Chapter 6
Barrett had placed Chinese food around the table before we got there, and he grinned at us when we entered. “I set it up.”
“Thank you.” I walked over to kiss him on the cheek, stomach growling at the scent of food.
He nodded. “Sure. The guys texted when practice was almost over. Did you hate it?”
“No, but I want to go change. They can tell you what happened afterward. Is Phoenix up in his room? I want to make sure he’s okay.”
Barrett sighed. “He’s not here. I asked if he was joining us for dinner, and he just said no. One word. I checked the tracking app, and he’s only three blocks away, I think at Jo’s.”
Jo, his drug dealer. I hated him. I reminded myself that Jeremy said he would punch him when he saw him next, and I couldn’t work up any sympathy for him.
I changed my clothes and arrived to find Barrett had obviously already heard about the whole day from his brothers.
His whole demeanor had changed, especially the way he held himself, stiff and rigid and ready for a fight.
It was his first day of college, so I really didn’t want to add to his levels of stress.
“I’m okay,” I said as I walked over to him. “Actually, all in all, it wasn’t a bad day. I don’t want you to worry about me.”
He shook his head, smoothing my hair away from my forehead. “Don’t you worry about me, she says. Aren’t you worrying about me worrying right now?”
I grinned, because he called it. “Sure.”
“Then you’re going to find a way to deal with me worrying about you, too. What Maggie did wasn’t okay. Collins, either. Although I don’t know why we didn’t know she was giving Phoenix shit before now.”
Jeremy motioned for me to sit, so I squished in between Barrett and Jeremy. Julian sprawled across from us, as shirtless as his brother and wearing shorts. They both held a beer.
After we all ate—including an eggroll each, because that was essential according to Julian—Jeremy spoke again.
“Maybe he didn’t tell you because you’re not his father.
Despite you taking care of all of us—and I know you have—it’s not your job.
I can’t speak for Phoenix, but I know I don’t want my life overflowing onto yours. Maybe he’s just handling shit himself.”
Julian laughed. “Badly.”
I stretched in my pajama pants and a tank top—my preference, if I could wear anything at any time, the most comfy outfit possible.
Despite my arguments to the contrary, apparently I couldn’t just live in pjs full time.
I glanced at Jeremy and realized I would probably feel the same as him, in that position.
I wouldn’t want someone else responsible for my choices either.
Barrett blinked rapidly, as if surprised. “I didn’t try to raise you. At least I never thought I did. I only wanted to make sure everyone was solid.” He squirmed in his seat. “Alatheia and I are going to a jazz club Friday. Anyone else want to come?”
Jeremy groaned, but Julian nodded. “I’m in.”
“Great,” he said then smiled. “Celeste Demille is in town, playing at Lincoln Center, but I have it on good authority she is going to Miller’s the night before. Obviously, I’m going.”
I swallowed, recognizing the name. “She’s been playing jazz since the sixties mostly in New Orleans, right?”
His answering smile was huge. “That’s right. You are so awesome.”
Julian tapped on the table to get my attention. “Are you busy now?”
I knew what he wanted, since I had promised to read the play. “I’m done eating, and I have time.”
Jeremy glanced between us. “What am I missing?’
Julian shoved his shoulder. “I finished my play, and I asked Alatheia to read it.”
“Oh. ” He seemed genuinely curious as he scanned his brother. “That’s awesome. Can I read it?”
“Yes, but after her.” He nodded toward Barrett. “You can, too, if you want later.”
Their oldest brother sat back in his seat, uncrossing his legs and stretching before he stood. “Sure, I’d love that. I actually have to do some reading for school, too, so I’ll be in my room unless anyone needs me.”
Jeremy yawned. “I am going to watch television.”
I translated that to mean he would fall asleep on the couch, though I couldn’t blame him.
My muscles were already starting to ache, and I didn’t do half of what they did in the pool.
Despite that, I managed to follow Julian to his room, where he pointed at the desktop.
“Can you read it there or do you want me to print it out for you?”
“Computer is fine. I am actually more comfortable with it than I would be holding a bunch of printer paper.”
He clicked to open the file, glancing back at me with his devastatingly handsome grin. “Me too. It’s different than holding a book, but all that doesn’t matter right now. Anyway, my play is tentatively titled Ghostlighting.”
