Flawed (9 page)

Eighteen

There won’t be a funeral. Not even a wake. Who would come? As far as I know, my mother doesn’t have any family, and my father hasn’t talked to his since he ran away to be a boxer when he was my age. Phantom aunts and uncles and grandparents haunt me now, whispering promises of what our family might have been like if only we’d been in contact.

All I can think about are my mother’s blue toenails.

All James can think about is her dead body.

“Do you think caskets are expensive?”

With how often he gets stuck being the man of the house, it’s hard to remember James is only nineteen. Perched on the arm of the couch, his hair sticking out every which way from how many times he’s raked his fingers through it, he looks every bit the teenager he is.

“We should just cremate her body and dump the ashes somewhere in the middle of the forest,” I tell him, irritated that our father isn’t handling this. “She’d probably prefer being alone than rotting in a graveyard full of dead people. Plus, it’s probably cheaper.”

He looks horrified, but nods.

Eight different drugs—that’s how many the medical examiner found in our mother’s bedroom amongst the sea of orange bottles. We watched him march past us, all of the bottles sealed away in a huge plastic baggie. None of the paramedics knew which she’d overdosed on—James asked—but my guess is the one he and I took all those years ago.

“We’ll let you know what we find out,” the medical examiner
says in a clipped voice on his way out the door.

I think he’s just as pissed off at our father as we are. Ol’ Knockout has been in his armchair ever since the paramedics arrived and carted her body away, the same beer in his hand. Sometimes I see him bring it to his lips. Other times he just looks at the can. At least he put on a pair of rumpled jeans so he’s wearing more than his thin boxers.

When all the strangers finally clear out of our house, I force James to sit down with a bowl of cornflakes at the dining room table. He’s pastier than normal and hasn’t stopped shaking since this morning. Not even an extra dose of sugar in his cereal snaps him out of his trance-like state. After pouring him two bowls only to watch each turn to soggy, sugary slop, I give up.

He lets me take him by the hand and lead him into our bedroom. Forcing my squeamishness over seeing his skin aside, I help him out of his t-shirt so he doesn’t have to deal with the smear of drying vomit across the chest. Before I can find him a replacement, he wraps his arms around me and begins to sob—harsh, guttural sounds ripped from deep inside his chest. I close my eyes and hug him as tightly as I can. James’s skin against my cheek—hot and smooth and enveloping—is comforting in a way layers of clothes wouldn’t be.

By the time we’ve moved to his bed and he huddles against me, wet and sticky from all the crying, I feel like I’m the only one in the world who can anchor him.

Seeing him like this, I know without a doubt I’ll never break my half of the pact. How could I? The few times we’ve made eye contact, the terrified little boy from my memories has been the one staring back at me. The tough nineteen-year-old that works way too hard and loves way too deeply is gone, at least for the night.

When I finally cry, the tears are for James, not for our mother.

Dinnertime comes and goes without our father shouting at me to make him something to eat. The television clicked on hours ago and I’ve heard the creaky hinges of our refrigerator opening and closing at least half a dozen times. I can’t believe he’s moved on so quickly, though I suppose it makes sense. Can’t mourn what you never loved.

Or what you killed.

The cold look he gave me before leaving her room?

It was a warning.

Closing my eyes, I force all the violent, bitter thoughts from my mind and focus on the warmth of my brother’s body and his soothing fingers threading through my hair. His warmth, his heart, his life—all three feel more vital than ever. If he knew what our father did, he’d lose it. I have to hide this from him. I won’t let him snap and throw away everything.

Save James.

It’s my turn to protect my brother.

Instead of nightmares like I expect, my dreams that night are filled with Sam—his smooth skin, hot kisses, and gentle touches. We’re tangled together in the front seat of his car again, but this time he’s shirtless. I can’t get enough of how his skin feels sliding against mine when he pushes up my shirt.

His hot palms are on my ribs. His mouth travels lazily from my hair to my cheeks to my closed eyes. When he finally kisses me, I’m stunned by how loved and treasured I feel. Kissing him in my dreams is almost better than kissing him in person.

Almost.

