Page 3 of Heart of Stone
I love them. I love Adam, Amy, and Abby, but I haven't asked for this. It isn't in my plans. I don't have the money to support them. I don't have the apartment or the time, but I'll have to make it work.
I have to do this—for them.
Dreams I have of a house and owning my own business begin to crumble as the weight of my reality rushes in.
I need air.
I stumble to the front door and outside onto the grass of the front yard, falling to my hands and knees in a daze as I gasp lungfuls of cool air, staring up into the dark. My breaths saw in and out too fast, too loud, too wretched. I’m cold and clammy, desperately clutching at the dead and dried grass under my palms. I open my mouth, a scream building in my throat, but nothing comes out.
A sob begins to build in my chest, pain shooting through my body. I’m heartsick for my little cousins who have been abandoned by the people who should care for them. I’m angry—no—furious, at Amanda and Paul. I’m scared, and frustrated, and terrified, and?—
"Yo!" The rough call snaps me out of my shock, and I lift my head to see a man staring at me from across the road.
I can just make him out in the light of the streetlamp. He is huge—tall, broad, with thick shoulders and arms, and even thicker thighs. His hair has been cut short—almost to a buzz cut. On his feet are motorcycle boots, his legs encased in dark denim, and his broad chest is covered in a black shirt with some kind of graphic writing on it. But it is his vest that catches my attention. I recognize the patches that indicate a biker.
My boss wears a similar vest, and I know some of the other mechanics have begun hanging around with different gangs or clubs. I can never remember the difference. I keep my head down and do my work, and as long as they pay me well for that work, I don't care what they do in their off time.
My gaze flicks to the house behind him, noting that it is one of the few that appears to be in decent shape—fresh paint, good shutters, good security. It has a massive garage that looks like it has been remodeled recently, the door of which is open, and inside stands a bunch of other guys also watching me. They have busy hands as they huddle around a motorcycle, and I have no idea what I have stumbled into, but I don't like it one bit.
“You good?”
I blink slowly before answering him. “Yeah, I mean… yes. Sorry.”
He jerks his head towards the house where the kids' screaming has taken on a new pitch. "You gonna deal with that?"
I blink, surprised and a little thrown. "Sorry?"
"Your kids. You gonna do something about them screaming?" he asks.
I glance back at the house and slowly climb to my feet, running a hand through my hair. "Yeah, I just... I just needed a minute," I stumble over my words, still trying to process everything.
"If you’re good, then you better do something before someone calls child services. Kids that small screaming like that.”
Isn't that the truth?I think, shaking my head.They deserve better than a filthy house. They deserve better than being dumped on their aunt's doorstep every now and then. And they certainly deserve better than a belly full of shitty mac and cheese.
"Yeah," I agree. "Yeah, you're right." I push myself to my feet, dusting my knees and hands. "Sorry, I just... I needed a minute." I repeat, stumbling over my words, still trying to process the events that have led me to this moment.
He jerks his head once more towards the house. "Get your kids."
Your kids.
His words are the slap I need to wake up.
I nod, pivoting on the ball of my foot, rapidly powering towards the house, taking the three steps in one leap and scurrying inside. It would be just my luck if CPS shows up before I can make any kind of rational plan for the kids.
It takes me an hour to calm them down, requiring multiple songs, cuddles, and demands. Once they’re in bed, I pull out my phone and text my boss, asking if I can take a long weekend and apologizing for the inconvenience. I explain the issue, and because he’s a good guy, he gives me the whole weekend plus Monday at full pay. But then I look around and immediately realize there is no way I am going to be sleeping tonight. Thekids' room isn't too bad, but the rest of the house is filthy. I don't know what Amanda has done, but it doesn't look like she has completed any kind of chores or cleaning in at least... God knows when. There is scum and mold growing on cups and plates in the kitchen sink, the trash is overflowing, and the laundry is piled high. It’s a miracle the kids have anything clean to wear.
With a deep, soul-wrenching sigh, I search for a pen and paper. I manage to find a pad and sit down at the kitchen counter, beginning to make a list of all the things I need to do and in what order.
There’s something reassuring about a list. You can tick off a list. You can add to it. You can see the process, what you need, and what you want all laid out.
I find a modicum of comfort in putting the pen to paper. The action gives me some sense of control, some sense of pride when I finally cross things off. It gives me a goal to work towards that I desperately need when my life is spiraling.
And my life is spiraling right now.
No matter how much I love these kids, they aren't mine. But they are about to be. Their future, their happiness, their lives, it is all about to become my responsibility. I have no idea how I’m going to make enough money to support three kids. The diapers alone are enough to consider mortgaging a house I don't own.
Oh God. Formula. I’ll need formula for Adam.
