Page 4 of For The Weekend
I don’t know what to do or say, physically unable to move. My organs are barely functioning. My nervous system shut down.
But all at once, Ian has his arms around me, and I’m no longer forty years old. I’m five, hugging my brother after I fell off my bike. I am fifteen when I took Mom’s car out for an illegal drive and banged it up. I am twenty-five when he begged me with tears in his eyes to go to rehab.
My exhale is jagged, finally releasing the breath I’ve been holding so many years, and I hug him back, gripping him hard, my face against his shoulder. Even though I have three inches and quite a few pounds on him, I’ve never felt smaller.
The nagging fear that they very well could turn me away like I did them fades the longer Ian embraces me, and I make sure the sting in my nose and eyes is gone as I step away from him. Then I shift my gaze beyond his shoulder, ready to greetTaryn and Griffin, who I know will not have the same enthusiasm as our eldest brother, but before I can say anything, Mazie appears at my side, grinning at all of us.
She has been beyond excited to meet everyone ever since I informed her a few weeks ago that we’d be living here so she could hang out with all of her cousins, aunt, and uncles. She’s practically buzzing, and I place my hand on her head, clearing my throat. I look at each of my siblings in turn then back to Mazie. “This is my daughter.”
Their stunned gasps are audible and in chorus. “What the fuck?”
Mazie, who delights in cursing, props her fists on her hips. “Yeah, Daddy. What the fuck?”
A moment of shock passes, and then all three of them burst out laughing. Even Griffin, who is more stone-faced than I remember.
But my foulmouthed daughter makes for a good icebreaker, and I open the door wider for them all to enter the house we shared when we were younger. The moment they step inside, their amusement clears, voices silent as their gazes drift around the walls, maybe trying to imagine what it used to look like since they have more memories than I do. They had more years here because Ian is twelve years older than me, Griffin four, and Taryn three.
Ian’s the first to take a few tentative steps toward the kitchen, his hand brushing along the doorjamb. “Mom used to measure all our heights here,” he says, after clearing his throat a few times. “I thought…maybe…”
Although I don’t recall her doing that, I had the same thought. Maybe when I opened the door, it would be the same. She would be here.
Taryn crosses the living room, voice quiet. “This used to be carpet.” Then she kneels down to Steve’s house and sticks herfinger through the cage, offering him a sniff. When he doesn’t run away, she pets the space between his eyes. “What’s this guy’s name?”
“Steve.” Mazie perks up, skipping to my sister’s side. “He’s a Holland lop and a little son of a bitch.”
Taryn shoots her dark eyes to me, her face so much like Mom’s, minus the constant smile. Taryn frowns at me. “I assume she got her mouth from you.”
“Like any of us is any different,” Ian says in my defense, big block letters on his shirt spelling outBe Fucking Nice.
Mazie sits down next to where my sister kneels and tilts her face up. “You’re my aunt.”
Taryn glances to me before smiling at my daughter. “I am. Aunt Taryn. What’s your name?”
“Mazie Violet Stone.”
Violet, after our mother.
“Mazie Violet Stone,” my sister repeats. “Very pretty.”
My kid melts into Taryn’s side at the compliment, obviously desperate for female attention. It makes me feel like shit that she’s gone without for so long, but Taryn has two kids of her own, and Mazie probably gets a mom vibe from her.
Taryn plucks at Mazie’s dress. “I bet pink is your favorite color.”
“Yes!” Mazie shouts, and I wince, walking over to where she sits with Taryn.
“Inside voice, Maze.”
She ignores me, flapping her hands to make the gauzy skirt flounce. “I love pink so fucking much!”
I roll my head back to my shoulders, taking a deep breath before telling her, “You have to stop cursing.”
“You curse,” she points out, and true, but…
“You’re a kid. You’re not allowed to curse.”
Mazie eyes me unhappily, but Taryn jumps in. “Cursing isfun sometimes, isn’t it? I know when we get so excited or angry, it feels like there are no other words to use besides curses,but—” Taryn holds out her hand, keeping the attention of my six-year-old “—we have to be careful with our words. We don’t ever want to hurt other people with our language, right?”
“Right,” Mazie says, fully in it.
