2. Our Local Delinquent
Chapter 2
Our Local Delinquent
Bonnie
We’re a parade of elephants storming through my parents’ house—even with our relatively small skeleton crew at this Friday’s dinner. There are still sizzling pans on the stovetop, a distant television playing in the parlor, snapping shoestrings on hardwood, and my dad’s CD player in the kitchen overlapping it all. It’s … a lot.
Out of us seven siblings, only The Twins still live at home. Sure, they’re in middle school and incapable of driving themselves away from here, but even if they weren’t, the rest of us haven’t scrambled out of Never Harbor either. Despite the cacophony of slams and busyness, my parents’ rickety, patched-together three-story Victorian—a couple blocks from the coast—is home.
I like to hang out in the kitchen with my dad, perched on the bay window seat with my knees tucked close to my chest and my tablet in the small space between. It’s quieter, away from the clacking of video game controllers and boom of the TV. The smell of garlic and herbs creates the usual perfume of Friday dinners. The slow, churning hum of the ice cream maker is our metronome. It’s relaxing.
“So, how many more responses are you waiting on?” Dad asks.
I look up from my tablet at the question. “Responses?”
“Internships,” he continues, tapping his spoon on the side of the pot. “You’re still waiting on some, right?”
Well, I was relaxed.
“Yeah, a few,” I say.
One single company sits at the bottom of a spreadsheet under multiple other companies highlighted in red—well, a lighter pink because the harsh default hue made me feel like crap.
I glance back down at my tablet with the half-finished black-and-white skeleton smiling back at me. If I could add these types of illustrations to this portfolio, I would. But corporations don’t want sketchbook skeleton illustrations. Logos, branding, and clean design are what gets artists jobs. Not all of us can be like Rafe and open a shop.
“A few?” Dad asks.
Can nobody in this town let me live in peace?
I shrug. “Like, three or something.”
Dad raises a quizzical brow. “It’s summer. You’d think they’d be rushing to get you in.”
Oh, my sweet, optimistic father.
“You’d think.” I force a smile as I add, “But you know how companies are these days, Dad.”
Dad lets out a hearty laugh in return, the kind with a full belly. David Davies has the best laughs.
“I haven’t worked in corporate America for over thirty years.”
My dad has been a stay-at-home parent since Jasper—my oldest brother—was a kid. With Ma being Never Harbor’s primary physician, it didn’t make sense for him to work—and even less as they had more children.
Money was always a little tight anyway, despite Ma owning a practice. With the seven of us, day care would never have been an option. Not like it mattered anyway. Dad loves being home because David Davies loves nothing more than his kids. And R.E.M. Or maybe The Rolling Stones? Tough to say.
“Well, they’re silly if they don’t bring you on,” Dad continues. “How many others have you heard from?”
“Five.”
“Five knuckleheads ,” he mumbles through a rush of air out his nose.
But even Dad’s beaming smile, making its home under that thick mustache, doesn’t ease the anxiety rising in my throat.
The kitchen’s back door opens, and a heavy palm lands on my shoulder in greeting. Whoever it is also gives my arm a light pinch. I throw a retaliatory elbow in their side. The surprised oof in response is very Milo-like.
“No brawls in my kitchen, please,” Dad says. He doesn’t turn from the stovetop to see which kid is being the worst of the bunch. He knows both of us are causing trouble.
“Hey, that drawing looks great,” Milo says, bending at the waist and adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses on his nose, as if to get a better look.
Three out of the seven of us Davies kids don’t share DNA with Dad and Ma. Yet Milo somehow has a way of being just as naturally earnest as Dad.
“Is this going in your portfolio?”
“Nah, it’s just for me.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
I snort. “That’s nice, but it wouldn’t fit.” I tilt my head to the side, admiring. “Even if I do love it.”
“I bet your authenticity would give you a leg up,” Milo says, sitting opposite me on the window seat.
He moves my legs to make room for himself. I lightly kick him. He shoves me with a grin.
“People would like you if you let them, you know.”
“You’re so full of it,” I say with a smile.
“And you’re holding yourself back by not sharing.”
Milo is also perceptive in the worst of ways.
