“How many times did you listen to me and Willow fucking, and wish it was you?”
“Luke!” Willow shouted. “What the fuck—stop it!”
“Did you watch us, too?” Lucas taunted. “Of course you did—you were always staring at her. You were always pissed at her, but you were always staring at her. I should have known—holy shit,I should have realized.”
Lucas stepped toward me, his hate-filled eyes boring holes through mine. “All those years of me having something you didn’t—that killed you. You couldn’t let that stand, could you? NotLucky fucking Logan, the guy who always gets everything he wants. You had to take the only thing that was ever mine.”
Guilt and anger swarmed me like warring hornets. All these years, I’d kept us safe, clothed and fed, too. AndI’d never asked for a damn thing in return. I’d never even wanted anything for myself. At least, not until now.
“Don’t call me that,” I growled. “Don’t fucking call me that.”
“Oh-no.” Lucas laughed bitterly. “Lucky Logan doesn’t like his nickname anymore?”
“How the fuck was I lucky?” I exploded. “When I had to deal with Dad’s inability to finish a fucking job? When I had to stop him from slapping Mom around? When I had to clean up after him when he passed out drunk? When I had to go to school with black eyes and bruised ribs and play it off like it was no big deal?” I paused and took a breath.
“Or how about when I had to pick up all the pieces after Dad…blew everything to fucking hell?”
It was early evening, though the sky looked the same as it had since morning, the same as it had every day for the last few months—varying shades of gray, not a shred of sunlight to be found. The same went for the bed-and-breakfast itself; without electricity, the only source of light was from the fireplaces—a dull substitute inside these dingy, gaping rooms.
Standing in the entryway of the sitting room, I rubbed my gloved hands together in a vain attempt at keeping warm. The smell of burned plastic clung to the cold room, much like the way the stench of vomit clings to a carpet—bitter and unforgiving. One story up, Willow’s mother was having another coughing fit that echoed through the hallways and down the winding staircases. If I listened hard enough, I knew I’d hear the pitter-patter of Willow’s feet as she rushed to and fro, tending to her mother’s needs. Lucas, I assumed, was with her.
My mother, along with Mrs. Gleason—a soft-spoken elderly woman—sat side by side on the couch, each of them clutching a steaming mug of coffee, Mrs. Gleason muttering beneath her breath. She was always praying these days; as if the power of prayer would get us through the winter. As if the power of prayer could accomplish anything at all.
Just a few yards away, Mackenzie and her mother stood huddled by the fireplace, talking among themselves. Every so often, Mackenzie would glance in my direction, her pretty, pert features furrowing. She was always frowning at me these days; whatever her problem was, I found I didn’t care. The merciless reality of our situation had made not just mine and Mackenzie’s, but all the relationships inside the small bed-and-breakfast, dysfunctional at best. Freezing cold temperatures and not enough food seemed to bring out the worst in people.
As for the rest of our obligatory companions, two impromptu search parties had departed early that morning: one group seeking food while the other searched for medical supplies.
What they thought they’d find, I didn’t know. Willow’s mother had been sick since early fall, and we’d exhausted every option available and yet her health continued to decline. At first, it was thought that she might have a lingering case of pneumonia, although lately I’d heard the term “lung cancer” bandied about. Not that an exact diagnosis mattered at this point; in this world, a world where doctors were suddenly in short supply, I assumed either illness would kill her.
The front door opened; three men blew in alongside a frigid breeze. Willow’s father—the first to enter—tracked snow across the room as he came to stand by the fireplace. Gripping the brick overhang, he stared into the flames until his shivering had subsided. The utterly dejected look on his face told me everything I needed to know—the search for medicine had been a failure.
“Find any food?” Mackenzie’s mother asked, as her husband joined her at the fireplace. The man shook his head solemnly, snow falling from where it clung to his thick eyebrows and beard.
“I’m going to check on my girls,” Willow’s father muttered. Still wearing his heavy winter gear, he padded slowly across the room, tracking water in his wake. From the couch, my mother watched him ascend the stairs, a look of pity pinching her features.
“She’s not going to last the winter,” Mrs. Gleason whispered to her coffee.
“Neither are we,” Mr. Hart added miserably. “There’s nothing left here—we’ve got to move on.” The former art teacher at the local middle school had twisted his ankle early on and still had yet to get full mobility back. Doing nothing was making him bitter.
“Be quiet!” My mother hushed, gesturing at the staircase. “Don’t let the kids hear you talk like that.”
Lucas and Willow, shoulder to shoulder, were traipsing noisily down the stairs. At sixteen years old, they could hardly be considered kids, yet everyone continued to treat them as such.
“Come sit down, Luke. Willow, you too—sit down right here where it’s warm.” My mother got to her feet, gesturing for them to take her place on the couch. “I think I’ll head upstairs and lie down. The coffee hasn’t helped at all.” Tucking her blanket over Lucas and Willow’s laps, she disappeared quietly up the stairs.
Eventually, the door opened again, another cold blast of air whipping through the house as the second search party tumbled inside, my father at the helm. “We got lucky at the Five & Dime out in Friendship.” Jeffrey Gleason, Mrs. Gleason’s adult grandson, set down a heavy-looking pack. “Lots of canned goods—enough for everyone.”
Excitement spread through the group as everyone gathered to view the findings, while my father backed away from the others. Rummaging through his knapsack, he produced a half-empty bottle, its black and red label revealing its contents as vodka. Still dressed in heavy winter wear, he unscrewed the cap and took several healthy swigs before replacing the cap. As his stormy gaze raked the room, I took a quick step back, falling just out of sight.
“Where’s my wife?” he demanded.
No one answered him—everyone was busy sorting through the pilfered goods that now lay scattered across the floor. Scowling, my father stormed up behind Lucas, gripping the back of his neck, dragging him away from the others. “Did you hear me, boy? I said—where’s your mother?”
Willow stood up abruptly, watching with a worried expression. Meanwhile, Lucas had gone still.
“Hey, idiot—I asked you where your mother is.” He shook Lucas roughly. “All them goddamn holes in your face must be causin’ your brains to fall out.”
The others began to scatter. Throwing sympathetic glances in Lucas’s direction, some hurried toward the stairs, while others made their way to the kitchen.No one wanted to be around my father—especially when he was drinking.
