Chapter 9 #2
“Thank you. For offering.” My body relaxes, but the guilt remains. “I’ve got to fix a gutter now.”
“Wow.” He drags out the word. “I don’t even know where I would start if I had to do that. My sister is pretty impressive.”
Never able to accept his compliments, I hurry Shawn off the phone with reminders that I’ll see him in just a few days for book club at his place. And I try not to think about him happily eating a meal with a man who took part in creating me but has always wished I never existed.
Plenty of times over the years, I’ve considered telling Shawn the truth about our father. How the man has never done anything for my mom or me and doesn’t plan to. But what would Shawn knowing that even accomplish?
If he takes my side and is furious with his dad, then I’ve just destroyed what was previously a healthy relationship for my brother. The idea of tearing a rift in his family holds no appeal.
Or maybe Shawn would listen to Karl’s side of the story. He might be swayed to believe my mother used the pregnancy to make a grab for money. After so many people have done the same to Shawn, he might commiserate with Karl wanting to distance himself.
Where would that leave us? As much as I love my brother, I couldn’t take him disparaging my mom. I would have destroyed our relationship.
Destruction either way.
The problem is, we’re barreling toward the harsh truth, and I don’t know if there’s a way to soften the reveal. When I asked Darla for her advice, she was zero help.
“So what if his feelings get hurt?” she’d said with an eye roll. “The guy is too soft. He needs a few hard truths.”
But she doesn’t get it. Doesn’t understand that I’m a fascinating oddity in Shawn’s life that he can set aside if I bother him. We’re not like her and Billy, who could say the worst insults to each other one minute and share a beer the next.
They need each other.
I need Shawn.
But he doesn’t need me.
—
A few hours later, after the gutter is repaired, the toilet is fixed, and Mom has returned home with another all clear from her doctor, I sit on a stool in the downstairs bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror as bits of red hair flutter to the floor.
Darla is a wizard with scissors and the only person I will allow to cut my hair. She’s been in charge of my textured, shoulder-length cut since we were both sixteen years old and has never given me a reason to regret placing my trust in her.
Until today.
“I refuse to trim the other side unless you agree to the flight lessons.”
My best friend stares into my eyes in the mirror, undaunted by my glare.
“No. You cannot blackmail me into this.”
She crosses her arms, scissors dangling loose from her forefinger. “Care to lay down a wager on that?” She pops up a shoulder. “Or you could always have Sally finish you up.”
I grit my teeth and try to glare harder, but Darla is made of stone. Of iron. Of some impenetrable material from space that humans haven’t even discovered yet.
She knows that the best day of my hair’s life was when her mom passed the scissors over. Sally is overflowing with love and has mastered twisting Sam’s locs, but she cannot trim layers to save her life.
I hear her out in the living room, laughing and drinking with Sam, my mom, and Marge. Billy is in the kitchen, visible from the stool I sit on in front of the bathroom mirror, waiting for his sister to be finished with me.
Darla is the best with scissors.
I’m the master of the electric trimmer.
Every few months, our two families gather for a haircut night, a tradition started when we were ten, soon after Sally and Sam began fostering Darla and Billy.
I know the twins had a rough start to life from the handful of stories my friend has shared.
What’s worse is I’m sure she’s shielded me from the truly dark stuff.
The first time the Cornfields tried to take the siblings to a salon for a haircut, Darla screamed as if her head was being torn from her body.
They never went back, and eventually my friend trusted her foster moms enough to let them close to her with scissors.
Meanwhile, my mom was cutting my hair to save us money.
It wasn’t long before the four friends made salon night into a regular, joint event.
One that we still do years later, only with much better results.
That is, if the barbers actually do their jobs.
“Darla,” I whine, changing tactics to garner pity. It’s much easier to play on my friend’s protective instincts rather than battle her head-to-head. “George is part of BnB. His offer was just a guilt thing. He doesn’t even like me.”
She shrugs, unmoved. “Who cares? Use his guilt. Take what you want from him, then never see the guy again.”
She’s so cold. And hell, I love her for it.
But I can’t manage to pull up that icy barrier like she does.
“I don’t like using people.”
Her lip curls in the hint of a sneer. “This is about Shawn and the briefcase of money he gave you, isn’t it?”
“It wasn’t a briefcase. It was a check.” I bet the bank teller saw the amount deposited in my account and immediately told their boss I’d taken up money laundering.
“And it’s not about that. I mean, not directly.
