Page 6 of Muddy Messy Love

Beth sighs, rubbing her forehead as though in pain. “Look, you can stay here with me. Until you find your feet.”

My mouth falls open. “Seriously?”

“On three conditions.”

“Name them.”

She holds up an elegant finger. “One. No more illegal activity, and you must show up at court.”

Sounds fair.

“Two. Slade isn’t to set foot inside my house.”

My shoulders slump. “He’s in jail anyway, so that won’t be a problem.”

“He’ll be out at some point. I’m thinking ahead.”

My heart squeezes. Not soon enough.

“And three, I want you to seriously consider the quality of people you surround yourself with. Life is hard enough without chaining yourself to anchors.”

I frown. “Not all people who break the law are bad. If you got to know Slade, I’m sure you’d like him. He has this contagious zest for life, and he’s funny too. You appreciate a good sense of humour, right?”

Beth squares her dainty shoulders and arches a dark, manicured brow. “Avery, the guy is trouble, and that contagious zest you speak of probably means he’s high. I appreciate humour, sure, but I don’t find it funny when someone screws around on my little sister or helps her break the law. Don’t ask me to condone your relationship because I won’t.”

I mash my lips together, grinding my teeth. Anyone would think she’s Mother Teresa, casting all those stones.

“Well, do you accept my terms?”

What choice do I have?I take a deep breath, rally my manners, then look up. “Yeah. And I appreciate it. Thanks.”

Beth smiles a tight smile. “That’s settled, then.”

She climbs out of the car, stifling a yawn, and I follow her to the front door in silence. We step into the lofty foyer—orgallery,as she calls it. Colourful artworks hang on stark white walls, and that new-house smell still fills the air. Her high heels echo on the porcelain tiles as she throws her handbag on the table and heads to her bedroom.

Stilettos at five a.m. Typical Beth.

“Goodnight. You know the way.” She half-heartedly waves without looking back, omitting her usual affection.

“Um, Beth?”

Weariness mars her pretty pixie face as she halts in the doorway with a sigh. She’ll be at work soon, weekend be damned, on little sleep thanks to me. Gulping down guilt, Isummon a breath. “Thanks for coming to get me. I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

The inadequacy of my words hangs between us like stench on a still day, and Beth stares at me in silence. Her disappointment weighs more than her anger ever could, but as her shoulders sag, it wavers. “We all make mistakes,” she concedes, shaking her head. “Just don’t do it again. You’re better than this.”

“I won’t. I promise. And you’re right, I am.”

That earns me a nod and a tight whisper of a smile that I cling to as Beth lowers her chin and shuts her door.

I trudge through the gallery and into the open-plan living room, skimming my fingertips across the cold kitchen granite. Specks of quartz shimmer through the misty swirls, and gold handles line each white shaker door. A grand brass pendant hovers above the island with abstract arms and glass ball ends, while pops of pastel colours, blue velvet sofas, and chunky-knit rugs fill the lounge.

I pass a wall of windows, hidden by crisp blinds, then climb the steps to the plush mezzanine and flop onto its queen bed, staring at the roof windows sloped above.

The pillow top hugs me, and the dam breaks, destroyed by that smidge of affection. I cry into the quilt until its waffle pattern lines my face and the pain of Slade’s remand dulls from jagged knives to mallets. I sob until the loss of my apartment, full of thrift shop finds and penniless charm, no longer burns my heart, and Mum’s indifference stops gnawing at my chest. I weep at the prospect of going to juvie and visualise every horror. And then I drown myself in guilt for tangling those I love in my stupidity because that’s what a good person would do, and boy, do I long to be that. Only then does the storm pass, leaving soft breaths and an eerie calm. Numbness, my phony friend.

Dawn soon swallows the night, casting a surreal haze through the room that urges me from bed. I mosey to the window anddrop my forehead against the cold glass, staring at the terrace roof a few feet below. My apartment, though shoddy and stacked with fifty more, has a balcony out front, three storeys up. And at night, if you look past the messy yard and rowdy neighbours, stars blanket the sky over the field next door and long grass sways in the moonlit breeze. It’s a glimpse of heaven in an otherwise turbulent world, and my refuge from chaos. It’s what I’ll miss the most.

Frigid air hits my damp cheeks as I slide open the glass and mount the window sill.

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