Chapter Four
How long will this last?” I ask the cashier, dropping the fifty-pound bag of dog food onto the counter.
“What kind of dog?” she asks.
“It’s for a full-grown black Lab.”
“Just one?”
I nod.
“Maybe a month. Month and a half.”
Oh. I was guessing a week. “I don’t think he’ll live with us that long.” She rings up the total and I pay with my father’s debit card. He said to only use it in emergencies. I’m sure food is an emergency to Wolfgang.
“You need help carrying it out?” someone from behind me asks.
“No thanks,” I say, taking my receipt. I turn around to face him. “I only got the one bag . . . what are you wearing?” I didn’t mean to say that out loud but I wasn’t expecting to be met with the likes of the guy I’m staring at right now.
Peeking out beneath his hat are sporadic pieces of red hair, too bright to be authentic. So bright, it’s almost offensive. His face is decent, a little imperfection here and there. But I didn’t give it much notice because my eyes went straight to the kilt he’s wearing. I guess the kilt itself isn’t tripping me up as much as the clothes he chose to pair it with. He’s wearing a basketball jersey and neon green Nikes. Interesting ensemble.
The guy looks down at his outfit. “It’s a basketball jersey,” he says innocently. “You don’t like Blake Griffin?”
I shake my head. “Sports aren’t my thing.”
He sets what looks like a lifetime supply of beef jerky on the counter. I wrap both arms around the ginormous bag of dog food and head to my car.
The car I drove here isn’t specifically mine, but that’s because my father never keeps a car long enough for any of us to claim ownership over it. Vehicles have always rotated in our driveway and the only rule is that whichever person leaves the house first each day gets first pick. I think that’s the true reason behind Utah’s extreme punctuality.
Last month a faded red 1983 Ford EPX appeared in the driveway. It’s such a terrible car, they stopped making them almost as quickly as they started. I think my father has been having trouble selling it because it’s the longest any vehicle has lasted before it’s been sold. And since I rarely leave the house on time, this unfortunate Ford has been driven more by me than the rest of the family put together.
I place the bag of dog food in the trunk and am about to open my front door when kilt-guy appears out of nowhere. He’s chewing on a piece of beef jerky, assessing my car like he’s about to steal it. He walks toward the front of the car and taps his neon green Nike against the front tire twice.
“Think you can give me a ride?” He looks at me and leans against the car. Despite the kilt, there’s no trace of a Scottish accent. There’s also no trace of a Texas accent, either. But when he said the word you just now, he sounded a tad British.
“What kind of accent is that?” I ask. I open my front door and stand behind it to put a barrier between us. He looks harmless, but I don’t like his confidence. I need to shield myself from it. Overly confident people should never be trusted.
He shrugs. “I’m from all over,” he says, but he says, over with an Australian twang.
“Ovah? Are you Australian?”
“Nevah been there,” he says. “What kind of car is this?” He walks to the rear of the car to read the make and model.
“Ford EPX. They’re extinct,” I tell him. “Where do you need a ride to?”
He’s back from the rear of the car, but now he’s standing on the same side of the door as me. “My sister’s house. It’s a few miles east of here.”
I give him another once-over. I’m aware of how stupid it is to give a complete stranger a ride. Especially a stranger in a kilt who can’t seem to nail his own accent. Everything about him screams unstable, but my spontaneity and refusal to weigh the consequences of my decisions are my two favorite things about me.
“Sure. I’m headed east.” I sit in the driver’s seat and shut my door. He grins at me through the window and runs around to the passenger side. I have to lean across the seat to unlock the door so that he can open it.
“Give me a second to grab my things.” He takes off in a sprint across the parking lot until he reaches a pile of stuff propped next to the front entrance of the store. He grabs the backpack and throws it over his shoulder, then a thirty-gallon black trash bag and a small suitcase on wheels.
I agreed to give him a ride. Not him and everything he’s ever owned.
I pop the trunk and wait for him to finish loading his belongings. When he’s back inside the car, he puts on his seat belt and smiles at me. “Ready.”
“Are you homeless?”
“Define homeless,” he says.
“A person without a home.”
His eyes narrow in thought. “Define home.”
I shake my head. “You are the strangest person I’ve ever met.” I crank the car and put it in reverse.