I wake up at 2:17 in the morning, lying next to my snoring brother but aching for Sam. Comforting James drained all my strength, and now all I want is for Sam to hold me. I’ve always had my brother to help me figure out what I’m feeling, but maybe Sam can make sense of the dark thoughts twisting my mind—my anger, and the twinge of grief I’m feeling over my mother, father, and James. If he can’t, maybe he can make me forget.

Closing my eyes, I try to find my way back to Sam and my dreams.

Nineteen

I haven’t heard from Sam in four and a half days. Not that I’ve been counting.

By the time our father reluctantly exchanges “mourning” with his family for the boys at the mill, and James finally drags himself to work, I give up thinking I mean anything to him. But even if I don’t, his dad died, for God’s sake. He knows how this feels.

I’m so disappointed. Both in him and in me.

Which is why, when he finally knocks on the door late Thursday morning, I refuse to answer. He’s persistent, though. After enduring his incessant knocking and pleas for nearly half an hour, I toss the book I’m reading onto my bed and stomp to the front door.

I open the door and glare at him. “What do
you
want?”

“Thank God.” He yanks me into his arms. “I just found out this morning. What happened? Are you okay?”

Glare still firmly in place, I wedge my arms between us and shove. “Maybe if you stopped by or called or something, you would’ve known sooner.”

He frowns. “I’ve been working. And every time I drove by—which was a lot—your brother’s truck was out front. I would’ve shown up anyway if I’d known, though. Why didn’t you call me?” Frown deepening, he says, “Hell, why didn’t
James
call me?”

My anger bleeds away. Of course he didn’t stop by. I made him promise to keep this—us—a secret. I slip the ball chain out from under his shirt and rub one of the steel dog tags with my thumb. “I’m sorry,” I say.

“I wish I could’ve been here for you.”

Me, too, though I can’t imagine where Sam would’ve fit into my life these last few days. James hardly let me out of his sight, like he was afraid I’d die every time I stepped into another room. I gave up on privacy when I realized we weren’t leaving his bed unless it was to grab food or use the bathroom.

Not that I’ve been much better. All I can think about is James and the stupid drugs Leslie gives him. Our mother’s death has seriously messed him up. What if I leave him alone and he overdoses by accident? No way am I letting that happen.

“So, do you want to talk about it?”

Not really.
I drop the dog tag and pick at the white paint peeling away from the doorframe. “They’re calling it a suicide.”

He frowns and seems to analyze my expression. I do my best to keep my face neutral.

“You don’t believe them,” he finally says.

This is a defining moment for us. Either I open up to Sam and let him into the mess that is my head, or I push him away. He stands eerily still, watching me, like he knows how important this moment is, too. Looking into his eyes, seeing the kind of affection I’ve craved my whole life, I find my answer.

“I think my dad did it,” I whisper. “James doesn’t know.”

Though he doesn’t move, relief flashes across his face. “What can I do?”

I know what I want him to do. Four nights of kissing him in my sleep has left me achy and desperate for more. I don’t know whether it will help, but I’m willing to find out. I look up at him through my eyelashes, feeling embarrassed by what I’m about to ask. “Can you make me forget?”

I expect him to back me into the doorframe and kiss me senseless, but he doesn’t. Instead—after checking to make sure I have shoes on—he reaches behind me and closes the door like he did the last time we were standing in this exact spot. I take his outstretched hand and let him lead me down to his car.

When we’re five miles outside of town on the road that leads deep into the mountains, I realize he’s taking me to Leslie’s. Anger and hurt seep into my heart. Does he seriously think buying me drugs is a good idea after I watched my mother die of an overdose?

But then he turns onto a service road that takes us away from Leslie’s and down into the small valley below.

“We’re going to the river?”

“Yeah.” He smiles at me. “I thought maybe we could have a secret place. Somewhere we can spend time together without worrying about someone coming to look for us. I thought it might be nice to get away.”

My cheeks get hot, and not just because I feel like an idiot about the Leslie thing. Total seclusion, zero interruptions, and Sam. So many possibilities.

But then I realize that this is what James has wanted to do for a while now—take us away from everything—and I feel guilty for saying no so many times. When he comes home tonight, I’ll tell him I’ve changed my mind. Screw the money.

