Page 2 of Better Watch Out

“Want to see the yard?” I get to my feet, stretching and arching my back until it pops. Sitka dances beside me and I stride to the patio door in the dining room. A glance at the table shows me it’s already been decorated, with a white tablecloth covering the dark wood and a crystal sleigh filled with candy.

My step-mom really was prepared to go all out. It makes me wonder what we were supposed to have for dinner.

And justwhothat dinner would’ve been for.

Without hesitating, I yank open the sliding door, rolling my eyes when it sticks in theexactsame place it was sticking before I cut contact. My dad really does have a problem with change. Even change that’s simply household repairs.

Sitka blows through the patio door, launching herself out onto the back deck with her nose to the ground. I close the door behind me, glad I’m still in my winter coat and extra pair of pants, and lean back against the glass to watch her enjoy a place she’s never seen.

Within minutes the patio has bored her and she hops off the stairs, investigating the yard just as thoroughly but stopping at the tree line. For a husky, she’s surprisingly good at not running off, as long as I give her enough exercise during the day to sate her wanderlust.

Which usually leaves me crawling, panting, and unable to do more than curl up in the fetal position after with my legs burning like nobody’s business.

“If you go into the woods, I’m not going to come find you,” I call lazily, realizing that a nap sounds really great after a day of travel. The sun is starting to set, and out of the corner of my eye I can see it cresting the mountains, threatening to throw the house into shadow. “Seriously. You’ll have to win over a family of bears or something. Maybe they’ll take pity on you and feed you instead of eat you.”

Sitka takes her time, but at least she doesn’t try to dart into the woods. When I get restless I move to the rail of the deck, leaning my arms on the cold wood. It’s nostalgic to be standing here in late December in the mountains, and I smile as I look at the yard I spent so many holidays playing in.

Though when my eyes land on the shed near the trees, the smile fades instantly. It’s still the exact same as it had been, with light grey vinyl siding and a black shingle roof. I know Dad most likely still keeps his lawn equipment in there, along with a few shelves lined with odds and ends heswearshave a use.

I’d never really had a reason to go into it when I was a kid.

At least, until my stepbrothers dared me to, then locked me in during a snowstorm. Bitter resentment twists my stomach, and it’s hard not to remember how I screamed and slammed my small fists against the inside of the door. By the time Dad got me out, I had frostbite on my fingers from not having any gloves when they locked me in, and we had to take an emergency hospital trip. In the snow.

To this day, I’m sure the horrified and guilty expressions on my stepbrothers’ faces were just an act to get out of being in trouble. So was the kindness from them over the next few days while my dad and step-mom kept an eye on them.

After all, if they’d really felt bad, they wouldn’t have done it in the first place.

“Sitka!” I call, suddenly colder than I want to be and unable to pull my eyes off of the shed. The copper and white husky bounds toward me, hopping almost like a rabbit across the frosted-over grass. It helps push away the negative feelings trying to bubble up my throat, and I grin at her antics, thankful all over again my friend had convinced me to get a dog.

Though when I brought the husky pup home from the shelter, she’d looked at me in horror and asked what the hell I’d been thinking.

Even with all the horrors of having a yodeling, walkings siren that blows her fur whenever the weather changes, Sitka really is the best thing that’s happened to me in a while. “It’s freezing,” I tell her, yanking the patio door open once more and walking inside with her.

I start back into the living room, considering collapsing on the comfy couch, buying movies on my dad’s Prime account, and Door-Dashing an obscene amount of food just to get some kind of petty revenge he won’t notice. Instead, I stop at the foot of the stairs, gazing up toward the second floor of the house where all the bedrooms other than my old room are. Like any petulant young teen, I’d wanted to bealoneon the first floor, in the bedroom with the deep closet and unfortunately no ensuite.

“I should let it be.” I sigh, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Belatedly, I remember my step-mom’s credo, and I hear herscreechingin my head about not wearing my shoes in the house. But it’s a true act of saintly kindness to toe off my fur-lined Crocs at the foot of the stairs before padding up them in my Rudolph socks. “I should really let it be,” I tell Sitka as she hops up the stairs beside me. She proceeds to sniff around the landing as I finish my ascent, tail wagging in interest as she inhales the carpet like she’s looking for micro-traces of cocaine.

The second floor isn’t really that special or complicated. It, too, is just like I remember it, with blue-grey carpet and two large bedrooms, one on either side of this level. Both have attached bathrooms, and are about twice as large as a typical bedroom. I suppose if they were a normal size, the second floor would look a bit more like other family houses I’ve been in.

My dad’s room is a bit different from how I remember. Though I suppose with my step-mom’s influence, that’s a given. She’d just started convincing him to change things when I finally left, and now the walls are white, with one dark grey accent wallacross from me. The decor is definitely more her than Dad, and I have very little interest in exploring their personal life.

I should go back downstairs.There’s nothing for me up here, in the office or the other bedroom. It was nevermybedroom, after all. My room is downstairs, with a nice hardwood floor and tidy queen-size bed. Though I suppose there’s no telling what color the walls or blankets are, given my step-mom’s influence and decor around here. Not that I’m complaining about her taste, exactly.

Maybe I just inherited my dad’s dislike for change.

The office off of their bedroom is very much my dad’s, and free of any other influence. I spent some time in here as a kid, and I stand in the doorway, giving my brain a few moments to reminisce while trying to convince myself to just go back downstairs.

Naturally, though, I don’t. Because that would be much too easy. Instead, my steps take me to the last bedroom. Even though the door’s closed, I twist the handle until it opens and use two fingers to push it open.

The door swings back smoothly on its hinges, revealing the hardwood floor of the large room and the two full size beds on either side.

Not that I haven’t seen those beds pushed together before. Their room has changed a little since the last time was here, and I take my time looking over the moody, dark space. The dark blue rug is new, and the plush navy comforters look nicer than the last ones.

Boone’s bed in the far corner still seems messy, even though I’m sure they haven’t been here in a few months. Pillows lay tumbled all over his bed, and the whole thing is shoved into the corner and piled high with blankets. On the other side of the room, Fletcher’s bed is pushed against the room’s bay window,and his blankets are covering enough of the seat to make it look like it’s a part of it. Which is intentional, I know.

Fuck, I really know.

“Oh, this was a bad idea,” I mumble, closing my eyes hard. But that just makes it worse. An image of the bedroom is seared into the blackness behind my eyes, but instead of it being empty and smelling of wood cleaner with the sun blazing in through the bay window, it’s dark.

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