“Nothing to it,” she says, handing me the ice cream scoop as if we hadn’t just had the world’s most awkward moment. “As soon as you finish these, we’ll get started on the funeral arrangement for tomorrow. Those are always fun.”
I blink. Is she serious? Before I can ask, she leaves me to my thoughts, which are overflowing with all the reasons making funeral arrangements will not be fun. The last thing either of us need to be thinking about is death.
I’ve repotted almost half of the seedlings when I hear the tinkling wind chimes on the front door.
“We’ll be right with you!” Liz yells, frowning at the elaborate bouquet she’s creating out of pink and white stargazer lilies, purple irises, and bright yellow roses. “These greens aren’t fluffing quite right,” she grumbles. “Can you help that customer for me?”
“Sure.”
I pocket the miracle ice cream scoop and slip off the ratty gardening gloves. Cellophane crinkles out front. This will be easy if all the customer needs is a bouquet. Pasting a happy-to-help smile on my face, I part the curtain of sparkly beads and—
Blond hair. Broad shoulders.
The black Godsmack t-shirt I gave him on his seventeenth birthday.
I stagger back through the beads and flatten myself against the wall. His back was turned, so I know he didn’t see me, but I can’t stop my knees from shaking or slow my thrumming heart. The look on James’s face when we argued about me working haunts my dreams.
He’s not our father. He loves me.
And he’ll be furious when he finds out I disobeyed him.
On wobbly legs, I pick my way around the table to the far side of the room, stumbling over a plastic pot that I must’ve dropped earlier. It clatters across the floor and hits Liz in the ankle.
“What the—” When she sees me, Liz drops her floral tape and rushes to my side. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
“I can’t go out there,” I whisper. Why isn’t he at work? He’s supposed to be at work.
Liz hurries over to the beaded doorway and peeks through the strands. When she sees James instead of the masked gunman she probably expected, her eyebrows shoot up. For several uncomfortable moments, she stares at me huddled in the corner of the room. How can I explain this without saying too much?
Or maybe I don’t need to say anything. By the time she pushes aside the beads and greets my brother with a warm hug, I get the distinct impression she knows exactly what’s going on.
“Two bouquets?” she asks, amused. “Who’s the lucky lady?”
James chuckles. I imagine him running a hand through his hair like he always does when he’s embarrassed. I picture the way his worn t-shirt pulls at the thick bicep that has gotten thicker with each trip to the Armory. “You know me,” he answers. “Can’t keep the ladies away.”
“Yes, well, as long as you’re being careful.”
It’s such a mom thing to say, and for a second, I’m irritated that he’s always had Sam’s mom to guide him while he kept me locked in our room. My hand strays to my pocket and wraps around the ice cream scoop. Running my thumb along the warm metal curve calms me down just enough to keep quiet.
Cellophane crinkles again, closer this time. He’s at the cash register.
Crawling closer, I strain to hear their voices over the chirping register as she punches in his order, and the clunking release of the cash drawer. From my place on the floor behind the table, I can see my brother through the beads, but I doubt he can see me.
“You know, I don’t get to see your sister as often as I’d like,” Liz says, handing him his change. “How is she?”
“She’s fine.”
“Oh,” she says. “I’m looking to hire a part-time assistant. Maybe she’d be interested?”
James’s smile never falters. “She’s allergic to flowers, but I’ll tell her you said hi.”
As soon as the chimes confirm his exit, I bolt to my feet and peek through the beads. He’s already across the parking lot, two bouquets of multi-colored roses in his hand, sliding into his truck.
Liz studies me from her place at the cash register, arms folded across her chest. “I wonder how many times he’s lied to me over the years without me knowing it. Your brother being the charmer he is, I’m guessing hundreds of times.”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other and finger the ice cream scoop again.
“Let me guess. He doesn’t want you working?”
I shake my head.
She reaches for my shoulders and pulls me through the beads into one of the motherly hugs I love, but don’t think I’ll ever get used to.