” I shift in my seat and wonder if I can make the lopsided look work.
“I’m already in so much debt. This feels like one more thing. ”
“Only he isn’t asking you to pay him back.” She jabs my shoulder with a finger. Sometimes Darla’s love hurts. “You don’t owe the hot pilot anything.”
“I don’t know how I feel about everyone calling him that,” I grumble. “So, what? I should just take his charity?”
“You say charity like it makes you inferior if you need it. FYI, this world is fucked up. If someone is offering you shit, then take it.” Darla glares at me in the mirror.
“Didn’t your mom use the food pantry sometimes when you were growing up?
Would you rather she have scoffed at the idea of charity and let you go hungry? ”
“No,” I mutter.
Darla leans in, her eyes hard. “Pride is pointless if you’re just fucking yourself over.”
“It’s not pride,” I insist.
Right? I’m not thinking about turning down George because I’m too proud for his help.
At least I don’t think I am.
“Billy,” Darla calls out to her brother. “Tell Beth I’m right, and she should listen to me.”
He doesn’t bother to lift his stare from the screen of his phone as he responds. “Darla is wrong, and you should never believe a thing she says.”
“See?” Darla waves toward the kitchen. “Billy agrees with me one hundred percent.”
“I’m not sure we heard the same thing.”
“Bunsen is offering you lessons for free because he’s got plenty of money, but you’re not going to take them because you can’t pay him.
Even though he doesn’t need you to pay him.
Sounds like pride to me.” She flicks the longer hair on the left side of my head, then releases a dramatic sigh.
“Maybe you’re looking at this the wrong way. ”
“What do you mean?”
“What if you get your pilot’s license and then use it to help people?” She tugs on my hair, but the gesture is gentle. “Don’t think about paying back Bunsen. Think about passing on the favor. Paying it forward.”
Interesting. I mull over the idea. I’m not sure what charity work is available for pilots, but there’s got to be something.
“That’s actually a really good idea.”
Her reflection smirks. “I’m flattered by your use of ‘actually.’ ”
“Seriously, Darla. That would make me feel so much better about taking him up on the offer.”
Better about the lack of money exchange.
Not about the fact that George is part of BBN. And that I wouldn’t mind seeing his shirt accidentally get sucked out the window while we’re in the air so he has to fly the Cessna bare-chested.
Unaware of my naughty thoughts, Darla wrinkles her nose.
“You’re such a do-gooder. It’s gross. Don’t let it rub off on me.”
“You’re the one who came up with the idea.”
“If you tell anyone that, I’ll shave half of your head in the middle of the night.” She tugs on the strands harder in warning. “I’m extremely stealthy.”
“She’s done it before,” Billy agrees, letting us know that as much as he pretends not to be listening, he totally is.
That’s been our dynamic since we were kids—Darla and me actively being friends and him our quiet shadow who only interacts when he feels inclined to. A lone wolf lingering near a pack.
“Consider me warned. Now can you please finish my haircut? I’ve still got to give my mom her trim, and she was talking about getting a design.”
“Not until you text him.”
“Text who?”
Darla rolls her eyes at me in the mirror. “The Pope.” She snatches up my phone from the bathroom counter and drops it in my lap. “George Hot Pilot Bunsen. I want to see proof that you’ve accepted his offer. Only then will I make you look like the gorgeous hussy you are.”
I grumble at the continued blackmail but still pull up our short text string on my phone.
Me: Hello. This is Beth. Shawn’s sister. I wanted to ask if you’re still willing to give me flight lessons?
“Why did you type it like that, you weird-ass robot?” Darla leans over my shoulder because my friend doesn’t understand personal space or privacy. “You’ve exchanged texts before. He knows who you are.”
“I don’t know! Maybe he deleted all proof of our communication from his phone.”
“You’re hopeless. Honestly, how do you survive in the world?”
My phone vibrates.
George: I know who you are, Beth. I have you saved in my phone. And yes, the offer stands.
I hesitate one more time, then respond.
Me: Then I would like to accept.
“Is that the way you talk to him in person, too? Do rich people insist on being formal or something?”
“No. I just…”…am super horny for a guy who doesn’t like me so I’m trying to keep my distance. “He’s going to be my teacher. I want to be respectful.”
Darla scoffs. “That better be what it is. Because if you start acting all prim and proper when Shawn comes around, I’m going to ask Billy to dunk my head in the fryer.”