, is comforting.

Brody
is in the formal dining room, talking to my mother and Cassidy while Mom
fiddles with a centerpiece of brilliant red roses. Her expression, when she
finally looks at me, is confusing. There’s a flash of guilt and concern, and
then it
smoothes
back into the bland polite smile she
perfected years ago.

“Peyton.
You look”—her gaze skims over my tight red sundress. It’s vintage, with wide,
white straps and an oversized white bow. It’s almost demure. It would be, if I
had buttoned all the buttons up the sweetheart neckline. Her lip
tighten—“interesting.”

I
smile, too sweet, “You look like you just stepped off the campaign trail. So I
guess we’re both the same as we were yesterday.”

“Maybe
don’t start fighting before we sit down to dinner, Peyton?” Cassidy says
sharply. I ignore her. I’ve been doing that since before high school so it’s
not terribly difficult to continue the trend now.

“Where
is Dad?” I ask as Maria begins carrying in our dinner. I shift, look at Mom.

“He’ll
be here soon,” she says stiffly. With that familiar cold displeasure.

She
might be a good little campaigner, and do everything he needs in public, but Mom
hasn’t ever appreciated the time commitments and how often she was left behind
for it.

He
lied to her too, when he decided to run for office. He promised that we would
stay close, that nothing in our family would change. I think that’s why I hate
him so much. I never told Rike that. But once upon a time, before politics and
that fucking elusive Senate seat, Dad was a good dad. Attentive. Mom was cool,
but she wasn’t cold.

That
changed. Almost overnight.

I
shove the thought aside, and follow Maria into the kitchen where I grab a plate
of garlic chicken. She gives me a small smile.

“Really,
Peyton, that’s her job.”

“And
I’m helping. You understand getting help on a job, right, Cass?”

She
flushes, and slams her glass down.

“Ah,
here it is. The tension has arrived. Good times,” Brody deadpans. “Where are
Sean and Lily?” There’s a moment of quiet, and then Brody groans. “Really?
She’s gone already? But this one was only six months!”

“Maybe
don’t bring it up. I know you’re still catching up but he wasn’t expecting it.”

My
older brother is a serial cheater. How he can’t expect the women he dates to
leave him, I’ll never understand. The bickering continues as we sit down and
Mom waits patiently for Maria to serve her before we all make our plates. She
glances at me, a potato speared on her fork.

“Peyton,
have you gotten a dress for the gala next week? I have a few that would look
lovely on you.”

My
stomach lurches and I drop my fork, reaching for my wine instead. “What gala?”

“The
one next week. The hospital is having it and your father is the keynote
speaker. He expects you to attend.”

I
don’t believe this. Except, I do. It’s a classic move for my father. I sit back
with my wine and my mother’s brow furrows. “Eat, Peyton.”

“Not
hungry,” I snap.

Cassidy smiles, a sharp brittle thing, “That’s normal,
though, right?”

The
dig at my eating disorder stings.

“Shut
the fuck up, Cass,” Brody snaps, and I jerk to my feet.

Big
hands close over my hips, pulling me back into a broad chest and the scent of
soap and smoke. His beard brushes over my bare shoulder as he kisses my cheek,
and then he glances up. At my family.

“Mrs.
Collins,” he says coldly.

Mom
is eyeing Rike like he’s a vagrant who wandered into her pristine house, and I
have to swallow my giggle.

“I
told you that Peyton is my responsibility. Mine to keep safe and keep healthy.
That means I keep her the fuck away from you because you’re fucking toxic.” I
gasp, twisting to stare at him. He’s watching my mother, loathing in his eyes.
“She’s not yours anymore, not to manipulate. Stay the fuck away from her.”

Mom
stands, her cheeks red and her hands shaking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her
this furious. “You have no right to even be here.”

He
smiles, a lazy arrogant thing that makes my heart pound. “I have the only
right.”

And
then he escorts me out of my parent’s house.

Chapter
21
:
Before

Scott
is actually sitting on the new couch when I emerge from my bedroom. Lindsay and
Peyton are in the kitchen, and I glance at my best friend in a rare moment without
either present. “You good, dude?” I ask.

His
eye flick to mine and I’m startled by what I see there. He looks peaceful.
Content. That’s a look I’m not used to seeing on Scotty. It’s almost
disturbing.

“I’m
good,” he says, and the last band of unease loosens. Because it’s going to
work. This. Us together, with the women we fucking adore. It’s going to work.
He grins suddenly. “Broke in the new bed, huh?”

“You
and
Linds
didn’t exactly go to sleep after bedtime
prayers,” I deadpan.

He
laughs, a satisfied noise. “Well, she did say ‘Oh
God
’ a lot, so I think that should totally count.”

“Can
you two behave for like, five minutes?” Lindsay asks grumpily, slipping past me
to nestle against Scott on the couch.

“Where
the hell is the fun in that?” Scott asks, kissing her head absently. “You got
class today?”

She
nods. “We both have our schedules on the fridge.”

I
frown at Scott. "When the fuck did we become dudes with schedules on the
fridge?"

