I thought I was prepared-for Dad's disapproval, for his anger and disappointment-and then Gwen launched the curveball at me.
Mia Mendez is living here while she helps with the baby.
Mia Mendez is eating in my kitchen, sharing my shower.
Mia Mendez is sleeping on the other side of my bedroom wall in a cotton sleepshirt so thin it makes my hands itch to slide under it.
I yank open another cabinet and finally find the skillets. Christ, I just want some food, but I'll be fucking damned if I'm going to eat any of the meals in the fridge. My stomach clenched when I saw them-perfectly balanced, prepared meals labeled in Mia's neat handwriting: quinoa and chicken, peppered flank steak and green beans, fajita frittata.
She's not just helping with the baby. Dad has her doing his meal prep. As if she's the Alice to his Brady Bunch or some shit. So fucking twisted. Count me out.
I put a skillet on the stove, pour a little olive oil in it, and look around while it heats.
Gwen remodeled this space while she was pregnant. Contractors came in and ripped out the cherry wood cabinets my mother had chosen and replaced them with a stark white variety that feels so sterile you almost expect the place to smell like bleach and commercial disinfectant.
It's everything my mother's kitchen wasn't-cold to the warm, white to the dark, showpiece to the functional. It's as if she ripped the heart right out of my house.
"That's fucking dramatic," I mutter to myself.
I grab the eggs from the fridge and crack them against the side of a bowl, dumping the egg whites and tossing the yolks in the trash. I chop fresh basil and beat it with the egg whites before pouring the mixture into the skillet.
My phone buzzes, rattling against the white marble countertop.
Keegan: Someone told me they saw Mia Mendez walk into the manager's office at the Pretty Kitty. I'm heading that way. If there's a god, she'll be on stage tonight.
My fist tightens around the phone, but before I can do something stupid like throw it against the wall or, worse, let Keegan know exactly what I think about his hopes for the evening, it buzzes again. And again. Two, three, four messages all coming in at once, making me realize this wasn't a text he sent just to me but one of those mass-group texts that guarantees to keep my phone rattling for the next half-hour.
I read through the conversation as I stir my eggs.
Mason: You fucking wish, loser. Mia wouldn't strip.
Trent: If you love me, you'll tell me if this happens. But I heard she was working at the Woodisons'-that true, Arrow?
Mason: Not that I object to the idea in theory. Because damn.
Keegan: Why work for the Woodisons? Ass like that and she could make BANK stripping.
Chris: You're all so low. This is Brogan's girl you're talking about. Show some respect.
Brogan's girl.
I stare at those two words for so long that time drops away. Brogan's. Girl.
I draw in a breath and my throat burns with smoke. Shit. I throw the exhaust fan on full blast so my burned eggs don't set off the smoke alarm and wake up everyone in the house. I toss them into the trashcan and put the pan in the sink to soak. Not wanting to embark on another failed cooking attempt, I grab a protein shake from the fridge.
Chris's mention of Brogan predictably silenced the conversation, but I turn off my phone anyway, shutting it down before I can say something I'll regret, or worse-find out that she really is stripping.
I twist the cap off my drink, sink into one of the living room couches, and turn on ESPN out of sheer habit.
"Let's talk biggest draft disappointments," the announcer says to his co-host. "Give me your top five."
The broad-shouldered black man taps his papers on the desk in front of him and pushes his glasses up his nose. His name is Craig Jennings, a retired running back for the Indianapolis Colts. When I was in seventh grade, he was my hero. He was the reason I told the coach I didn't want to play quarterback, even though half my friends were dying for the position. No. I wanted to be Craig. I wanted to power down the field, zigging and zagging like Craig. Finding the holes and making impossible plays. He was the reason I loved football, and that stubborn declaration was just the beginning of a long list of careful decisions that pulled me to the top of my sport at each level.
Craig looks at the camera, lips pursed, eyes serious, and says, "My list starts with Arrow Woodison. And I put him as the number five instead of number one only because he hadn't yet decided if he'd be entering the draft at the end of this year or playing his senior year at BHU. But even as a long shot, my boy Arrow is nothing short of a profound disappointment for any team who believed they might be able to pick him up this year or next."
"Fuck you, Craig," I whisper. I made my decisions. I knew what I was doing every step of the way. No one forced me down the path that led to my house arrest.
But when you idolize someone-whether it's a parent or a football star-you want him to get you. You want him to understand that the terrible choice you made was the best you could do.
I didn't think I even cared about football anymore, but Craig's words make me feel claustrophobic. Stuck. Profound disappointment. They kick at the dead dream and remind me I buried myself these last few months, not just my football hopes. But wasn't that the point?
I grab the remote, but even though I know I should shut off the television, I only turn up the volume, lean back on the couch, and listen to what else the man has to say about me.
When I pull into the trailer park, my tires crackle on the gravel road. I park in front of my childhood home and cut the engine. The windows are draped with dark sheets and part of the roof has been covered with a piece of rotting particleboard. The air-conditioning unit hangs from the bedroom window, but it hasn't worked for years. As I climb out of the car and walk around to get my father, guilt washes over me, just like it does every time I visit. Tonight-and every night this summer, if Arrow doesn't get me fired-I'll sleep in the air-conditioned comfort of the Woodison mansion, a feather pillow under my head, cool, silky sheets wrapped around my legs, and Dad will sleep in this hot trailer, sweating through his sheets.
"Come on, Dad," I say, sliding my arm behind his back. "Time to get you inside." He's out cold and doesn't stir when I tug on him. "Dad. Wake up." Nothing. Not even a grunt. "Crap."
"Here," someone calls behind me. He shuffles down the steps of the trailer beside Dad's and saunters toward me before I can answer. I don't know him, but his thick arms and broad shoulders indicate he's a much better candidate for the job of maneuvering my fifty-year-old father inside than I am.
I step aside and let him help, holding the door as he leads my half-conscious father into the house.
"Take him to bed?" he asks.
"Please." I point to the back of the trailer and follow him, watching as he settles Dad onto the unmade bed. I remove Dad's scuffed work boots and pull a blanket over him as the stranger fills a cup of water from the tap and puts it on the table next to him.
"Thank you," I say as we head back out.
The man holds the door open for me this time, but he doesn't speak until the screen door clatters to a close behind us. The porch light illuminates the sharp angles of his cheekbones and a neatly trimmed beard. He's tall and broad-shouldered with an aura of bad boy. Tattoos peek out from under the sleeves of his T-shirt. I make a mental note to tell Bailey about him. He's absolutely her type.
While I lock Dad's door behind me, the stranger dismisses my gratitude with a shrug. "If I hadn't been here, someone else would've helped."
He's probably right. The trailer park never really sleeps. Not many people who live here work bankers' hours, so there's always someone sitting outside, smoking or taking in the night air. Nighttime promises blazing porch lights and the rumble of unhappy car engines. It's such a dramatic contrast to the dark, silent acres of the Woodison Estate.
"You lived here long?" I wish he could help me keep an eye on Dad and his drinking, but I'm too ashamed to ask.
"Grew up in Blackhawk Valley and came back this fall."
I nod and look at my feet. "You see my dad much?"
"Some. He tells me he used to work for Woodison?" He can't be too much older than me, and I wonder if he has a job and where. I wonder if he understands that my dad isn't rational when it comes to Uriah.
How Uriah Woodison screwed me over is one of Dad's favorite subjects. "He was let go a few years ago. Hasn't been able to find anything else." Hasn't tried.