Chapter 2
Hours later, I unlock my car and gingerly slide onto the cracked vinyl seat--it's only slightly hotter than the surface of the sun, so I half-sit, half-levitate.
My house is at the top of the hill. When the weather's nice, I make myself walk it and call it my exercise for the day.
But this is summer in Texas, and today the heat and humidity are duking it out over who can be the biggest asshole.
I don't bother cranking up the AC. It's a short drive and it will never catch up by the time I get home--it's just a waste of gas.
I roll down my driver's side window and let the swamp air swirl around a little.
Not that it does any good--my hair hangs lank and sweaty on either side of my face within minutes.
There's been this war within me ever since I hit my first full year as a nurse.
I can afford a new car now, but I really, really hate payments.
Maybe it's some leftover fear from watching my parents struggle as I grew up, but I can still hear my dad's words: Buying something new before the old one breaks is just ego.
And that goes double for cars, especially when this one starts up every time I turn the key and costs me like four hundred a year in maintenance. Yeah it guzzles gas and it's way too big for just me--it's a family sedan, for goodness' sakes.
But last year I got treated to a front-row experience of why some old cars are worth keeping around--I got rear-ended on the way to the grocery store.
The other car's front end was crumpled--plastic bits exploded everywhere in the intersection.
My car had a teeny, tiny scratch on it's seventy-pound chrome bumper.
I think I'll keep driving Goldie until repairing her doesn't make sense anymore.
On a whim, I decide to treat myself tonight.
I get to the wide spot at the top of the hill and instead of pulling into my long driveway, I make a u-ie.
I roll up the window, crank the AC and head to the good grocery store, the one across town that has the ready-to-heat brisket queso in a disposable baking dish.
I grab a bag of my favorite tortilla chips, the stuff to make my killer tacos, a bottle of pre-mixed margaritas, and the other, more boring stuff that I need. Then I head back home.
My house is a two-story whose backyard overlooks a rectangle pool and a pool house.
It's built in the same style as the retirement village, but the nudists painted it bright pink with teal shutters.
My parents never got around to re-painting it--their house never seemed to be the priority.
Thankfully, it's faded into a pale pink, and the teal shutters are now a light blue--a still weird but much less panic-inducing color scheme.
I lock up Goldie, heft my paper bags, and head inside. I sigh in relief as the AC cascades over my skin. It’s my one huge luxury. I cut my own hair and do my own nails, but it’s worth it to come home to a crisp seventy-three degrees.
"I'm home," I call to Midnight.
My cat trots out of the back bedroom, his dark tail aloft, the end twitching back and forth.
He stares at me for a minute, then scampers back from whence he came in a black blur.
I'm not offended--that was an enthusiastic greeting as far as Midnight is concerned. He’s a rescue, and even though I love him, I’m not afraid to admit he’s an absolute menace.
Currently, I live with Midnight and my brother.
Thankfully, Alex lives in the pool house.
We both share the outdoor laundry, which is still too much overlap, sometimes.
I wish whoever had built this place had thought to put the laundry in the actual house instead of in a lean-to shanty attached to the back.
It's the one big remodel I really want to do, because every six months or so, I find a snake coiled up alongside the dryer.
Then I have to call Javier, the maintenance guy from Shady Lake, and pay him with a six-pack of his favorite beer.
He doesn't seem to mind, but I think it's embarrassing that I was born and raised in Texas and still squeal every time I see a snake. I don't know what it is, but they freak me out. Oh yeah, it's the fangs. And their skin. And that they don't have the good sense to stay out of my laundry room.
I heft my bags onto the counter. I think the interior of my house would be really cute if it weren't for the kitchen.
The bathrooms are tiled floor to ceiling, one pink and mint green, the other one baby blue and white.
They're so retro they're back in style. But even if they weren't, I love them.
Besides, the tile is impervious to damage.
I don't know what kind of grout they used, but it looks brand new.
It's probably something with a ton of harmful chemicals that are now illegal, but I’m not going to eat it or snort it, so I don't care.
The rest of the house has pale pinkish-orange terracotta tile on the floor.
I chose a crisp white for the walls when I moved in.