“Oh, honey, I know exactly how you feel. Dealing with overbearing men is a specialty of mine.”
I close my eyes and breathe in the smell of lavender and the little white flowers she calls baby’s breath, a scent my mind equates with “mother” now. If James bossing me around is all she thinks is going on, my secret is safe. “Thanks for not telling him about me working here.”
“Little sisters have to stick together.” She releases me, keeping her hands on my shoulders. “If you ever want to talk about it, call me, okay? Some of the stuff my brothers have done in the name of protecting me will make you cringe. You’d think I was made of glass.”
Somehow, I doubt any of her stories can beat the one where James kisses me. “James isn’t that bad.”
“Well, don’t let Sam give you hell, either. Lord knows he tries to give it to me.” She holds the curtains of beads out of our way and gestures for me to go first. “Like father, like son. Or maybe it’s like uncles, like son. Who knows?”
Back at my station, I slip the ice cream scoop out of my pocket and reach for the gardening gloves. There are a dozen seedlings left. Gangly, green vines with puny leaves locked in their tiny egg-carton prisons. The way they reach for the small square of light on the wall feels way too familiar.
“Let’s work on the funeral arrangements for a little bit,” she says from behind me. “Nothing cheers me up like a good funeral wreath.”
Twenty-six
I’m not looking forward to seeing James. Not looking forward to confronting him about why he wasn’t at work today, sitting across from him with the words “she’s allergic to flowers” playing through my mind, or lying about the hours I didn’t actually spend at the library, either.
When he finally shows up an hour later than usual, eyes sparkling with excitement, irritation that I could have stayed in Sam’s arms just a little longer kills me. If I had shown up late, he would’ve been furious.
It doesn’t help my mood that, unless my brother decides to work an extra shift at the mill, I won’t get to see Sam again until Monday.
Living under his thumb is starting to get old. Lying is getting old.
I slam the microwave door on his cold dinner and open my mouth to tell him he has no say in what I do or don’t do with my life anymore, no matter how much I owe him.
But then I get a good look at him. Unzipped coveralls, scuffed work boots, and a white t-shirt.
A clean white t-shirt.
Unease flutters in my stomach. “So…how was work?”
“Great. One of the guys brought in a bucket of flowers from his wife’s garden,” he says cheerfully and holds out two suspiciously thorn-less red roses. “I grabbed these for you.”
I clipped the thorns from those stems two days ago.
Glaring at his outstretched fist, I note the lack of paper pulp that’s usually caked under his nails and in every crevice of his skin. Why would he lie? Twenty-two of the roses are missing, so obviously he gave the others to someone. Maybe he has a girlfriend and is too embarrassed to tell me?
And why did he change out of the jeans and the black Godsmack t-shirt he’d been wearing when he came into Enchanted Garden?
Unless he’s lying about going to work, too.
I nearly choke on the irrational fury burning my chest as I say, “thanks,” but don’t accept the roses. Instead, I grab a Tupperware cup from the
cabinet, fill it with tap water, and hand it to him. Lying about a girlfriend is one thing, but as far as James knows, he’s our only income.
He made sure of that when he turned down Liz’s offer today.
“Oh, um, okay.” Smile wavering, he puts the roses in the cup and sets them in the middle of the table. Neither of us mention what used to sit in their place when we were kids. Back then, we never paid attention to our mother’s favorite vase—more a congealed mass of superglue than ceramic after being pieced back together so many times—and the bouquets of cheap white carnations that used to materialize as soon as the superglue set, and died as soon as the last of the water leaked away.
“You okay?” he asks cautiously. “You look really pissed off.”
“I’m fine.”
I stomp back to our bedroom, not waiting for the microwave to finish. At least the plate of food will keep my brother out of my hair long enough to figure out how I can sneak out later. Because there’s no way I’m staying home tonight.
He catches my arm just inside the doorway. “What’s wrong?”
