Chapter 4 #2
"Come on, I'm not making a robot. It's just an air filter. Dusty air sucked through with the heat fan from the wood fire, which I already own."
I glance at the wood stove. It's the last decent thing we own.
And we only keep it because it's multifunctional.
Otherwise, it would've been sold along with every other item of value from our previous life.
It was from our last home. The one I barely remember.
Dad managed to keep it somehow. Our little bungalow is falling apart.
Every wall, piece of furniture, and object in here has been patched up.
The walls were panelled with different pieces of wood, once painted, now peeling.
It's so small in here, the couch and loveseat touch.
But with one income stretched between three people, this is as good as it gets.
I turn, blinking my big eyes at him, silently pleading. He glares back at me, annoyance riding his features.
"You're going to get me arrested, you know that." This is as good as agreeing to it as I'm going to get.
"Thank you, you are a prince. Look, it helps when we have to space out her meds if she can have a little clean air to breathe." I slam this last point, knowing it will seal the deal. He's a sucker for Willow, thankfully.
"I'm sure I can figure out something."
I jump in my seat.
"Oh!" I almost scream. It's like my brain has just misfired.
"What?" Deacon shakes his head at my sudden outburst.
"Another thing, if you could check in with your sister at the school, that would be really helpful. Willow had another one of her mishaps and I need to know how much damage control I need to do. It would be nice to know, before I go in there and make it worse."
I say the last bit with a wince, knowing full well I don't have many friends in the school.
Not because I'm difficult to like, more because of who my family is and how much of a pain they've all been.
Growing up, our dad did a decent job of stirring the pot.
Of course, back then, the pot was less dangerous to stir, but people were already wary of our family before Willow started causing trouble.
Linden always likes to blend in, but when he was younger, even he had a hard time sifting through our government's ever-changing regulations and rules, and sometimes I'd have to go rescue him from class.
"What did she do now!?" he says, looking flustered as his eyebrows arch.
I relay everything Willow told me and he shakes his head.
"I'll make sure my sister checks, but I haven't heard anything about it, which is actually a good sign.
I always hear about the major drama at the school through her," he replies with a smirk, adding, "If she's anything like you, this will be the least of our worries. You were such a handful at that age."
I give him a sarcastic, scornful look while swatting at him playfully.
"I was not! I was an angel in comparison," I argue.
He rubs his arm, "Ow! That was hard! Why are you so weirdly strong, little tree?" I roll my eyes at my old pet name.
"I'm not," I smile smugly. "You are just oddly feeble, despite your size."
I check the time on the old worn clock on the counter and sigh.
"I gotta get going soon," I say, getting up and taking our mugs to the sink.
"Another shift?" he asks, and I pause at the question.
"Something like that," I mumble, hiding my face. I feel his gaze burning heavy on my back.
"Maple." He says my name like a warning.
I love him, I really do. But when he acts like this, I'm grateful we've never crossed that line. He can be unreasonably protective. Hard-headed even.
"Dea, don't start ok. I'm all ears if you have other suggestions for how I can make money, truly, but until then I have people who rely on me." My last words are clipped, hoping he takes the hint.
He sprints from the couch, his long legs eating up the distance of our pitiful space in seconds. His hands go to my shoulders as he spins me to look at him.
"Maple, I thought you said you weren't going back. You promised. The government has been cracking down on the underground rings. More arrests and executions every week. Is you being dead better for everyone?" he grits out.
I search his face. I never promised anything, but I definitely haven't done a good job of being straightforward with him. It can be utterly exhausting at times, especially when it's not what the person I care about wants to hear.
His jaw clicks with how intensely he's grinding his teeth. I wonder how many people have seen this version of him. The golden boy of Strayton rarely gets angry.
I straighten my back, saying nothing in my defence.
"It's one thing to use materials in ways we're not supposed to, Maple, but going to those rings and gambling with those criminals is different and you know it."
His grip tightens like he's trying not to shake me, like he's barely containing himself.
My temper flares. Half from exhaustion and half because I simply don't love being told what to do.
It pisses me off when people treat me like a child.
I've been on my own too long. I should have earned some modicum of trust by this point.
Especially when I know Deacon's mom still does his laundry.
"Dea, it's the only way to get her meds. It's just until Linden passes his final year and gets us better access."
I say this a bit breathlessly, trying to stay quiet so Willow doesn't come storming out demanding answers. Finally, he lets go. Walking away, shoulders tight and neck strained with indignation. My instincts scream to fix it, to make him feel better, but my bitterness stops me.
"Part of me thinks you like it––the Games, the manipulating. Coming out on top. I can't bail you out if something goes bad there, Mae." His eyes glaze over, like he's imagined this before.
"I never asked you to." My words are a soft plea, a plea to just support me instead of whatever this is.
I am so tired of holding everything up; I don't need one more person to manage. One more person I need to worry about disappointing. His face softens slightly, seeing the exhaustion that surely riddles my features.
"I'm going to get going. I'll check in tomorrow with whatever my sister says, and I'll see what parts I can find." He says this as he's already moving towards the door, getting his boots on.
"Ok…" I hesitate, not wanting him to leave angry, but also not wanting to make promises I can't and won't keep. I stay where I am, anxiety beginning to slither into my gut.
"Don't break any hearts while you're out and about today. Our town's too small for me to keep away all the forlorn women for you," I joke, my hands clasped and clenched, desperately trying to lighten the mood.
He lifts his head, staring at me with an intensity I can't place, hair looking more copper through the dusted light seeping through the skylight.
"That's more your thing," he whispers, so softly I might have misheard him.
My brows pinch, brain trying to cultivate a clever response. But he's already gone. The door slammed tight before I can utter a word.