“How long until you’re twenty-eight?” Her eyes are big as saucers, her hands knitting together.
“I’m twenty now. You do the math, Roux.” I sigh, looking over at her and grinning. Her face stays frozen in a grim expression, making my smile drop. “Why?”
“Something Mama said,” she croaks, and she looks down to keep me from seeing fresh tears in her eyes. “She said I wouldn’t see you anymore.”
I roll my eyes. It’s not the first time Aunt Magnolia has said something strange. Whatever it was has Roux worried that turning twenty-eight is supposed to be some monumental event. “She was just teasing.”
Roux thinks for a moment then gives me a half-smile before slipping back inside the house. A chill slides down my spine at the strangeness of her random question, but the sound of Jace’s voice draws my attention away from the thought.
Smoke spirals out of my mouth, coiling lazily up into the air. My eyes search for Jace again inside the crowded kitchen, then the living room, but wherever she is, I can’t find her from this angle. I could go inside, weave through the other guests until I finally spot her, but what would I even say when I do? She’s already expressed her feelings about leaving me behind, and I’ve told her to go. Jace is getting out, away from this place and our fucked-up past for good. I need to let her go. She’s better off forgetting about me, whether she wants to admit it or not. She doesn’t need to know all the vile details about our family’s past in Devil’s Nest, and the longer she sticks around, the more likely she is to find out. I’m only an anchor to a life she needs to sail far away from before I sink her.
The tinkle of her feminine laugh drifts outside, recognizable even with the competing chaos. I wince, snuffing out my cigarette. With one last look back, I make my way off the porch and across the pasture towards home. My pop will stumble his way back eventually, long after he’s worn out his welcome. I don’t need to stick around for secondhand embarrassment.
14
JACE
Aside from the quiet clinking of silverware against plates and the monotonous ticking of the clock on the wall, the kitchen is silent. We all take turns looking up from eating, waiting for one of us to speak. Pop suddenly raises his head, clearing his throat. My mama shoots a nervous glance at him before quickly finding her food to be the most interesting thing in the room. She avoids my anxious stare, shuffling peas around her plate.
“I gotta be honest here, Jace,” he finally grumbles, setting down his fork. “You’re twenty-eight years old. I can’t have you moping around the house over some boy all winter.”
His words pierce my heart, splintering it into a million pieces. My muscles tense as I decide between throwing my plate of food at his face or bolting from the room. I turn to Mama, looking for any sign of agreement. She remains quiet, closing her eyes like she’s wishing she could be anywhere but here. My lip trembles, and I bite down on it, holding back the scream building in my throat. “What?” I blurt out, pain lacing my voice.
Pop shakes his head, clenching one fist around his fork. “You know what I mean,dear.” The word, which should be endearing,cuts me deeper than any knife. “Your mama’s been through enough. We’ve all been through enough.”
“I…I haven’t done anything. I’ve only been back two days,” I plead, voice cracking. Once again, I toss my own feelings aside to worry about my mama, staring at her with uncertainty. She whimpers softly, folding her hands politely on the table. Her eyes open, but she forces them to stare at the ceiling as her tears well.
“Girl, I wasn’t born yesterday,” he scoffs, taking another bite of mashed potatoes. He takes his time chewing, rolling the lump around his mouth before finally swallowing. The tension between us thickens as each excruciating moment of silence drags on. Finally, he continues, “I’d expect you to be over all this by now.”
“Iam,” I say sharply, trying to rein in the onslaught of emotions attempting to force their way out. “I haven’t thought about…Cyrus,” I stammer, cringing at the bitter way his name stings my tongue. “I haven’t thought about Cyrus for months.” It’s a lie, but it’s still difficult to say out loud. My throat tightens painfully around his name the second time, like it’s slicing through my throat on the way out.
My mama’s face softens, her eyes full of pity as she reaches for my hand across the table. She knows I’m lying; hell, I’m sure Pop does too. I could barely utter his name, and I’m still sitting here, pretending like Cyrus isn’t an open wound festering inside me. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Mama whispers, trying to brush my fingertips with hers as I yank my hand away. “We just worry is all. We just want…”
“No!” I shout, cutting her off. “Don’t you dare tell me you just want what’s best for me!”
“Don’t you take that tone with your mama!” Pop bellows, his face reddening. Mama shrinks back, dropping her head as if I’vestruck her. He turns towards her, lowering his voice. “Kate, why don’t you give Jace and me a moment alone.”
She scoots back in her chair, either unwilling or unable to meet my eyes. Before fleeing the room, she places one hand on my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. Then, she’s gone, leaving my father and me to stare at each other until one of us folds. He drums his fingers against the wooden tabletop, but I barely hear it over the pounding of my pulse. My thoughts race, attempting to come up with a response for every grievance he might have. He opens and closes his mouth repeatedly, like a fish on dry land, before letting out a long exhale. “What are we gonna do about this, Jace?” he asks, looking away from me.
“Do about what?” I ask honestly, but a harshness creeps into my tone. Uncertainty hangs between us, and I mentally retrace the entirety of the last two days in an effort to figure out when I acted too fucking sad for him to handle. They haven’t seen me cry once. I want to scream at him; I got out of bed this morning, worked all day in the garden, and I’m fucking sitting here now, aren’t I? Will I ever be a good enough daughter for him? The retorts flash through my mind, but I don’t dare say them out loud. It would be a waste of air; he’s already made up his mind how this is going to go.
“I need you to try and see it from my point of view,” he appeals, running one hand through his hair as though I’m making it grayer with each word. “You wasted away here last winter, and we let you. I’m not doing it again, girl. I’m not, and I’m not gonna allow your mama to put up with it neither.”
“Ijustgot here. You haven’t even given me a chance,” I wail, squinting at him through tear-soaked eyelashes. I try to find the context I’m missing from his statement in his face instead, but it’s made of stone. “I’m doing much better, really. Where is this even coming from?” It’s another lie, but I say it anyway, eager to say anything that might help me escape this conversation.
“Now there’s no need to sass me, young lady!” The volume of his voice escalates as he lifts from his chair, pressing his palms flat against the table. “We’ve done nothin’ but protect you from the horrors in this world, and you keep runnin’ straight back to ‘em.”
“I’m confused,” I reply, matching his hardened tone and steeling my face. “You still haven’t told me why you’re raising a fuss when Ijustgot home. I haven’t even been here long enough to do anything worth hollerin’ about.”
“Jace,” he barks, his face turning tomato-red. “I know you were snoopin’ around in that shed, girl. Your mama even said so, and there ain’t nothin’ in there for you. We aren’t doin’ a repeat of last winter. If you wanna sulk around the house, diggin’ up the past and wallerin’ in it, then do it someplace else.”
My face heats, filling with an emotion caught between embarrassment and betrayal. My nostrils flare, hot air fanning my skin with each breath. I don’t know if I should deny the accusation or face it head-on, but I don’t get the chance to decide before he speaks again.
“You need to let that boy go—let dead things staydead.”
My blood turns to ice, spreading through my body with an unnerving coldness. I fall back against my chair, mouth agape. My chest constricts, expelling all available oxygen from my lungs. “What?” I ask, making sure I heard him correctly. “What did you say?”
The information he’s unexpectedly hurled at me spins inside my brain like one of those game show wheels. I hold my breath, waiting to see which answer it lands on. My throat goes dry.Dead. That’s what he said, but why? Why would he say that? Does he mean Cyrus is dead? Pop wouldn’t—couldn’t—know something like that, surely not without me knowing too?
