24. CharlieFoxtrot
TWENTY-FOUR
CHARLIEFOXTROT
Vance
By the time I went back to the strip club, everyone was gone. Even the stripper mobile.
“What the fuck did I do?” Dropping my head on the steering wheel, I let my frustration eat at me. In addition to the growing, self-directed anger, there’s an icy feeling slithering beneath my skin, boring its way deep into my bones.
Fear.
I’m so fucking scared I can’t think straight.
Me . A man who flies at breakneck speeds and has stared into the abyss of the unknown but instead of recoiling, jumped out into it, linked to safety only by a simple tether.
And I’m scared of a baby.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, my mother calling for the twentieth time. I roll my shoulders, her attack from earlier still smarting. From what she heard me say in the strip club, I’m sure she has some idea why I reacted the way I did, but I’m not sure Mom’s the person I need to talk to right now.
I lean back and wipe cold sweat from my forehead. The more I think about it, the more I realize there’s only one person who’d be able to understand me. And she’s either going to help me or leave me to my own dumpster fire of emotions.
I never can tell with my sister.
Ten minutes later I ring my sister’s doorbell.
She lives in a newer neighborhood in League City, about fifteen minutes from Mom’s house in Clear Lake.
The lots are smaller, the houses bigger.
Her house is the one with the rotating light projector casting the front of her house in dancing snowflakes.
From the long windows on either side of the solid wood front door that’s more than half covered in a monstrous home-made Christmas wreath, my sister peeks out, surprise written all over her face.
I raise a hand in greeting, feeling as awkward as I probably look.
My sister pulls the door partway open, staring at me with a string of tangled Christmas lights. “Vance?”
“Hey, Brit.”
She continues to frown at me. “What are you doing here?”
I tip my chin up, gesturing behind her. “Can I come in?”
“Oh.” She pushes the door open all the way and stands back to let me pass. “Of course, yes.”
I get that I’m unexpected. Not only did I not give her a heads-up, but I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been to her house.
She’s invited me plenty, but if it wasn’t a birthday or holiday, I always had a reason not to go. And even then, I might not have shown up.
Stepping inside, I grin at the shiplap feature wall in the dining room that Matt was complaining about at Thanksgiving. As the wall isn’t flat but has an inset where Brit’s put a china cabinet, I can see why Matt said it’s a pain in the ass.
It looks good, though.
Her whole house does, especially decorated for the holidays. Two feet away from where I stand, a large, twelve-foot tree decorated in all shades of white and silver lights up the space.
Even devoid of color, I know Rose would love it for how it sparkles.
“What can I do you for?” Brit asks, closing the door.
I shove my hands in my pockets, rocking back on my heels. “Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to stop by and see my sister?”
“On a Sunday afternoon?” Her mouth flattens into a sardonic expression. “Nope.”
“Yeah, didn’t think so.” I look across the foyer at the office. Or the room that realtors would list as an office, but which Brit has converted into a craft room devoted to all things Pinterest. In the middle of the space is yet another tree, this one a more manageable eight feet.
And pink.
The house is quiet. “Where are Matt and the boys?”
“Football game.” Brit steps around me. “They always try and skip out when I start adding to my tree collection.”
“Collection?”
She smirks. “I’m up to six, but I’ve got my eye on a multi-colored tinsel tree for the boys’ game room.”
I chuckle, feeling sorry for my nephews.
“So what’s up? You okay?” She pauses in trying to untangle the cords in her hands, panic in her eyes. “Oh shit, is Mom okay?”
“Yes.” I hold out my hands, taking the lights from her. “Everyone is fine.”
Her shoulders slump in relief. “Thank God.”
“Speaking of Mom.” I redirect my gaze to a framed cross stitch hanging on the wall, displayed in the middle of family photos. The quote That’s what she said is encircled by embroidered flowers. “Have you heard from her today?” When I look back at her, my sister narrows her eyes.
“Why?”
I shrug. “No reason.”
When I don’t say more, she walks into her craft room to the pink tree and picks up a sectioned ornament box on the floor.
I follow, surveying the open shelves topped with baskets and a pegboard filled with spools of thread on a wall above the sewing table. There’s even a large drop-down table installed on another wall, currently folded up to make room for the tree. There’s stuff everywhere, but all artfully organized.
My sister is really into DIY.