I know some people think white is boring, but I wanted clean and light.
Besides, I wanted a color where I wouldn't have to paint the trim a different color.
This place has a ton of windows and it would have taken the painters forever--the painters meaning me.
I love my house, but the kitchen isn’t my favorite.
Sometime back in the seventies, someone who thought they were a designer remodeled it from the original.
They ripped out the colorful tile counters and replaced them with flame-orange laminate, to coordinate with the new dark pecan-wood cabinets and black appliances.
They also dropped the ceiling eight inches for some awful reason, and installed fluorescent lighting above translucent plastic covers that obstruct the light but somehow still show off all the dead bugs they collect.
Probably it was the height of fashion when it was installed, but I can't help but wonder how anyone could think this looked good, ever.
I love going on Pinterest and collecting images of kitchens that would work with this house. Nothing too fancy--the house is pretty simple. But a nice shaker in a fun blue or white or grey, with lots of cabinets to store all my stuff.
I’d add a big white sink to replace the divided, too-small stainless one, and a new faucet--one that didn't leak at the base.
I would choose marble-look quartz counters, rip out the wall between the kitchen and living room, and add a massive island, because in my daydreams, I've also won the lottery.
But the problem is that the stuff they put in is indestructible and I can't justify replacing any of it. There's one corner of the counters that was already chipped when I inherited the place, but otherwise it's solid. My dad’s thrifty words echo down and I wonder how much my ego is actually worth.
I pop the brisket queso in the ancient oven, change out of my scrubs and into some old cutoffs and a tank top, and head out to find Alex.
Six weeks ago, due to overcrowding, his minimum security prison partnered with the parole board to release a bunch of inmates they thought were the lowest risk of re-offense.
Alex was one of the lucky ones. He's been living in the pool house ever since.
I offered him his old room in the house, but he wanted to try living more on his own.
I'm not going to lie, I was really relieved--Alex has never been the tidiest roommate.
I got Alex a job at Shady Lake. He's their new IT guy and they were overjoyed to have him.
It's hard to keep one on staff because there's so many better opportunities just fifteen minutes or so away.
Alex was perfect for it; he practically lives on site and he's surprisingly patient with the old folks--especially when they offer him cookies.
His busiest times are typically from five in the morning to early afternoon. That's when all the old people get up and can't remember how to log in to their email accounts, or they figure out they've been disconnected from the wifi by a random power outage. He's usually home before me.
My flip flops slap against the hot cement. I can hear the pulsing bass of his computer speakers across the yard. I wince as I get closer, then pound on the faded teal door. I know better than to ask him to turn it down, though. It's part of the experience, or so he tells me.
"What?" Alex yells over the crescendoing music and the yips of some on-screen foe.
"I'm making queso and tacos. Do you want to watch the Rangers game?
" Baseball isn't my thing--if I go see a game in person, I'm more excited for the hot dog and beer than the game--but Alex grew up watching it with my dad.
I try and keep the family traditions alive, even if I don't love baseball as much as they did.
"Yeah. I'll be out in a bit."
Knowing him, that will be anywhere from five minutes to an hour, though I've probably enticed him with the whole queso thing. He wanders into the kitchen a half an hour later--just long enough for me to have done all the actual work for dinner.
"There's ground beef on the stove and crema and pickled onions in the fridge," I call back to him from my spot on the couch. I'm halfway through my first taco and my margarita. I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but it’s freaking delicious.
Toot fucking toot.
Alex joins me with his plate and a soda a couple minutes later.
If you didn't know we were related, you might not see it at first. I'm shorter with curves and dark hair and eyes.
My brother is a carbon copy of my dad, at least physically.
He's tall and thin with a mop of unruly brown curls.
Since he got out of prison, he's taken to shaving the sides of his head and letting the top grow a bit longer. It suits him.
"How was your day?" I ask.
Alex would be fine sitting here in silence, save for whatever background noise the TV offers, so I’m the one who has to make the effort at conversation.
He shrugs. "Fine."
"You still liking the job?"
"It's fine for now."
I nod. Maybe his response would seem like a blow-off, but I know him well enough to read between the lines. ‘Fine for now’ is high praise. He'll keep the job until he's fired or wins the lottery. Which will be never, because he never buys a ticket.