Sam pulls into what looks like a wide, pine needle-covered campsite that slopes sharply away into a fast-moving stream—one of many that wind away from the Rogue River in these hills. The trees here are thick and cast an ominous darkness over the forest around us, but the rocky ledge and the water are bathed in the beautiful morning light. I’m out of the car running toward the sunshine before Sam can cut the engine.

The slope is too steep for me to make it down in flip-flops. If I slip, I’ll land in one of the many patches of slimy moss and lichen tucked into the millions of crevices and mucking up the stones’ smooth surfaces. It’s pretty, though. Even prettier is the little deer trail that leads from the rocks through the ferns along the edge of the slope and back into the forest. I’m going to need to buy a jug of bug repellant before we come up here again.

“This is beautiful,” I breathe when Sam finally catches up.

He wraps his arms around my waist and rests his chin on top of my head. “Do you want to walk around for a bit, or should we get right to the ‘make you forget’ part?”

The ferns and the trees and the clear water gushing over the rocks look inviting, but they’re no competition for the warm body pressed against mine. “Make me forget.”

He scoops me up and carries me over to a worn flannel blanket lying neatly in the middle of the pine needle clearing. In the few seconds I spent looking at the water, he’d been busy. My heart flutters at the thought of how sweet he’s being. We stretch out on the blanket, me on my back and Sam hovering over me. Judging by the serious look on his face, any hope of me forgetting is doomed before it can begin.

“The more I’m around you, the more I realize just how much James didn’t tell me,” he says. “How much I don’t know.” He closes his eyes. When he opens them, they’re the dark, thunderstorm gray I love best. “If I had any idea, I never would’ve waited this long.”

He leans closer and threads his fingers through the hair above my neck. My breath catches in anticipation—so close, so very close—but he doesn’t kiss me.

“You don’t have to worry anymore,” he whispers. “I’ll keep you safe.”

That he cares enough to make a promise like that—even when I’ve heard it a million times from my brother—burns in the very best way. It’s too bad that, short of gluing himself to my side, there’s nothing Sam can do to protect me from my father. Rather than ruin the moment, I just smile and say, “I know you will.”

When he kisses me with more tenderness than I’ve felt in my entire life, let alone my recent dreams, I almost believe myself.

Around two, when our empty stomachs grumble loud enough to be heard over the burbling stream, Sam and I tear ourselves apart and head back into town in search of food. He doesn’t protest when I lie across the seat with my head on his lap like I wanted to the first day he rescued me from my house. It’s so tempting to fall asleep when he strokes my hair.

I must have, because the next thing I know, we’re parked in front of a cheerful florist shop called Enchanted Garden with the rich aroma of teriyaki chicken, tangy pineapple, and hot rice curling like steam from the three bento boxes sitting on the dashboard. With my mouth watering and stomach singing with anticipation, I gape at the food. “Where’d we get that?”

Sam nods to the old coffee drive-thru across the parking lot that now houses a Japanese food stand. “You were sleeping, so I picked up lunch. You like bento, right?”

“I
love
bento,” I say, scrambling into an upright position so I can grab the closest box. “You didn’t have to buy three meals, though.”

“Yeah, I did.” He gives me a sheepish, please-don’t-hurt-me smile. “We’re having lunch with my mom today.”

Twenty

Sam lets me carry two of the bento boxes. Maybe he saw the look of panic in my eyes when he opened the shop’s door and set off the pair of ominously cheerful wind chimes hanging from the door handle. The two boxes and the distraction of my growling stomach are all that keeps me from bolting when he nudges me into the paradise of wildflowers and tropical foliage.

At least his mother isn’t right inside the door, waiting to pounce. I duck under a broad leaf that would be more at home in the Amazon than in a rural Oregon flower shop and gawk at my surroundings. One corner of the room reminds me of the gold and peach wildflower fields James and I pass on the way to the coast. The opposite corner looks freshly ripped from the rainforest, complete with mammoth leaves and flower stalks that look like fancy parrots. Between the two, a huge display of roses and dahlias bloom from vases mounted to the wall, all bright reds, oranges, and yellows. A single pink rose nestled between two bright bouquets looks as out of place as I feel.