Ma had to bite her tongue when I only applied to art schools after high school, but art is all I’ve ever wanted to do. Even though I’d much rather be making illustrations, I chose to major in graphic design because that had a corporate future Ma could bank on. She had given me her sacrifice, so I made mine. My family doesn’t know that’s why I chose graphic design, but they don’t have to.
“Smells good,” Milo says, peering over at the stove. “Wait, are we having ice cream for dessert?”
“Yep. And Pete’s gonna say something,” I singsong.
“Let him,” Dad replies with a grin.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Peter announces, striding through the kitchen threshold like he owns the place. My older brother kinda walks everywhere like that though. It’s partially how tall he is—his six-foot-whatever limbs demand to take up space—but it’s also his boyish demeanor. Pete’s grin radiates from cheek to cheek as he ruffles his own dirty-blond hair. “We’re having ice cream the night before Main Street Night Crawl?” he asks in an over-the-top, newscaster-like announcement.
“I forgot,” Dad says with raised hands, declaring innocence.
“You’re gonna be all ice-cream’d out,” Peter continues.
“I firmly believe there’s no such thing as too much ice cream,” Dad says.
Peter pauses next to me for a side hug as his long finger pokes at my tablet screen. “When are you gonna draw for me again?”
“The Hideaway has artists,” I say.
My brother’s restaurant, Never Harbor’s local watering hole, is constantly hosting events. Peter doesn’t need a holiday to have a party, and his network is big enough that he’s always got a designer on hand.
“So?” he counters. “You used to make flyers for us all the time. I prefer yours.”
“I’m busy now.”
“Right,” Peter says, holding up his palms in apology. “Sorry for asking, Miss Super-Busy Art Student.”
It’s not that I’m overwhelmed with work. But requests lead to curiosities that lead to?—
“She’s gonna have an internship, Pete,” Dad says. “She won’t have time, will you, sweetheart?”
I shift on the bay window’s checkered cushion. “Right.”
“You could always hire Rafe,” Milo suggests.
Just the sound of his name has me sitting up.
“I’d prefer to utilize my super-talented little sister,” Peter says, tossing me a wink. “Besides, Rafe keeps to himself for the most part.”
I don’t miss how easily Pete’s face twists into discomfort when he says it.
“Doesn’t he talk to Izzy?” I ask, trying to mask my curiosity. “They’re best friends, right?”
Peter rolls his eyes. “She’s my best friend, but thanks.”
Milo laughs. “You wish Izzy liked you that much.”
“If you trust Izzy, why not Rafe?” I ask, adding, “If they’re that close, I mean.”
“That would make too much sense,” Milo says, nudging me.
Peter’s fists go to his hips. “Oh, do you like Rafe, Milo?”
He shrugs. “He’s never done anything to offend me.”
“He’s pretentious,” Peter says.
“How?” I say on a laughing scoff. “I’m calling jealousy again.”
Milo leans his head back to laugh, and Peter, red-faced, changes the subject.
“Where’s Ma?” he asks Dad.
“Her office,” Dad says, stirring the pot of soup on the stove. Hisses of heat fizzle as drops dribble down the side. “She’s got a lot of work to catch up on, but she’ll be out later.”
“Does she need help?” Milo offers. Another drop makes the stove eye’s flame spark. Milo laughs. “Do you ?”
“Nah,” Dad says. He knocks the spoon against the side and places it over the pot. “And I offered to forge some signatures on her paperwork, but apparently, that’s illegal .” He makes bunny ears over the last word with a grin.
“Well, I still think that it’s good you got out of the country,” Peter says, taking peanuts from the can and tossing them into his mouth.
My parents went to Paris for two weeks after not taking a vacation alone since before we were born. They’d saved money for who knows how long, and now Ma is trying to play catch-up on all her missed paperwork. It’s a Davies trait—to be so motivated. You can see it in every kid.
Jasper majored in marine biology and works as a dock captain.
Milo majored in accounting and landed a lucrative corporate job, even finding extra time to volunteer at the library on weekends.
Peter majored in psychology, and now he owns a restaurant. Not sure how he makes it work, but he does.
Only Cassidy skipped college, but now he’s a successful personal trainer.
Then, there’s me. Forcing my parents to send me to art school and pursuing a major I’m not even good at.
