Page 54 of Fast

Where are Chance and Lev, when there’s some need for extra muscle power? I bet those two are pretending to help in the kitchen while sneaking as much food as they can into their mouths.

My hunch is confirmed when I carry the first two chairs out to the deck. I could tell them to help me, but it’s ok. I stayed here rather than going to the gym today, so this counts as my lifting.

“One more trip,” I huff, grabbing a few of the padded cushions. These aren’t too heavy, but they’re bulky, and I can barely see where I’m going.

“Ouch.” My flip flop gets caught on the edge of a box and I stumble, hitting one of the shelves with my elbow. A box comes crashing down, narrowly missing my head.

Maybe Dad will need to tidy up in here regardless of Zara needing this space for a car.

I drop the cushions and lift the box with the intention of returning it to its spot on the shelf.

“Photos” is scribbled on the lid with a faded permanent marker, and curiosity has the best of me.

These are old photos from when Atlas and I were toddlers, and Chance was still a baby. My heart squeezes in my chest when I see two identical little kids on a young woman’s lap. Mom is holding baby Chance in her arms and is smiling at the camera.

Two of the people in that photo are gone, and that’s so fucking unfair. Both Mom and Atlas should be here today, if there was some justice in this world.

They will never be completely gone as long as you remember them. My therapist insists that I shouldn’t suppress painful memories, but not thinking about those losses—especially my brother’s—has been the only way I’ve been able to keep going.

Maybe though, I could ask Dad if he minds if I take a couple of these photos to hide at my apartment. One day, I might feel ready to put them on display.

Mom was gorgeous. I can see why Dad fell for her. And I have to say that my old man has a type.

Kelly is blonde and has green eyes like Mom; they also have the same petite body type.

We all inherited our blond hair from our parents. But while Chance is Dad’s carbon copy with his same blue eyes, Atlas and I have gray eyes with blue flecks in them.

Zara, on the other hand, has her mom’s eye color and body type, but she has her father’s dark hair.

As if summoned by my thoughts, she’s right there, by the door, when I turn around after putting the box back on its shelf.

She stops on the threshold, her eyes wide, like a deer in front of headlights. Zara is holding a black duffel bag with both hands.

“Uhm.” her eyes dart around the garage, settling on a spot behind me. “Dinner is almost ready. I…”

Irritation expands in my chest. I don’t even know why. No, scratch that. I know exactly why. Over the past two years, I’ve thought about Zara on more than one occasion. That almost kiss has been plaguing my mind more often than I care to admit. Conflicting emotions have always tinged that memory. A part of me knows that walking away was the right thing. But another part of me has always regretted not giving in to my desire to find out if her lips are as soft as they look; if her kiss would be as wild and passionate as the rest of her.

A familiar frustration turns my expression into a dark scowl. Before seeing her again, the frustration was caused by the fact that thinking about her was a waste of time; the past cannot be changed.

Right now, it’s for an entirely different reason. Zara is back in my life, and she’s here to stay, at least for the foreseeable future. I don’t know what the fuck I expected when I saw her again.

We barely know each other, so I didn’t expect an emotional reunion, or for her to throw herself into my arms. Fuck, if she’d done that, it would’ve been weird. But I expected more than just a few furtive glances in my direction. She treats Chance and Lev as if they were her long lost best friends. I can count the words she said to me on one hand.

Being mad at her is unfair. I know that much. Chance and Lev have been all over her all day. I haven’t even tried to talk to her, so I can’t expect anything other than the uncomfortable silence that’s becoming almost a tangible presence between us.

“I’m almost done here too,” I finally utter. “All I have left to carry is those cushions over there. Can I help you with that?” I nod toward her bag.

“No, I just…”

Why is she so nervous around me?

“What’s in there?” I point at the bag and… jeez. I know I’ve been glaring at her. And my tone? Fuck, I’ve spoken more nicely to people I stopped for traffic violations.

She’s holding onto the bag’s handles with white-knuckle force.

I school my expression in the hope to look less intimidating. “Zara, can I help you?”

She shakes her head. “No, I was just—I was hoping to find a place for this bag where my mom wouldn’t find it.”

---