"My day was fine, too. Only got barfed on once."
"Cool."
We lapse into silence, eating our tacos and watching the other team beat the Rangers.
I see a little motion and narrow my eyes at Midnight, who's slinking up alongside us. His gaze is centered on Alex's half-empty soda.
"Grab it," I snap, pointing at the can.
Alex gives a questioning grunt and raises his eyebrows; his hands are full--one with a taco, the other with his plate.
"Shit," I hiss, leaning forward to try and grab the drink.
But Midnight realizes his quarry's about to be removed--he darts forward. Mid-stride, he bats the can off the coffee table with his paw.
Alex flails in surprise as the soda bounces and spins. It spews a foamy mess all over the table and floor.
"You're why I can't have nice things," I hiss at Midnight as he scampers away, tail held high with the pride of his accomplishment. "You're such a little jerk."
I hurry to the kitchen, grab a roll of paper towels, tear off a length, and toss the roll to Alex.
"Why do you keep him if he does stuff like that?" He frowns and helps me mop up the mess. "I wouldn't want a roommate that made things harder."
I bite back the urge to remind him how many times I've found a load of his laundry moldering in my washing machine. "He's a rescue. He's bound to have some issues."
"I don't like him. I'd get rid of him."
I breathe in through my nose. This isn't the first time I've heard this, and it won't be the last. It was tempting to use all the labels that the teachers and doctors gave us over the years, but in the end, Alex is just my brother. He’s a unique mixture of brilliance and shyness. He’s exceedingly smart, while at the same time completely clueless.
Besides that, he’s possibly even more stubborn than I am, which equates to a very frustrating experience for anyone helping to raise him. He gets fixated on certain things and you cannot talk him out of certain stuff. Which is how he ended up in prison in the first place.
I got Midnight after Grandma died. Part of me wonders if that's why Alex doesn't like him--that he feels like I replaced both of them with a cat. Or maybe it's because he doesn't have patience to deal with another living thing's quirks--he has so many of his own.
Frankly, I'm amazed he has the patience to deal with the old people. Then again, he never gets sick of talking about even the most mundane computer issue. It's his one true love, and the rest of the world--me included--are just a distant second.
“I love him, and it’s my house, so he stays,” I say.
He grunts at me as I wad up the damp paper towels and toss them. I grab Alex a fresh soda from the fridge.
“When’s your next check-in?” I ask.
Alex checks in with his parole officer once a week via phone, and once a month in person.
“Mr. Franklin is coming by tomorrow morning.”
“What?” My eyebrows draw together. “Isn’t it a bit early?”
He answers me with his mouth full and I have to look away. “He’s going on vacation and says he’s trying to get all his visits done before then.”
“And when did you find this out?”
“Yesterday.”
“Why am I just hearing about it now?”
He shrugs, his eyes never leaving the screen. “He’s coming to check up on me, not you.”
One of the reasons I worried so much about Alex being in prison is because he can be exceedingly slappable sometimes. There are moments where I’ve had to physically walk away from him, because the only other option was to punch him in the face.
I take a deep breath. “Because we share the same address, the entire property is searchable. Which means that I’m being checked up on, too. You need to let me know these things, Alex.”
“Fine. He’s coming tomorrow at eleven.”
“I’ll try and trade my lunch hour with Caitlin so I can be here.”
Alex huffs like I’m putting him out, and I take a huge bite of my taco so I don’t snap at him.
“Good tacos,” he says, surprising me. “Better than Grandma’s.”
“Thanks,” I mumble around the half-chewed bite.
We've both changed a lot the past few years. Now we're trying to get to know each other again and it’s awkward sometimes. But Alex is still my little brother--it’s impossible for me to forget all the times he climbed into my bed in his footie pajamas because there was a thunderstorm.
And even though tonight he’s being kind of a jerk, he’s not always that way. He’s super patient with the old people. He keeps trying to get me to sign up for the War of Veilcraft game so we can play together.
Sometimes, if I’m being honest, it doesn’t feel like enough.
We finish watching the game in silence.