Page 7 of Tulips and Lost Time

I know it didn’t because I’ve been here since breakfast time, and salons aren’t open that early.

“Dad is on his way back,” she murmurs. Her eyes are blue, just like her three kids. Her hair, dark, just like theirs. She smiles, her lips curling with faultless lipstick until her straight white teeth glitter in the daylight flickering through the windows. “It’s going to be a pretty big afternoon for us, okay? Marc and Kari are going to be scared and shy. So I thought maybe?—”

I set my controller on the couch, unbothered about the race I’m supposed to be competing in, and instead, I shoot my hand into the air. It’s like we’re in school and she’s my teacher.

“I’d like to stay, if that’s okay, Mrs. Turner. I know the house is already kinda full, and it’s only gonna get worse. And I know X has this need to have everyone stacked in their rightful place.”

“Shut the hell up!”

“And welcoming new people into his home is gonna take effort and adaptation from him,” I tease. “But I feel like Marc is gonna need friends, right? And he’s our age.” I jab a thumb back at my chest, then away toward Sam. “We’re his age, which means he’ll come to our school starting Monday. I just figure, he could do with the friendship.”

“Luc, honey?—”

“I think he needs family, Mrs. Turner. And I know I don’t actually live here, but I still consider you my family.”

Her eyes shimmer. Target: hit.

“We could take him out to the garage. Get out of your hair.”

“We’ll give him and Kari a tour of the house, Mom.” Sam sets his controller down and rests his elbows on his knees. “Kids want other kids. They don’t want adults.”

“They’re going to want quiet, honey.”

“Sam’s literally the quietest, calmest dude we know!” I press my hands together as though in prayer. “He’s gonna want his people, Mrs. Turner. And he’s already spent time with the chief. That’s plenty of adult sh—” I choke my word down. Swallow the swear before I get myself booted out on principle. Then I smile. “That’s plenty of adult time for now. I’ll stick around for an hour or two, then I’ll get the girls out of here and you guys can settle in for the night.”

“They’re here!” Alex practically flaps at the window. Nerves wafting from his pores and presenting as an almost six-foot teenager with ants in his pants. “Mom! They’re here.”

“Alright.” She draws a deep breath and closes her eyes for a long, concentrated moment. Then she exhales and opens them again. She looks to Alex first and lifts a challenging brow. “Relax. Everything’s going to be fine.” Then to me. “Please don’t rile everyone up, Luca. We want quiet.” She lifts her voice when I snatch my sandwich and jump up from the couch, striding her way. “We want a peaceful transition.” Then she slaps her hand to my chest and stops me when I try to pass. “We don’t want drums. Or band practice. Or skating in the street.”

I look down at her hand and scowl. “You’re taking away all the good stuff, Mrs. Turner.”

“Their parents died, honey. Just days ago. They weren’t sick. There was no time to prepare, and there was certainly no closure. Imagine losing someone you loved as suddenly as they lost their family.” She firms her lips, allowing me time to consider a world where such cruelty exists. “Imagine wanting to hug your mom just one more time, but you don’t get to.”

“I’m gonna hug my mom just as soon as I get home,” I decide solemnly. “And my dad, too.”

“And you’re very fortunate to still be able to do that. Marc and Kari can’t.” Dropping her hand, she smiles and pats my shoulder so I can pass. “Calm, Luca. Lock it down.”

I stalk straight toward the door as the crunch of gravel outside travels this way. Car doors slamming. One. Two. Three. I look down at my shirt—Tony Hawk, of course—then to my jeans, littered with crumbs I hastily brush to the floor. I fist my half-sandwich, but even with nerves swarming in my stomach, my appetite remains untouched. My need for food, far greater than any other influence. So I bring the meal up and take another bite as Sam walks up on my left, and Alex, on my right.

I glance over my shoulder and spy three little girls at the base of the stairs. Two blondes, the color of their hair so fair, it could almost be white. And their opposite, Britt, with black.

We all have sky-blue eyes, though the Turner family and mine share no DNA.

It’s just a coincidence, I guess. One that becomes a little less pronounced when Ang is hanging around and his silver stare breaks up all the blue.

“Are we ready?” Mrs. Turner fusses with her dress. She smooths the already smooth fabric down, patting her mostly flat stomach and presses a hand to her chest.

I bet it’s pounding.

Then she shakes her hair back and takes control, opening her front door and smiling for the trio sluggishly moving up the walkway.

A boy and a girl.

And Mr. Turner right behind them.

The boy—Marcus—is damn tall compared to the other guys in our grade, with black hair and eyes like emeralds. He already has a deep wrinkle pounded into the space between his brows, a line that will only grow deeper as he gets older. He carries a backpack slung over his shoulder and wears jeans a little too big for his body. A little slouchy as he digs one hand into the pocket, and the other wraps securely around a little girl’s palm.

He studies us the way we study him, I think. Not entirely trusting of the situation. He’s tired. Pissed. He’s like a cat, I suppose, forcefully removed from his home and shoved into a world he never asked for.

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