"When
you fell for a siren in a bar," he shoots back. "Quit bitching. I
like sex on the regular."

"Like
that was ever an issue," Lindsay snorts, and he smacks her lightly on the
back of the head. Peyton ambles up with a cup of coffee and two pieces of
toast. I steal one and she growls when I drift too close to her coffee. I laugh
softly and kiss her cheek instead. She's not a friendly person in the morning,
especially before coffee.

"You
need a ride today?" I ask, and she shakes her head, pulls the coffee away
from her lips long enough to murmur, "
Linds
will
take me."

"When
are your parents getting into town?" Lindsay asks, and Peyton goes tense
under my arm. I glance at her and she's glaring at her best friend like Lindsay
just stabbed her dog.

"Fish?"
I ask, softly.

She
breathes out a curse and twists to look at me. "Tomorrow. My parents and
youngest brother will be here tomorrow. Dad has a fundraiser. I've been
invited."

My
head is spinning and I take a step back. I'm conscious suddenly of the tattoos
tracing up and down my arms, the eyebrow ring,
too
-long
hair.
and
beard.

I'm
a fucking tattooed hillbilly rock star, and not even a good one. Why the hell
is it surprising that she doesn't want to share that with her parents?

It's
not. But it stings. More than I want to admit, it stings. Because I thought we
were past this. I thought we were in a good fucking place. I've been waiting
for six months for the shoe to drop, and I had convinced myself it wouldn't.

It
just fucking did.

"I
see," I say, simply.

Then
I turn and stalk out of the room, slamming the door behind me on her protests
and Scott's sharp voice calling Lindsay off.

It
doesn't fucking matter. She'll have a pretty excuse, some logical reason why I
should swallow her hiding her parents from me. But it doesn't matter. The door
opens behind me, but I don’t stop walking.

"Rike,
stop
!" she snaps, yanking on my
arm, and jerking me around to face her. "Let me fucking explain."

"Why?
It’s
shit I've heard before. I don't really want to
rehash, and you'll be late." I force a smile. "You can't be late on
your first day of class, Fish. Get going."

She
stares at me for a long moment before a disbelieving laugh bubbles up. "Is
that really all you've got? You'll be late, get going? Are you fucking
serious?"

"What
do you want me to say?" I snap. "Your parents are coming into town.
You hid that from me. You’re embarrassed. I get it. He's a politician and she's
a perfect political wife, and I'm a tattooed high school drop out with a juvie
record. I get it. I'm not take-you-home-to-Mom material. But fuck, Peyton. It
hurts a little."

She's
pale, her freckles standing out against her white skin as she stares at me with
wide eyes. "Is that really what you think of me?"

“What
did you expect me to think?”

“I
expected you to trust me. That I love you and if—” My eyebrows raise, and she
scowls “When I choose to keep something from you, it’s for a good fucking
reason. I expect you to know that.”

I
shrug. “You might be expecting too much, sugar.”

She
takes a step back, hurt pooling in her bright eyes. I hate seeing that look on
her face. Hate that I put it there. But this is one time I can’t back down.

I
give her a final look, a small smile. “Go to class, Fish.
you’ll
be late."

Then
I walk away, and try to think of anything but how much this hurts.

***

The
tattoo I'm supposed to be drawing is for a client. A giant fucking back
piece—eagles and fish and some other tribal nonsense, all done in dark band and
artistic, vague, half-formed images.

It
should look amazing if a little bit hipster and pretentious for my taste.

"That
is not tribal art," Scotty says, dropping beside me. The breeze of his
arrival ruffles my sheet of paper, and I flick a look at him. There is so much
I could say here, but why? It doesn't change anything.

"You
need to let her explain."

"When
did you start taking her side in shit, dude?" I snap, refocusing on the
art.

"When
you fell in love with her. She fucked up by keeping it from you. I'm not
denying that. But she deserves a chance to explain why. She's not an idiot and
she loves you."

"And
we all self-sabotage," I say

"Peyton
isn't trying to get out of this. If she was, she wouldn't have moved in and
built a shrine to your relationship. She's in this. So let her explain why the
fuck she's hiding her parents. We aren't the only ones who came into this with
baggage.

He
rises and I glance at him. "You don't have a session today."

"I'm
not here for me," he says, staring back at me.

I
swallow the snappy comeback, and nod once. Turn back to the sketch.

It's
a koi, a bright red fish with blue scales gleaming almost iridescently along
its sides, twisted on its own tail. It's all soft and sweet and I know it's for
her.

Staci
come up beside me, and peers at it. "Good work. You adding it to your
portfolio? "

"I
don't know," I say. She glances at me, her gaze assessing and sharp.

It's
vaguely disconcerting, and I know why. Staci took a chance on me. I wasn't
going to take her up on her offer. But I love the shop. I love the sound of the
tattoo machine, and the stories behind the art, even the stupid as fuck pieces
that kill my soul a little. I like getting to know the clients, and seeing the
excitement in their eyes when they see my sketches.

