Page 20 of Concerted Chaos

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Idon’tusuallylike being home alone. The house is too big and empty, and it leaves me with a deep sense of isolation. But not right now. For once, I’m thrilled that Powell isn’t here. He’s off on his bro-trip with Devon, cruising the highways in Jace’s car. I can follow them on social media, just from all their tags. I spotted @PowellC and @TheRealDevon at a gas station! And OMG @PowellC is on the 101 looking fine in a Lambo! And Hello, sexy! @TheRealDevon is in the traffic jam next to me! Planning on jumping in his backseat!

I’m glad he’s having this time to relax and do some bonding with his buddy, and selfishly, I’m glad I have time off from being his emotional crutch. Ever since Jace died, I’ve been taking care of everybody but myself. I’ve been worrying about Powell’s emotions, putting on a brave face at the funeral, pretending I’m not aching inside. I’m the strong one, always have been, from the moment Powell and I met.

Well, no, not necessarily from the exact moment. The first time I met him, I was a starstruck twelve-year-old having the most epic birthday ever, and he was the slightly confused sixteen-year-old wondering who was the lady that his dad was flirting with, and why Hank had brought us backstage. But the second time, that’s when we bonded.

At that point, Mom and Hank had been talking on the phone several hours every night for a couple of months. My mother’s voice murmuring in the living room was the soundtrack to my nights, and I’d grown used to finding her asleep on the couch in the morning, cordless phone still clutched to her chest. Hank and Powell came out for a visit, and Powell and I somehow already understood each other well enough—or maybe we understood our parents well enough—that we knew to give them some privacy.

There was something melancholy I could see in Powell’s eyes as we hung out in my room, pretending we didn’t think our parents were making out in the kitchen. Sadness radiated from him, and I realized he wasn’t really the golden teenage idol everyone made him out to be. No, he was an unhappy tired boy who deeply, painfully missed his mother. He reminisced about her wistfully, and I recognized his pain. I felt it too, for my father. And when he talked about his life and the tour, I realized something else about him: he was lonely. Everybody always wanted to take from him, to use him, but they didn’t care about him personally.

Powell needed someone in his corner, someone who didn’t want to use him or borrow his fame or trick him into giving away parts of himself with no return. He needed a family. He needed a sister, someone who wouldn’t put up with his crap, who wouldn’t put him on a pedestal and worship him. And that’s the role I’ve taken ever since.

But it’s nice to have a bit of a break. Usually when he’s not home—or when he is and he’s annoying me—I escape to my gym. Granted, I pay an operations manager to do the day-to-day running of the place, but I still like to spend time there whenever I can, not justformy daily workout. I’m a certified personal trainer, so I fill in when someone needs a sick day, and I occasionally teach a fitness class. And when I’m bored, I like to hang out at the front desk, sell new memberships, and try to get to know some of the regulars.

For the moment though, I have a different focus. I’m attempting to make a pie. There’s a potluck tonight for my fellow board members at the local food bank and I’ve been assigned a dessert. Obviously, I can afford to purchase a professionally made treat from the upscale bakery nearby, but that’s not the point of a potluck. This is coming together to share gifts of food we’ve made with our own two hands, so that’s what I’m doing. Also, last time I showed up with something store bought, I got teased mercilessly.

Admittedly, I’m not much of a baker, but I can follow directions, and I’ve never turned down a challenge, especially one issued by a group of smirking board members who expect me to fail. Making a pie crust from scratch can’t be that hard. All the online reviews for this particular recipe say it’s easy and delicious.

So that’s what I am in the middle of when the doorbell rings. I tap the app on my tablet with my flour coated finger.

“Yeah?” We aren’t expecting a delivery, are we? Usually the security guard at the gatehouse would call and inform us if a driver was on their way.

“It’s Tanner. Um. Tanner Smythe.” Now he faces the camera and I can see him clearly.

“Why are you here?” Yes, I sound rude. But I don’t need paparazzi wandering around my property. I haven’t seen him since Jace’s death. He was particularly helpful that night, not only with the photos, but he also helped tidy some of the mess and made sure the guests kept their glasses full. But I know he had ulterior motives. He was trying to be indispensable, so we’d accidentally open up to him.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“How’d you get past security?” I am going to have to have words with the guard.

“You put my name on the always let through list.”

I most certainly did not put him on any such list. Omaha must have messed up when I told him Tanner was the only one allowed through on crash day. But I have to indulge my inner curiosity.

“No, I didn’t, but fine, come in. Front door is unlocked.” I hit the button on the app to unlock the door and then punch the pie dough with my fist, trying to get it to look the way it’s supposed to.

“Hello?” I hear him calling from the front door.

“Back here. Kitchen!” I form the dough into a lumpy mass again and make another attempt at rolling it into a roughly spherical shape. One of these times it’s going to work.

Tanner enters, looking different than last time I’d seen him. For one thing, he’s shaved the stubble that had highlighted his jaw before. While I like my men scruffy, he still looks good, just somewhat cleaner. Not that I’ve been checking him out. He’s also surprisingly free of bags. No camera, no laptop, none of the tools of his trade. But I’m not stupid. I assume the rectangular bulge in his pants is his phone and it is recording.

“I don’t know why you’re here, but you have to shut your phone off before I’ll talk to you,” I say, as I smash the dough again. On the tutorials I watched, they form a ball and then smoothly convert it into a perfectly even disk with a rolling pin. My dough is misbehaving though.

“My phone? Why? Oh, sorry. I’m not recording this. I’m not here on official business.” Still, he takes his phone out of his front pocket and makes a big show of turning it off.

“You don’t have official business. Aren’t you a freelancer?”

“Mostly. But actually, I’m here to talk to you about something else. An unofficial business opportunity.”

“Forget it. Powell isn’t interested in investing anything with you.”

“I doubt you have the right to speak for your brother on financial matters, but that’s not what I’m here for ... wait. Stop. Stop right now. What the hell are you doing?” There is an expression of incredulous horror on his face.

“Making pie for a potluck,” I say, as I again crush the dough into a vaguely ball-like shape. “What’s it look like?”

“Like you’re murdering a crust. You’re overworking your dough. That’s going to be tough and not at all flaky. Do you hate the other guests?” He’s staring at me as though I’m torturing a child in front of him.

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