My steps on the front porch stairs are heavy, my footfalls thunderous. I let myself in the unlocked front door, then think about how maybe it's time we start locking it. We live in the middle of nowhere, people are always coming and going, but Ricky's words tumble around my mind.The things she would do for a hit.
Jessie steps from the hallway as if my thoughts have conjured her. The sight of her twists my heart in two. She is young, innocent, and naïve, no matter how much we joke about her being chaos on two feet. Her features contort into horror when she sees me, and she rushes to my side.
"Wyatt, what happened to you?" She wraps an arm around the middle of my back, supporting me as if I can't walk, which I'm capable of even if it hurts.
"A bad situation," I answer, gritting my teeth as she guides me to the bathroom off her bedroom. She lowers me to sit on the closed toilet and bends down, pushing my hair out of my eyes with tenderness. Her charm bracelet is cold on my skin and her eyes hold tears. "Who did this to you?"
"It doesn't matter." The less she knows, the better.
Anger rips through her gaze. "Such bullshit," she says through clenched teeth. "I fucking hate how you all try to shelter me. I'm not a child."
She stands up and moves to the medicine cabinet, searching through it and choosing various things. Bandages, antibiotic ointment, arnica cream. She wets a washcloth.
"I think you'll always be a baby to us, Calamity. Sorry about your luck." I hiss as she presses the washcloth to my temple. I hadn't realized I was hit there, but judging by the pain, I'd say it was a good one. "Just accept your station in life. I have."
The tenderness is back on her face. One side of her mouth pulls up as she keeps the cloth pressed to me. "Dad loves you, Wyatt."
"I didn't say he doesn't."
"You don't seem to think it."
"He loves me because I'm his kid."
She removes the compress, her eyes circling my face as she surveys the damage. I lift my shirt, showing her where the first punch landed from behind. Goddamn coward.
She bites her lip and reaches for the arnica cream. She squeezes some onto her fingers and, as gently as possible, rubs it across the blossoming bruise.
"He loves you because you're you." Her gaze remains trained on the bruise, as if her life depends on thoroughly covering the skin that will soon be dark, betraying the telltale signs of an injury. "You should ice that."
To my face, she applies antibiotic ointment. When I look in the mirror, I see why. Scrapes, mostly superficial, swipe my jaw and cheek like a painter's brush.
I look at my little sister through the mirror. I know I said we see her as a baby, but it's not entirely true. She's a woman now, as hard as that is to admit. She has my mom's feminine features, but the Hayden personality. One day, she will be a force to be reckoned with.
"Stay out of town for a while," I instruct, my voice grave. When she starts to argue, because it's in her nature to question everything, I repeat my instruction. "I mean it. There are people in town who are bad news. I can't be worried about you right now on top of everything else."
She crosses her arms and levels me with an even stare. "If you don't tell me what the danger is, I'm going to get in the first truck I find, even if it's yours, and I'm going to take my ass into town."
I brace my hands on the counter and take a deep breath. "Why do you have to be so goddamn difficult?"
"Right back at you," she counters, giving me a little extra headshake, like she's writing anSwith her whole head.
The extent of Jessie's knowledge about Dixon and his meth house is the same as the public's knowledge. Publicly, he blew himself up. Off the books, someone may have made certain his place exploded. Nothing has ever been made clear to me either, and I've accepted the half-truth I've been privy to. Telling Jessie now feels like a delicate dance.
"Do you remember when that meth house exploded?" I point in the general direction of the mountain where it happened.
She nods. "It was all over the news."
"There are some guys in town who were… friends of Dixon's. Associates, whatever. They've got trouble on their minds, and they mentioned you specifically."
Her eyes widen, and I rush to say, "Only because of your last name. Your relation to me. To the Haydens. They think we had something to do with the explosion."
She leans on the doorjamb. "Is that right?"
I stare at her through the mirror. Her calm response to this information might be the most concerning thing that has happened today. "Yes," I answer, my tone hard. "So stay home."
"Okay." She nods.
Down the hall, we hear the sounds of boots on the wood floor. Jessie cranes her neck to look toward the sound. "Hi, Dad," she says, shooting me a wide-eyed look before she bounds away.
