5. Maeve
CHAPTER 5
MAEVE
He turns, entering the house without shutting the door or bothering to look over his shoulder to see if I’ll follow. With an annoyed sigh, I do exactly that. Except I do look over my shoulder to ensure no one trails me.
Stark fear runs through me when I realize several people in positions around the neighborhood could be dangerous. Just because there’s a lot of money here now doesn’t mean it’s for a good reason. I make a lot of money doing terrible things. My heart pounds halfway out of my chest as I step inside, and he shuts the door behind me.
This part of the house isn’t what I remember, and there’s an odd coldness about a place I loved so much, having changed this way. The walls are bare, and the curtains are missing. My brows wrinkle in confusion. Isn’t there a single thing left of my old ballet teacher and stepmother? This doesn’t feel like her at all, and my plan to lick my wounds here seems less appealing by the moment. I don’t need to hear him say it to know she’s gone.
He leads me through the new entryway and hallway into the kitchen, a place that’s almost familiar. It’s impossible to ignore how starkly empty the entire house is, but that makes sense as we navigate a large stack of boxes to find the island.
“Come on, come sit down.” He pats the seat on one of the stools. The light is too bright here, and I feel especially exposed. I don’t know if I look as dirty and derelict as I feel, but sweat-drowned rat is my whole style right now. My gaze flits to my hand, and my stomach turns. I hate to admit that he’s right, and it’s serious. I might need a few stitches.
I sit down because it feels right to. I’m too lightheaded to be stubborn. There are fifty or more boxes, but the remodeled kitchen is so large there’s still plenty of room. Each box bears a handwritten label, describing which room of the house the items came from.
He approaches his pile of boxes with more care and practice than I expect. A few minutes later, I’m pretty woozy. I looked at the wound again, and it needs to be ignored, just like I told him. Before I pass out, he finally pulls out one marked bathroom. He doesn’t find what he’s looking for inside, and I nearly groan in disappointment, but that would be admitting he’s right that I need help. Two boxes later, he pulls out bandages and hydrogen peroxide.
“Come here,” he says as he walks to the sink and turns the water on. “That looks fucking nasty,” he comments as he stares at the hand I’m trying very hard to pretend belongs to someone else.
He’s always been so charming. I roll my eyes, trying hard to hide how woozy I am as I walk over to him.
“Shit, you’re green,” he comments. Stepping over to meet me in the middle, he wraps an arm around my back and under my armpit to support me.
“This is unnecessary,” I tell him, but ultimately decide not to argue further because open wounds tend to slow you down when you’re on the run. My head spins and I’m thinking about just how many long miles it will take to get away.
He leans me against the sink and steps back, taking my hand and slipping it beneath very hot water.
“Fuck,” I grit, my plan to stare at the wall interrupted by the heat and pain.
“Needs to be hot to get it clean,” he tells me without a hint of remorse as he slides a bar of soap over his hands and scrubs them well, then rubs them over my hand. I moan as he works despite the fact he’s being gentle. The wound is old enough now to be sore as well as painful, and a sheen of sweat breaks across my skin as he works.
I read the piled cardboard boxes for something to take my mind off the pain as he scrubs.
“Do you need to be so thorough?” I complain. Part of me is sure he’s being harder on me to purposely cause me pain, but there’s no reason to think that of him.
“Yeah, this is bad.”
He splashes on the peroxide. It doesn’t hurt in particular, but the foaming sensation is so deep within my hand it makes me sick. I pay particular attention to the boxes as he splashes it again. Several that say “my room” catch my attention, and I wonder if I would recognize any of the items inside. Do they all belong to a young Diego? I realize with a turn of my stomach that not one of the boxes carries Miss Angie’s handwriting.
Tonight is the strangest series of heartbreaks because none of them are truly mine. What does my pain matter in this situation against his? If he notices my wandering eyes, he doesn’t say anything. He grabs some paper towels off the counter and dries the wound before applying a series of bandages.
“This really needs stitches.”
“Probably,” I agree.
I stare at the boxes; the truth is too heavy in this room, and the silence is too thick to ignore.
“Diego, where’s your mom?” I ask as he slides the last bandage into place and runs his hand over them to make sure they stay in place.
“She’s gone,” he says, and her absence is so deep he can’t mean anything else.
“Where?” I ask, wanting to hold on to my last shred of hope.
The weight of his sadness is well hidden to the untrained eye but heavy in the air as he confirms my fears. “She died.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” The words burn my throat on the way out. The line is fake. Sorry doesn’t begin to cover my feelings, but social convention demands I say something. He doesn’t seem to care about making this easier for either of us.
“Let’s go sit down, and we can talk for a minute.”
He takes my bandaged hand and leads me out of the room. The sitting room looks more familiar than the rest of the house, but not much covered in sheets of plastic and with most of the furniture missing. The couch sits uncovered and he leads me there without a word. A fire burns in the fireplace, and I wonder if he’s trying to rid himself of the wood too. My resentful thoughts quickly fold to the delicious warmth.
“Are you selling the place?” I ask.
He waves to the boxes and plastic by way of explanation. Obviously.
“Why are you?” I try again, knowing well it isn’t my place to judge, but it really hurts to see it all changed and it all leave in the same night.
“It’s too depressing without Mom.”
I don’t have any good argument for that, and I remain silent as I switch between staring at my hand and the dancing fire. The silence stretches long enough for my mouth to dry out and my tongue to stick. The years and differences between the two of us stretch until we might as well be kids again. Sticking us together as siblings didn’t make any more sense then, yet that’s what I tried my best for. I wanted to be a family. Dread fills me, along with the deepest sense of not belonging. I shouldn’t be here.
My eyes move to the clock affixed to the wall. Too much time has passed; it’s late now, and there’s no good reason to think they haven’t caught up with me. That they aren’t waiting outside. I wasted too much time paralyzed in fear inside the car. This has already eaten up time I can’t afford to spare.
Maybe last week, I would have entertained whatever this is. Asked all the questions I’m desperate to get answers for and find out all the ways the man in front of me has changed. There was a time I knew him well, but everything has changed. Hell, I didn’t even know his mother was dead.
I stand quickly, my feet nimble and poised beneath me for a sprint if need be. All of this is absolutely too much and nowhere near enough. I resolve to give up on crazy dreams like this because look how my pipe dreams turn out for me.
He stands, unfolding to his full height, and blocks my exit, as if he noticed I was planning to run straight out of here. Mild suspicion flares to life at why he would bother.
“I’m going—” He doesn’t budge.
I point at the door and try to take a step toward it, but I just put myself nearly flush against him. My cheeks heat when he calls my bluff.
“What are you doing here, Maeve?”