Peter saunters to the opposite side of the bay window and peers outside. The backyard—normally filled with more of our siblings, niece, and nephew—is bare.
“It’s quieter than usual today,” Peter muses, despite the loud TV blaring from the other room. “Where are Jasper and the merry crew?”
“They went on a sailing trip,” I say.
“And Cass?”
“Babymoon,” Milo answers.
“What’s that?” Peter asks.
“Honeymoon before the next baby,” I insert. “How do you not know that?”
“They took Melody too?”
“Yes, they’re a happy family, Pete,” Milo says with a chuckle.
“Hmm. Suspicious,” Peter teases, raising his eyebrows and teetering on his back foot to peer across the hall. “Even The Twins aren’t as loud as usual.”
I close my eyes and wait for the crash. On cue, something falls in the hallway. A smile slides over Peter’s features. I swear if my brother requests noise, it will follow.
A scuffle of sneakers squeaks across the hardwood.
“Sorry!” Liam says from the hallway.
“I’m not!” Levi adds with a mischievous snicker, all too similar to Pete’s.
“Twins, you’d better be,” Ma calls from farther down the hall in her office.
Walls do not exist in our house. Conversations are yelled like we’re on the edge of a mountaintop. If you call out, someone will echo back. Thankfully, The Twins are old enough now that the echo is no longer preteen gibberish.
“Hello!” Another echo comes from the front door with small, clacking footsteps that could only indicate Wendy’s flats.
“Wendy!” Ma’s voice echoes from her office. A chair squeaks, as if she’s standing from her desk. “I thought you all were out of town, dear!”
“Jas and Sam are on a boys’ trip,” Wendy calls. “I stayed behind, so it’s just me this time.”
“Perfect. Who needs more boys in this house anyway?” Ma says playfully. Her house slippers shuffle down the hall.
I’m the third youngest child out of our seven. My four older brothers are over thirty, I’m twenty-one, and The Twins were miracle boys, recently turned fifteen. The house has never been calm for a single day I’ve been alive, and I was the only girl enduring it all—until my brother’s girlfriend, Wendy, came along.
Well, Peter’s ex-girlfriend.
Jasper’s partner?
It’s all very complicated. She was dating Peter, he did typical Peter things, they broke up, and two years later, she was nannying for my oldest brother, Jasper, and they fell madly in love. Fast-forward four more years, and we’re all family. Mostly.
Ma appears in the threshold next to Wendy, wrapping her in a tight hug.
“Always hugging Wendy first,” Peter teases. “I get it.”
Ma flashes him a glare, and he smirks back.
Peter’s moved on from Wendy. At least, it seems like he has. He’s fully immersed in bachelor life. I haven’t seen him flirt with the same woman from one week to the next. It’s always someone new.
I can’t imagine that life. Not that I wouldn’t be into one-night stands or anything. It seems fun. But I don’t think a one-night stand would be accepting of my state of virginity. And by that, I mean, I’m still a big-V, embarrassingly innocent, no-experience virgin. Not exactly a promising selling point to someone wanting a guaranteed good time.
Ma keeps talking to Wendy, laughing about some new Sam story. I know Ma doesn’t favor her children. It’s not the kind of woman she is. She’s generous, kind, and selfless. Even if my birth mom hadn’t given me up, I think I would have known in my soul that, somewhere in the world, Maggie Davies existed. I’ve always been a proud Davies girl, but I’m probably too much like my birth mom in too many ways. I don’t have the same matronly instincts as Ma.
But Wendy does.
Wendy has ribbons in her hair. Sunny-colored clothes. Painted nails that aren’t chipped from anxiously picking at them. She immediately stepped into a motherly role for my nephew, Sam, when she started dating Jasper. It was a Maggie Davies move if I’ve ever seen one. That’s why I love Wendy. It’s why we all do.
Cassidy’s wife, Marina, has the same comforting vibes. She doesn’t give the air of traditional motherhood, like Wendy does. Marina’s more of an eat granola, grow a garden, then pull my kids out of school to go swim in the ocean type of mom. But she’s still motherly.
Kids, families … I can’t exactly talk to my mom about those things like they can.
