Chapter Four Milo #2
I scoff, looking at his wet-mouthed youngest who’s pulling at Sef’s braid as Sef breaks up an argument between two of baby Quinn’s other siblings. I’m at least smarter than her, I think to myself. I’m not drooling.
“This is you,” Nik says, opening the door to a spare room off their kids’ basement playroom.
I glance around the wood-paneled and orange-carpeted room, nodding to myself.
There’s a dresser, a lamp, a fan, and a futon laid flat with actual bed linens.
Compared to where I’ve been sleeping for most of the past ten years, it’s luxurious.
“Sorry it’s, uh, yeah…” He rubs the back of his neck. “We tried our best to make it nice.”
“This is great,” I tell him sincerely. “It’s a nice house, man.
” I know how tight things have been for them, scraping together every penny they could since Levi was born to save up and buy something of their own.
Getting pulled around the house by the two eldest of his kids, I got to see Nik’s handiwork all over the old home.
The small upgrades that I know he’d insist on doing himself, the kids’ heights measured against the kitchen doorway, the repaired drywall by the door that looks like the consequence of a kid’s tantrum.
Nik even built the table we had dinner at this evening.
He made it big enough for twelve, as if he’s always ready to welcome more folks to feed.
I look at the wall next to him as I say, “Really…It’s great.” He’s got what he’s always wanted. A stable, normal, family home. “You, er”—I clear my throat, looking to him—“you should be proud.”
He bows his head bashfully, wearing a thin-lipped, appreciative smile.
“How far is the bar from here?” I ask, needing to immediately change the subject.
“Two minutes up the road if you’re driving. It’s just around the bend from the gas station store.”
I nod, unzip my bag to pull out my sketchbook, and toss it onto my bed. I don’t know why, it’s always the first thing I do when I find a place for the night. It’s as if seeing it next to a pillow can make anywhere feel like home. “Oh, yeah, we were there earlier. Must have just missed it.”
“Most of the businesses are closed on Sundays,” he says from behind me. “Or at least they are whenever it’s not tourist season.”
Don’t bring it up. Don’t bring it up. Don’t — “We stopped by the gas station to pick up some…” I let that sentence go unfinished. “The sign said they’d be open, but they weren’t.” I pull a pile of shirts out of my bag and walk over to the small dresser in the corner.
Nik smiles softly, strangely, at me while I unpack my clothes, then seems to shake himself out of it.
“Oh, yeah, Sef said there was a phone-tree message about that earlier.” He straightens the mirror on the wall above the dresser, then shuts the drawer after me when I leave it open. “Something about a wedding, I think.”
“Phone tree?” I flash him a wry smile. “What is this, 1995?”
He winces, his eyebrows jumping in agreement, before he crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Apparently they tried to start a neighborhood group on Facebook but someone kept anonymously posting grainy photos of vintage Playboy magazines. They called it quits and went back to their roots.”
“This town already has Dorset beat for entertainment; I’ll give it that.”
“We like it a lot so far. I hope you will too.”
“You’re being awfully sincere,” I say, eyeing him skeptically. “You okay?”
He rolls his eyes, scratching at his neck.
“What? Did Sef tell you to play nice or something?”
“Believe it or not,” he says, walking toward the door before placing one hand on top of it, “I simply want my little brother to have a good time when visiting his family.”
“Speaking of a good time…Do you know the name of the younger woman who works at Welch’s? Their daughter, I think?”
Nik runs his tongue along the length of his teeth, as his eyes weigh my words and find them guilty for whatever reason. “I met Mr. Welch, the owner. He mentioned he had a daughter…. He talked about her like she was really young, though.”
“She’s at least Nadia’s age,” I say definitively, lowering to sit on the futon. “What else did he say?”
Nik’s eyes narrow further. “He’s a nice guy.
Super friendly. A talker…I honestly don’t remember his daughter’s name, or his, though I’m sure he told me.
” He pauses to scratch his brow with his thumbnail.
“I do remember him saying that his wife’s name is Julia, though.
He talked about her a lot. She’s, uh, she’s sick. ”
“Sick how?”
“Alzheimer’s, I think. The early kind, from the sound of things.”
Fuck, that makes a lot of sense. And, fuck, that is so, so sad. I swallow, pawing at my neck. “I know her,” I tell him.
“The daughter?”
“No, the wife. She was my art teacher.”
Nik’s eyes flare as he puts the pieces together.
“Welch, of course. Right, oh, shit…” His mouth twists into a frown, before he wipes it away with his wrist. “I’m sorry, man.
I know how important she was to you back then.
” He moves to sit next to me on the futon, wide-legged and hunched over, staring at the floor between his feet.
“Yeah…” I let the awkward silence breathe a second too long. “I think I freaked her out,” I admit, wanting to fill the quiet.
“The daughter?”
“No,” I say defensively. “Well…” I breathe out unevenly, feigning a laugh. “Maybe her too.”
“What happened?”
I tell him everything, from the moment Nadia shooed me out of the van to the moment we drove away. Minus the cigarettes. I’m not a snitch.
“Well…Shit.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
“It’s not your fault, man. You didn’t know.”
I sigh, placing my head in my hands. “I don’t know, Nik. If it isn’t my fault, why do I feel so guilty over it?”
He sighs, grazing the side of his thumb along the side of his nose.
“Do me a favor and go over there tomorrow and apologize. Take some of our beer as a peace offering—he seemed to like it. You didn’t do anything wrong but…
it is a small town and people talk, and rumors spread.
We need everyone here to like us if the brewery is going to work out. ”
I nod slowly as Nik stands and moves across the bedroom. “Yeah, okay. I will,” I tell him.
“And, Milo?” Nik says my name sternly, waiting for me to look up at him. “I don’t know if this girl was actually flirting back or if it’s all in that huge head of yours but, either way, keep your hands to yourself, ’kay?”
I waggle my fingers at him, smiling crookedly. “These bad boys? They have a mind of their own.”
“Seriously,” he warns. “From what Sef has told me, the Welches’ daughter seems to be the town’s darling. Do not hurt her.”
Killer suits my mystery girl a lot better than the nickname darling. “Scout’s honor,” I say, holding up a salute.
He mimes smacking his head into the doorframe, laughing. “Please don’t make me regret inviting you here.”
“Would we call this an invitation?” I shout after him as he leaves my sight. “I’d be inclined to describe it as conscription.”
“Work starts tomorrow. Bright and early!” he calls back, from somewhere upstairs. I hear Sef shush him through the floorboards, softly saying something with the words kids and asleep. Then, a giggle and a squeak, and a cushioned falling sound, like two bodies hitting a mattress.
That is when I realize my bedroom is directly underneath theirs and reach into my bag for my headphones.
Leaning back against the wall, I bring my sketchbook to my lap, flip to a blank page, and begin what I’ve been waiting to do all day.
I sketch Killer from memory, starting with a rough pencil outline.
By the time I get to the coils of her hair, my chest is tight while my mind remains focused—realizing I may not be able to keep yet another promise to my big brother.