Page 6 of Puck Daddies
We get out and the cold slaps my cheeks awake. I like the feeling. It’s clean. The hallway inside is warm in that radiators-have-opinions way. The carpet is ugly and new. They really should replace it, and I’m sure Fitz could convince them, but it’s a battle I don’t have the energy for, so I keep my mouth shut.
We walk the hall without talking, the way you do when you’ve done the same walk with the same people so many times your feet take over. My key is already in my hand. I’m thinking about the meals to make before I leave in the morning, the delivery process, how much I like helping the old people, especially the cranky ones.
So when I turn the corner, I’m not thinking about houseguests.
But Meg is there.
It hits like a puck to the neck. She’s sitting in front of our apartment with two suitcases and a face that saysdon’t ask me the wrong question. Her eyes are rimmed red. The makeup that never smudges has smudged. Her mouth is set like she’s holding the rest of herself together with it.
For a half second, I think I’m dreaming. Then she looks up and it’s the same look she had when we were twelve and her bike chain snapped in the middle of the street. Angry because it hurts. Relief because we’re here.
“Meg,” I say as she gets to her feet, and then I’m moving before the thought finishes. “What?—”
“I hate men,” she says, voice shredded and fierce at the same time. “Can I stay?”
The question is unnecessary. The answer is automatic. “Yes.” I reach for one suitcase handle and Fitz reaches for the other and Rocco goes for the keys in my hand like I suddenly forgot how to door. He doesn’t say anything out loud. He doesn’t have to. We go wide and soft around her like a river around a rock.
“Inside,” Fitz says, gentle.
We get her over the threshold. She’s standing, but she looks like if someone exhaled on her too hard, she’d sit down on the floor and not get up. I want to put my hand on her hair and feel the curl in my palm. I don’t. I grip the suitcase handle and try to remember how to turn anger into something that won’t make this worse.
“What did he do?” I ask, and my voice is low enough that you could mistake it for calm. My blood knows the difference. The back of my tongue tastes like metal. “Tell me what Luke did. I’ll go now.”
Rocco shoots me a look that saysnot helpful. Fitz touches my shoulder in a way that tells my body to take a lap.
Meg huffs a laugh that’s almost a sob. “Hudson,” she says, and my name in her mouth does the thing it always does. My spine unkinks. My muscles loosen. She shakes her head. “I just need my friends. The ass-kicking can wait. For now.”
3
ROCCO
The kettle goeson the second we get her inside. I don’t ask if anyone wants tea. I just move. Routine quiets my hands. Water. Flame. Mugs on the counter in a line that steadies my head. Tea bags, honey, spoons. I know who takes what without asking. Hudson likes it too hot and too strong. Oliver—Fitz to the world outside of this apartment—takes honey and a long steep. Meg drinks it sweet when she’s rattled and plain when she’s calm.
Tonight? Honey, and plenty of it.
She stands in the circle of our entry light like someone who ran through rain. Luggage flanks her shins. Her makeup has surrendered at the edges. The set of her mouth tells the rest of the story before she speaks, but I keep my attention on the kettle and give her the room to say it out loud.
Saying things out loud helps sort the pieces. Aunt Bea taught us that without ever calling it therapy. She would hand you a mug, sit you at the pink table by the window, and wait until your own voice made sense to you. She would keep stirring until it did.
I pass mugs one by one when the water sings. Hudson gets his first so he has something to do with his fists. Oliver sets Meg’s suitcase against the wall and the other near the hall. I hand Meg her mug with two hands. She’s shaking.
Our couch looks larger when you’re small with shock. We take the same seats we always take—by habit more than plan. Hudson on the arm, because he won’t sit until he knows he doesn’t have to stand. Oliver in the corner where he can see the door. He always takes that spot when something feels uncertain.
Meg says Luke told her to dress sexy, surprise date. He drove her out to an old mansion and walked her into a party that turned out to be a sex party. She wasn’t into it. She says he tried to coax. Then she says the name I hate, and I feel my jaw go hard.
Callie.
I picture the way Callie would walk into that room—too familiar like always, like rules are only for other people and attention belongs to her by default. Meg says Callie put her hand on Luke and said, “Let’s show our man a good time.”
Ourman. The phrase makes my scalp feel tight.
Meg’s voice hitches once and keeps going. Luke told her they wanted to tell her sooner, but he thought if he told her there—there—she would let loose. She didn’t. Then Luke called her boring. So, she packed up and came here.
I keep my mouth shut while she talks. I nod when she needs me to nod. I tip honey into her mug when her hands shake too much to find the jar. “You did the right thing.”
“And I’m single for it.” Her watery smile makes me ill.
I have never liked Callie. I didn’t like her in high school when she worked at Bea’s and acted like the shop owed her more than a job. I didn’t like how she slid into family dinners because Bea had a soft heart. Bea would say, “That girl is hungry,” and she was, but it wasn’t for food. It was for a place at a table that did not belong to her.