“Wendy, we’re currently having a debate,” Peter says. “Want in?”
Wendy lifts an eyebrow. “Aren’t you always debating someone?”
“What debate are we having again?” I ask.
“Rafe,” Peter clarifies.
I freeze.
“Ah, right,” Milo says, stretching through a laugh because when Pete gets his mind on something, it never truly goes away.
“What about him?” Wendy asks.
“Thoughts on our local delinquent?” Peter asks, tossing more peanuts into his mouth.
“I hope you choke,” I grumble.
“What was that?”
“I said, he’s not a delinquent. He’s never committed a single crime. He owns his own business. On Main, if you forget.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Peter says, waving me off, still focused on Wendy.
“He’s very nice,” Wendy says with a laugh. It’s always delightfully melodic, like a summer breeze. “I like Rafe.”
“See?” I interject. “Wendy agrees he’s nice.”
“Wouldn’t you say he’s a little bit of a loner though?” Peter continues. “In a weird kinda way?”
Ma waves her palm in the air. “Enough of this. The boy is fine. But he smokes too much, if you ask me.”
That comment alone has me deflating in my seat. “It’s just cigarettes.”
I don’t like the smoking either, but it doesn’t make him a bad person.
“ Just cigarettes?” Ma balks. “As if you don’t have a physician as a mother,” she says with a playful smile. “Good Lord.”
Peter gives me a sly grin, as if to say, Told you so.
I stick my tongue out in defiance.
Ma places her palms on Wendy’s shoulders. “Wendy, I have dresses for you upstairs.”
“More?” Dad asks.
Ma gives a mocking, “ Ha-ha ,” before guiding Wendy up the stairwell to the attic, where there will no doubt be an entire pile of thrifted dresses awaiting her.
Ma pauses halfway up the stairwell to point down at me. “Bon, you should really see these dresses,” she says. “Might look good for your first day at your internship.”
I grimace. “I’m all set.”
“You sure?” Wendy throws in, eyes wide, as if to say, Save me .
She doesn’t mean it though. Wendy loves getting dresses almost as much as I love not getting them.
Wendy isn’t the only one who gets surprise clothing. Ma is always on the lookout for my vintage boots and thick jackets. But Wendy does get more clothing than me. Ma says it’s because I’m particular with my clothes. She’s right. I live in cropped tees, jeans, boots, and occasionally Jasper’s old flannels.
But when they ascend the carpeted stairwell, I still linger on the big picture of our family over the landing. Wendy is on the end, leaning in toward my mom, and Ma’s arms are wrapped around Wendy’s shoulders, holding her tight, like she’s afraid if she lets go, she’ll disappear.
The rest of the night goes the way most family dinners do. Ma laments over how much she misses her grandbabies. The Twins talk about school. (“Hockey’s been rad,” Levi says, to which my dad asks, “Is rad slang again?”) Ma asks Milo when his new girlfriend is coming to dinner. (“She’s not ready for you guys,” he teases.) Milo asks me how Lulu’s schooling is going. (“Stalker,” I respond.) And Wendy boasts about Sam’s recent test scores, much to Ma’s satisfaction. (“He gets it from his parents,” Ma says proudly.)
And I continue to lie about my internship.
How can I compete with all that?
I don’t—that’s how.
Shortly after dinner, I sling my crossbody purse over my head as I head toward the door.
“You can always stay the night,” Ma says before I leave. “You don’t have to drive all the way out there.”
I laugh. “‘All the way out there’ is only fifteen minutes.”
Ma huffs out a breath and pulls me in for a tight hug. “Fine then. Be safe. And remember to tell Lu she’s always welcome.”
I laugh. “She knows.”
“Good.” She pats my shoulders and smiles. Ma always gives this longing smile, like she thinks she won’t see us for years. She kisses my forehead. “And you let us know about those internships, okay?”
I give a wan smile. Ma’s strands of gray hair peek out from her loose bun of black hair. She’s stressed—more than usual. Paris was good to her, but not good enough. The pebble in my chest drops just that much farther down the deep end.
“Will do, Ma,” I answer.
“Good. I love you.”
She gives me another hug, and it’s filled with all the love she has, but even that can’t stop the guilt clawing its way inside my chest.