One shelf has rows and rows of jars of glitter. All lined up and gleaming in the morning light streaming through the front window, reminding me of Rose and why I’m here.
“Were you ever angry at Dad?” I hadn’t realized the question that I needed to ask until now.
Brit freezes, eyes wide. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
My breath comes out in a huff, embarrassment setting in. “Why would you think something’s wrong?”
Her eyebrows rise. “Why?” She scoffs. “Maybe because you’re doing things you never do.
” She waves her hand, now holding a large pink iced donut ornament.
“Bringing someone to Thanksgiving dinner, playing video games with your nephews online, stopping by my house unannounced. Asking about Dad .” She reaches out and hangs the donut at the top of the tree next to an ice cream decoration.
The whole tree is confectionary themed.
“When people start doing things like that, it usually means they’re sick.” Brit leans back, checking the donut placement. “Or in love.” Her mouth drops open as wide as her eyes. “Oh my God.” Her head swivels slowly in my direction. “You’re in love.”
When I don’t deny it, a large, Cheshire grin spreads over her face.
“I knew you were more than just friends with Rose.” She pumps her fist. “Yes. This is so great.” Lost in her own thoughts, she tells me about how the boys each got notes from their teachers praising their newfound feminist terminology.
And how Rose has been sharing her Fortnite treasure boxes with them when they play together online so they could all climb the ranks together.
All things that prove how good Rose is with kids. Prove how amazing she’ll be with ours.
“Vance?”
I shake off my thoughts, still not ready to go there yet.
Brit leans in and squints at me. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”
I ignore her. “Do you remember when Dad died?”
She retreats into her own space and sighs, like she was hoping I’d forgotten about my earlier question. She might be right when she said I never talk about Dad, but neither does she.
“Yeah, I remember.” Brit opens a large cabinet revealing a stunning display of organized chaos.
Small tubes of paint, ribbon spools and jars of beads all color-coded and lined up in clear containers on shelves.
It hits me that this is my sister’s version of a glitter room.
And, if given the chance, she and Rose would be great friends. Sisters.
Brit grabs a bag of light pink tinsel and hands it to me. “Here.”
I frown but take it.
Then Brit picks up a cupcake ornament from the box.
“We’ve never really talked about Dad, have we?
” She assesses the tree, then squats down to place the white and blue ornament toward the bottom.
“Come on.” She gestures at the bag in my hand.
“If we’re going to get sad, you can at least help me tinsel. ”
I move carefully around the tree. “How do you tinsel?”
“Pinch a few strands then toss them artfully on the ends of the branches.” She points to the top of the tree. “Start there.”
“Okay.” I elongate the word, having no idea how to artfully do anything. “But don’t blame me if it looks bad.”
“I make no promises.” She waits for me to start. Once I do, she frowns and nods, like it isn’t perfect, but she’ll let me slide.
The next few minutes are quiet as we decorate. I’m concentrating so hard on not clumping the tinsel that I don’t tense up when Brit breaks the silence.
“Why suddenly bring up Dad?” She’s on her knees, repositioning an enamel bag of cookies.
I finish up a branch and pause for a beat. “I guess I just don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
I pull out a few more strands from the bag. “How could he sign up for such a dangerous job knowing that if he died we’d be left alone?”
I’m answered with silence. I glance down to catch Brit frowning at me.
“What?” It comes out more defensive than I meant it.
“I get what you mean, I do. But…” She sighs.
“People in the military sacrifice so much already, you know?” Brit’s usual sarcasm is gone, her inflection serious.
“Their service requires their time, their bodies, and for some, like Dad, even their lives.” She fiddles with the fake snow tree skirt, then stops and looks up at me.
“Don’t you think it’s too much to ask them to sacrifice having a family as well?
” From the look on her face, this isn’t a rhetorical question. She wants an answer.
I don’t have one. “But what about the people left behind? Like you and Mom.” I swallow turning back to the tree. “Me.”
Her lips twist like she’s trying to control a rush of emotion.
“Did you know I used to wish Dad wasn’t in the military?
That we had a normal nine-to-five dad just like most of the kids in school.
” She blinks a few times and clears her throat.
“I used to think how much fun it would be to have him come home from work like the dads on the TV shows we used to watch. He’d put down his briefcase and then we’d all sit around the kitchen table and have dinner. Talk about our day.”
“Yeah.” It comes out more like a grunt. “Me too.”