Whirling around, I knock his hand away. “You can’t walk through the door in clean clothes and expect me to believe you went to work.”
“But I did—”
“Stop lying to me!”
In the distance, the microwave pings. Neither of us moves. I’ve never won a stare-down with my brother, but if he thinks I’m going to back down first this time, he’s got another think coming. I step closer, bringing us toe to toe, my chin almost to his chest, and glare as hard as I can.
He looks away ten seconds later.
“I called in sick to take care of some stuff,” he mutters. “You weren’t supposed to find out until later when I figured out how to show you what I bought.” From the back waistband of his coveralls, he withdraws a balled-up towel tied with twine. “Don’t freak out, okay?”
“Why would I freak out?”
He moves over to his bed and sets the bundle on his knee. Sitting beside him while he unties the twine reminds me of watching him unwrap birthday presents. Especially with how bright his eyes are shining and the excited smile curling up the corners of his mouth. When James gets excited about something, I usually get excited, too.
But what he gingerly lifts from the towel makes my blood ice over.
“Isn’t it awesome?”
The silver and black gun he’s holding is definitely not awesome. I scramble backward, off the bed and across the room, until my back collides with our closet doors. In the filigree mirror sitting on the shelved headboard behind him, my horrified self is reflected in miniature. “Why do you have a gun?”
“Relax,” he says. “Come take a look.”
There’s no way I’m peeling myself from the mirrored doors with that thing in his hands. What if it goes off? Panic roils through me at the thought of bullets riddling James’s body. “Please,” I beg. “Put it away. Get it out of here before you get hurt.”
He sighs, sets the gun on the bed, and comes over to where I still stand rigid, peeking around his shoulder at something I never thought I’d see in our bedroom. Cupping my cheeks in his hands, he forces me to look at him. “I only bought it so I can protect you,” he says. “It won’t leave the closet unless something happens. Promise. It’s not even loaded.”
That’s not good enough. I try to shake my head, but he holds me in place.
“Promise,” he repeats. When he reaches up to smooth the hair out of my face and I cringe away, his face falls and he gives up. I stay plastered to the closet until the gun is safely wrapped in its towel and tied up tight.
James sighs and leans back on his bed, hands resting on his broad chest, and regards me with a disappointed look on his face. “I was planning on me and you hanging out at the carnival tonight, but if you’re not up to it…”
Oh, I’m up for it. Anything to get out of this room and away from that gun. “I’ll go.”
I grab the first clean shirt I can find and I’m halfway to the bathroom when he sits up and asks, “What is with you today? One second you’re pissed that I got home late, the next, you’re acting like you can’t wait to get out of here. You’re making my head spin.”
If anyone’s head is spinning, it’s mine. Between nearly being caught at Enchanted Garden and him coming home late with a gun, my sanity is far too fragile to pick a fight with my brother. Not when a gun lies on the bed between us. As soon as he leaves for work Monday morning, I’m taking that thing and hiding it in our father’s shed.
“Nothing,” I lie. “I’m just sick of sitting at home all day. Are we going, or not?”
He eyes me warily for a few long moments, then rolls off his bed to put the gun on the top shelf of our closet. Giving him a wide berth, I snag my flip-flops from behind the door and hurry out of the room before he can ask any more questions.
Twenty-seven
Through sheer force of will, I manage to stick by my brother’s side for forty-seven long minutes. All I can think about is the look of awe in James’s eyes when he held up the gun and how badly I need Sam to tell me everything will be okay.
For the first time in my life, I think I need some time away from my brother.
Ten dollars worth of ride tickets and a severely queasy stomach later, we’re scoping out the game booths for the ones James knows he can win. I decide to begin my siblings-shouldn’t-spend-this-much-time-together campaign while he’s in a good mood.
Step one: Find the caramel apple stand.
Step two: Get out of the camping trip he’s been babbling about since we got in the truck.