I
even like that it hurts. Peyton laughs and calls me a sadistic masochist. She
might be on to something.

Staci
taking a chance on me gave me the choice to be good at something. Something
that allowed me to still be creative. And I didn't want to let her down.

"You
need to be focused," she says quietly. "This shit we do—it's for real.
It lasts forever. So we give the client every bit of our attention while we're
here. I don't know what happened with Peyton, but you need to leave it at the
door."

I
nod, and tuck the sketch of the koi aside. Force a smile for my boss and
straighten. "I'll have it done in a few hours."

I
get lost in the art, my mind racing as I sketch, and despite Staci's
admonition, I'm struggling to figure out how the hell this happened. What she
thought could be gained by hiding her parents coming to town.

Peyton
and her folks don't get along. They haven't since her last stint in rehab for
the anorexia. I know that. I've read her own words, seen the pictures. I know
she was miserable being forced into the political daughter mold.

But
I also know she's here on their dime. She goes to school, pays rent and her
bills,
buys food—all
with money they provide. She
might hate the hold they have on her, and she might not go home to dance to
their tune, but she depends on them.

Is
that why she's hiding me?

I
huff out a sigh, and shove the thoughts aside, focusing on the design. She can
explain it. I owe her that much—and we live together. It's not like I can avoid
her forever.

***

Lindsay
is home when I get in from the shop, and she gives me that knowing smirk she
does so well that annoys the fuck out of me. I like the girl—I really do, and
not just because she’s Peyton’s best friend and Scott’s girlfriend; I like her
for her own merits—but she’s got a cocky attitude about shit, especially when
she thinks I’m wrong about something.

Which
is often.

I
grit my teeth. “Is she here?”

“Shower.
You sure you’re ready for this, Rike? Her parents are no joke.”

I
ignore that. Lindsay is the only one who has a normal family. People who
support and love without conditions. People who stuck around.

Sometimes
I wonder if she’s with us just out of curiosity, and then I remind myself that
thinking that is fucking shitty, and that she really cares about Scott.

“Thanks,”
I mutter.

The
bathroom door is closed, and I eye it briefly. The bed is still unmade, and I
wonder if we’ll get back to where we were last night.

We
will. This is a hiccup, but we’ve had those before. We’ll be fine, because we
have to be fine.

The
shower turns off, and I hear music blaring for a moment before she cuts it off
and emerges, wrapped in a towel and steam and water droplets still clinging to
her shoulders.

She
eyes me briefly, and ruffles her wet hair. “You need to change.”

“Why?”
I ask, keeping my tone even.

“Because
we’re meeting my parents,” she says. “Dinner at Ruth’s Chris.”

I
cross my arms, and study her coldly. “Is there a dress code for this shit?”

“Something
you didn’t just pull a shift in,” she says, still buried in her closet, and I
huff. It finally sinks in that I’m pissed, because she emerges from her closet
and frowns at me. “What the hell is wrong now?”

“You
suddenly want me to meet your parents.”

“I
never didn’t want you to meet them, asshole. I didn’t want you to have to deal with
their shit. But it’s a big deal to you, and I get it. So we’ll go.”

She
tosses a dress on the bed and glares at me. “I wasn’t going to go. I didn’t
keep it from you because I was planning to see them without you. I kept it from
you because it doesn’t matter. Like not telling you I put gas in the truck and
bought a candy bar on the way home. So fucking irrelevant.”

I
stare at her and it’s hard as fuck to swallow my irritation and all the
protests. I shake my head and strip out of the grungy shirt I’m wearing,
stalking into the bathroom and turning on the shower.

We
don’t fight. Maybe that’s why I’m struggling with this so hard. Scott and
Lindsay fight constantly—it’s their form of foreplay. But we don’t. We never
have. Being with Peyton is easy. Even when one of us is being a moody artist,
it’s easy.

When
I step out of the shower, she’s in the bathroom, leaning into the mirror as she
does her makeup. She’s barely dressed, only a strapless white bra with black
lace details and a matching thong. Her gaze meets mine in the mirror, and I see
apology flickering there before she refocuses.

We’re
going to do it that way then.

I
slip past her silently and we’re both quiet as we dress.

***

We
take the truck, and Peyton sits on her side of the cab in tense silence. She
looks fucking amazing, in a tiny dark red shirt with a skull on it and a tight
little leather skirt. The neckline wraps around her neck, leaving her shoulders
bare, and the skirt ends mid-thigh, exposing a mouthwatering length of leg. I’m
itching to run my hand up the smooth skin, under that flirty skirt to the tiny
panties I know she’s wearing.

We
didn’t fool around when getting ready. We barely spoke.

“I
didn’t have a family, Peyton,” I say abruptly. “I didn’t do family shit, and I
don’t have family for you to meet. The only family I have is Scott, and I’ve
never tried to keep him from you.”

“Because
Scott is someone you want to have in your life. Because Scott isn’t an
asshat
.” I arch an eyebrow and she snorts. “Ok, but he’s
your
asshat
.”