Now I understand why the shop is called Enchanted Garden—I’ve never been anywhere this magical in my life. Juggling the bento boxes into one arm, I move closer to the wall so I can reach the pink rose. The upturned bloom seems to smile at me, begging to be stroked. Sam beats me to it, snagging the pink rose out from beneath my fingertips.

“Here,” he says and coaxes the bento boxes away from me. The pink rose quickly takes their place in the crook of my arm. “Doesn’t do you justice, but still.”

“I’ll be right there,” a voice calls from the back room.

I freeze in place, terrified of who might emerge from the small doorway. A ghost of a woman like my mother? A mourner dressed in widow black?

Sam’s mother is neither of these things.

In a word, Mrs. Donavon is adorable. Her light brown hair is cut short, at least three inches shorter than mine, which only makes her big, brown eyes look bigger. When she grins, it’s like I’m looking at a tiny, feminine version of Sam with lighter hair and a much louder voice.

“Sarah,” she booms and draws me into a bear hug. “I’m so happy to finally meet you. Sam has been talking about you for years.”

“Um, hi, Mrs. Donavon.” I blush and look over the top of her head at Sam, focusing on him so I don’t yank myself out of her arms. The embarrassment on his face makes my fear of meeting her and my discomfort around her after what just happened to my own mother slightly more bearable. “We brought you bento,” I blurt out anyway.

She laughs and pulls away, patting my shoulder. “Great, but please—call me Liz.” Her expression shifts like a light bulb flickering out, one second warm, the next…empty. “I heard about your mother. I’m so sorry. How devastating.”

I choke out an unintelligible response.
Devastating?
James must not talk about our family much, or she’d know better. I still can’t feel a thing, but I bet my father has spent the last four days raising a beer to the heavens and thanking his lucky stars he didn’t get caught.

“I’m sorry,” she says and touches my shoulder. “If you’re not ready to talk about it, I understand.”

I can’t seem to respond. If only I were grieving like James. Grieving would feel better than this emptiness.

“So, I tried calling on the way over,” Sam says as we follow her through the curtain of sparkly beads into the back room, which is wallpapered with peg board and a million miniature gardening tools. “You too busy to answer your own son’s call now?”

He sets the bento boxes on the one clear edge of an enormous concrete tabletop covered in squat, round vases, buckets of flowers, and piles of greenery, then slides out a pair of stools. After dusting off what looks suspiciously like dried moss, I settle onto one and pick at my food.

Starving or in a hurry—maybe both—Liz digs into hers without waiting for anyone else to settle in. “Today has been ridiculous,” she says between bites. “This wedding is killing me. Who waits to order their wedding flowers until the last minute? And God only knows what all the people who’ve been leaving voicemail want. You’d think it was Mother’s Day.”

“You need to hire somebody,” Sam tells her. When she grimaces, he turns to me. “My mom is a control freak. The thought of anyone touching her flowers makes her crazy.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Liz grumbles. “I don’t have time to train anyone else, that’s all.”

“How hard is it to answer the phone and take orders? I was
eleven
the first time you made me help out and it only took five minutes to show me what to do.”

“Not everyone is as bright as you are, Sam.”

“Yeah, well, that’s a given.”

A pang of jealousy sours the bento settling in my stomach. Their bickering feels comfortable. Practiced. Even the jabs they throw at each other resonate love.

I want that love.

“I can answer your phones, Mrs. Donavon. I don’t have to touch your flowers if you don’t want.”

“It’s Liz, sweetie. And are you sure? I don’t want to ruin your summer.”

Sam snorts and takes another bite. “Sure she does,” he says through his food and nods toward his mom. “Just look at her. You made my mom’s whole day.”

Sure enough, Liz is on the edge of her seat, fork poised over her bento box, as if she might bolt across the room to grab me an application any second. I can’t help myself—I giggle.

“Shush, Sam,” she snaps, but the light in her eyes hasn’t dimmed a bit. “It would only be a few days a week,” she tells me. “Just enough hours to help me catch up on all these arrangements. I’d pay you, of course.”

My own money. A way to contribute to James and my meager savings account. A safe haven away from my father’s warning gaze.

My smile must be as huge as it feels, because Sam is grinning, too.

I set my fork down and fold my hands in my lap. “When can I start?”