The caramel apple stand is easy. We’ve passed it at a distance three times on our whirlwind tour of the rides, and all three times, Sam’s been inside, helping his mom and the lady from the mall gift shop hand out orders. From where we’re standing in front of the ring toss game, I can almost make out the top of his dark head at the other end of the row of stalls.
The camping trip this weekend is a different story.
“I think a day trip is far more practical than a whole weekend,” I say. “We’ll have plenty of time to swim and toast marshmallows or whatever.”
James hands the girl at the booth—a whimsical-looking redhead about his age who ogles him the same way every girl does—a five-dollar bill and accepts the handful of scratched, red plastic rings. I open my mouth to protest him spending more money than we have already tonight, but think the better of it.
His first toss plinks off the top of the narrow-mouthed glass bottles and shoots off into the back of the booth somewhere. “But that’s only one day. Don’t you want to hang out with me?”
Not when I’ve got two enormous secrets that I’m hiding from him. Especially not alone. He’s too good at getting things out of me, and I’m not ready for him to know about Sam or what our father did.
His second toss plinks off another bottle and nearly hits the redheaded girl.
“Of course I want to hang out with you,” I lie. “But don’t you think we’ll get bored? Maybe we should invite some of your friends to come along and make a party out of it.”
“You mean invite Sam.” The next ring flies into the bean-bag toss booth next door.
“No,” though that’s a great idea. “All the people you hang out with, whoever they are.”
“I’m not blind,” he says, undeterred. “I see how you look at him.”
Lying isn’t going to work this time—I can tell by the stubborn set of his jaw. Digging the toe of my flip-flop into the asphalt, I try a half-truth. “You know I’ve had a crush on him since I was a kid. Maybe if we went on a date, I’d get it out of my system.”
Instead of tossing the next ring, he throws it overhand and nearly breaks one of the bottles. The attendant frowns, his spell on her broken.
“I don’t want him touching you,” James snaps. “How many different ways do I have to say ‘no’ before you get it? We’re going camping—for the whole weekend—and we’re going alone.”
The next ring he tosses plinks across the first few rows of bottles and settles around the neck of one in the seventh row. Immediately, at least on his end, our whole conversation is forgotten. He beams at me and snags one of the baby blue teddy bears off the ledge beside him. “For you, m’lady,” he says, handing it to me with a little bow.
I’m still reeling from the hatred in his voice when he talked about Sam touching me. I take the teddy bear, a brittle, plastic smile rigid on my face. “Thanks.”
He tosses his last ring, misses, and decides against playing another round. When he spots the red water guns and the clowns with gaping mouths in the booth next door, my brother’s eyes sparkle in anticipation. “Don’t get too attached,” he says, nodding at my little bear. “I’m about to win you something even bigger.”
He hands the tall guy manning the booth another five-dollar bill and takes the stool next to two little boys who are pretending to shoot each other with their water guns. Just before the round starts, something brushes against the small of my back.
“I’m in,” says a voice that both horrifies and excites me.
Knowing I shouldn’t but unable to stop myself, I look up at Sam. There’s no way my brother will miss the heat in his eyes or how I sag on weak knees when I feel Sam’s gaze caressing my lips in a visual kiss. There’s so much want in how he’s looking at me, I almost forget that he hasn’t been interested in doing it since our first time a week ago.
“Finish this while I kick your brother’s ass, will you?” He holds out a half-eaten elephant ear fritter. “My mom made way too much batter. I’ve eaten, like, ten of these things.”
“Game’s already starting,” my brother grumbles. “Wait until the next round.”
“I’d rather play against you.” Sam shoves the fritter into my hand and manages to catch my eye for half a second before I look away. As if challenging my brother wasn’t bad enough, he adds, “Sarah needs something bigger than a teddy bear, don’t you think?”
James scowls at him, then spins around on the stool, his back to us.
I grab Sam’s arm and hiss, “What are you doing?”