Page 83 of To Have and to Stalk
Both stopped short, staring at the tattoo on Butcher’s hand. The same tattoo our father had. The same tattoo I hid under gloves or, sometimes, makeup when I was with them.
“Talk later.” Butcher slapped me on the shoulder and left, but not before shooting my sister a smile. I opened and closed my fist.
“I think we still have a pizza to eat,” I said, trying to change the subject.
“Take off your gloves,” Stone said, cold.
I rubbed the back of my neck. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Then take off your fucking gloves,” Stone said.
I exhaled, arms dropping to my sides. Stone took that as the confirmation it was, jaw clenched.
“Let’s go back inside, continue lunch?—”
“I’m not pretending we’re some happy fucking family,” Fig yelled. “You bothabandonedme. First you went to jail”—she spun on Stone—“and then you left me the minute I turned eighteen.” She spun back to me. “So, what, you could become like Dad?”
“I amnothinglike him.” The words slipped out of me, sounding more like a plea than a declaration.
She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “This was a stupid fucking idea. Just because we share the same DNA doesn’t mean we need to share the same table at a restaurant.”
She shoved past me, heading to the parking lot.
“Fig, wait—” Fig didn’t bother turning around, disappearing between the rows of cars.
Slowly, my gaze returned to Stone. A deep groove had formed between his brows, his jaw taut. The silence stretched thorny between us.
“I didn’t go to jail so you could become Dad.”
With one last searing look, Stone left.
chapter
twenty-eight
SHAY
“How was the conference?” my sister asked the Friday after I got back.
“It was…” I tried not to think of Calder.
It was more likely I’d discover a coherent theoretical framework of physics before dinner than hear from Calder again.
“Good,” I eventually landed on, sitting down at a table with my mom and sister. Icy sunlight streamed in through slatted blinds, on a deck of tarot my mother rifled through.
Every Sunday my sister and I had dinner with our mom, but this Sunday, my mom would be out of town, so we’d chosen Friday.
Salt Lake City was a hodgepodge of architectural styles. On the same street you could find anything from a bungalow to a Tudor to a Craftsman or Victorian. My mother’s home, a one-story bungalow with a typical basement—meaning weird angles and a ceiling that touched your head—sat nestled between a Victorian and a mid-century modern brick house.
Four crab apple trees shaded the exterior. In the spring, they would blossom white and transform the front yard into a fairy tale. The petals would fall and carpet the sidewalk, porch, and grass.
“Is the universe telling Lithie she sucks?” I asked, shooting Lithie a look. She rolled her eyes.
“I don’t think this reading is for her,” Mom mused, thoughtful.
For almost two decades, it had been just us three. I never saw my dad. Last I heard, he was starting a new family somewhere. Lithie had stronger memories of him than I did. Mine were like a watercolor left in the rain. The colors ran, the shapes dissolved into one another.
I wasn’t sure if her full memories affected her more than my faded ones. She’d never had a long-term relationship, but I’d onlybeenin a long-term relationship.