I swallowed, not sure if I could handle it if he went full gore. “Is it a horror thing?”
“No, it’s about the ghosts we carry with us—literally and figuratively.
It may be really stupid, so I have to let you read it before I chicken out.
Anyway a ghostlight is the light left illuminated on the stage when the theater is empty.
” Uncertainty tinged his voice, but I understood his hesitation well enough since I felt the same way ever since I showed them I wrote Poor Relation.
Something about having someone else reading and judging your work made the nerves sensitive, regardless of who you were.
But an ache formed in the pit of my stomach as I worried about what I would say if it sucked. Shit. I couldn’t lie to him, because he would know… Julian ran a hand through his brown hair, his blue eyes full of nerves and worry.
I squeezed his hand. “Is there anything you can do so you aren’t actively watching me read?”
He nodded, glancing at the doorway. “I can go watch television with Jeremy.”
I grinned, realizing he would probably also pass out. “I’ll wake you when I come out.”
“No, he falls asleep in front of the television like some old guy, but I don’t. Besides, I’m going to be antsy because you’re reading my work. See you in a bit.”
I turned toward the computer, blowing out a breath because it wasn’t like I knew a lot about plays in general. Maybe I wouldn’t even be the intended audience.
But I started reading.
Immediately, the story sucked me in, and I felt as if I was Elizabeth Short, the beautiful dark-haired heroine.
“Hello,” she said, then nodded to the audience per the stage direction.
“I’m Elizabeth Short, but you know me by another name.
” Stage direction instructed her to pause, and I imagined her lips quirking with an impish grin.
I could picture her as though she was real.
“History has called me the Black Dahlia.”
Okay, I’m hooked. Julian used the play to describe a family—a really traditional one, with a mom, dad, two kids, a teenage boy and a grown daughter—all just going about their lives.
Then everything is upended by the sudden and mysterious death of a neighbor.
Even more interestingly, each of the characters dragged a ghost along with them through the plot.
The father walked with the shadow of his father—long dead but ever chasing his steps, trying to be the man he imagined his father to be.
The mother had her mother’s ghost, whispering all the things she should be doing throughout the day like a taskmaster.
The older sister carried her living mother’s dreams from when she was young, before she became a parent and changed her path.
The brother had his fifth-grade teacher, who died in the night and didn’t return to school the next day.
Dahlia herself remained in constant dialogue with her dead neighbor. Minor characters filled out the story—a police officer, the neighbor’s mother, but everyone had their own ghost.
I finished it in an hour, and by the end, tears streamed down my face. I wiped them away with a sniffly sob. It was a beautiful play, so different than I imagined when I thought of his writing.
The Black Dahlia started and ended the play, but the story didn’t focus on her. She haunted the play, like a figure removed from the action and yet part of it at the same time.
I sat back in my seat, wiping my nose and breathing slowly. Julian would probably get a big head, but I would be raving about the play. My fears of telling him bad news were squashed by his amazing writing skills.
I tiptoed out to the living room, hoping not to wake them if they fell asleep. Sure enough, Jeremy was out cold on the couch, snoring. Barrett played the piano, his fingers almost strolling across the keys, and I was surprised I didn’t realize it was him playing.
They left the television on, but with the volume so low, I wasn’t sure anyone could hear it over the music. Julian wasn’t really watching it anyway, instead scrolling through his phone. He looked up when I entered and then jumped to his feet.
With his arms crossed over his chest, he approached me, one brow arched defensively. “How bad?”
I blinked at him, still slightly sniffly. “How bad? Not bad at all. Brilliant.” I wiped at my eyes again. “You made me cry. Julian, you are so talented. Thank you for even letting me read it and…”
He kissed me, square on the lips, the gentlest of caresses to steal my words away.
His body practically vibrated against mine, his emotions so vibrant I could feel them press against me as clearly as his lips.
Finally, he pulled away, taking my hand and dragging me with him into his bedroom.
With a click, he shut the door behind us.
Before I could sputter out a laugh at his eagerness, he asked, “Really?”
I nodded. “Really. I wouldn’t lie about your writing, though I was afraid you might suck and make things horribly awkward for us both.
No, it is actually incredible. Seriously.
I know you said you wanted to be a playwright, that it was your goal, but I had no idea you were this talented. You’re an artist.”