“You obviously haven’t met very many people. What’s your name?”
“Merit.”
“I’m Luck.”
I shoot him a quick glance before pulling out onto the highway. “Luck? Is that a nickname?”
“Nope.” He opens his container of beef jerky and offers me a piece. I shake my head. “You a vegetarian or something?”
“No,” I say. “I just don’t want any beef jerky.”
“I have granola bars in my suitcase.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You thirsty?”
“Why? You don’t even have a drink to offer me if I am.”
“I was going to suggest a drive-thru,” Luck says. “Are you thirsty?”
“No.”
“How old are you?”
I’m starting to regret my spontaneity. “Seventeen.”
“Why aren’t you in school right now? Is today a holiday?”
“No. I’m finished with high school.” It’s not a lie. Finished and completed are two different things.
“I’m twenty,” he says, moving his attention out his window. His knee is bouncing up and down and he’s tapping the fingers of his right hand on his leg. All his fidgeting has me questioning my decision to give him a ride to his sister’s house. I make a mental note to look at his pupils if he faces me again. It would be my luck to pick up a random stranger who is coming down from a high.
“How many dogs do you have?” He’s still staring out the window as he asks me this.
“None.”
He faces me and arches a brow. I use the opportunity to assess his pupils. Normal.
“Why are you buying dog food if you don’t have dogs?”
“It’s for a dog at my house, but he’s not our dog.”
“Are you dog sitting?”
“No.”
“Did you steal him?”
“No.”
“What kind of dog is it?”
“Black Lab.”
He grins. “I like black Labs. Where do you live?” I must make a face that indicates what I think of that invasive question, because he immediately responds. “I didn’t mean your exact address. I just meant in relation to where I’m going.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know where you’re going.”
“To my sister’s house.”
“Where does your sister live?”
He shrugs. “This way,” he says, pointing in the direction we’re going. He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I have a picture of her house.”
“You don’t know her address?”
He shakes his head. “No, but if you can just drop me off somewhere in the general area, I can ask around.”
“General area of where?”
“The general area of my sister’s house.”
I press my hand against my forehead. I’ve known this guy all of five minutes and I’m already overwhelmed. I have no idea if I like him or if I can’t stand him. He’s a little bit fascinating, but in a slightly annoying sense. He’s probably one of those people that can only be tolerated in spurts. Kind of like a thunderstorm. They’re fun if they only appear when you’re in the mood for one. But if they show up when they aren’t wanted, like at an outdoor wedding, they ruin everything.
“How did you finish school already? Are you one of those people that’s better at everything than everyone else? Like Adam Levine? You probably play guitar.”
What does that even mean? “No, I don’t play guitar. And I’m not better at everything. I’m not as good at asking questions as you.”
“You’re also not good at answering them.”
Is he seriously insulting my conversation skills? “I’ve answered every question you’ve asked.”
“Not in the way you’re supposed to answer questions.”
“There’s another way to answer questions other than giving the correct answer?”
He nods. “You’re giving short answers, like you aren’t interested in having a conversation. It should be a two-man sport, like a Ping-Pong match. But with you it feels more like . . . bowling. Just going one way down the lane.”
I laugh. “You should learn social cues. If someone is answering your questions like they don’t want to answer them, maybe you should stop asking questions.”
He stares at me a moment and then opens his container of beef jerky again. “You want a piece yet?”
“No,” I say again, growing more agitated with him by the second. “Are you dumb? Like . . . are you a legit stupid person?”
He closes his container and sets it on the floor between his legs. “No, I’m actually very smart.”
“What’s your issue, then? Are you on drugs?”
He laughs. “Not any illegal ones.”
He’s smiling at me, taking this entire conversation in stride. This is normal for him? He’s completely at ease. It makes me wonder what other kind of people he’s encountered in his life for him to think what’s happening right now is normal.
I exit the highway and decide the best course of action would be to drop him off at the only gas station in our town.
“You got a boyfriend, Merit?”
I shake my head.
“Girlfriend?”
I shake my head again.
“Well, is there anyone you find intriguing?”
“Are you hitting on me or is this just you asking questions?”
“I’m not actively hitting on you, but that’s not to say I wouldn’t. You’re cute. But right now I’m just making conversation. Ping-Pong.”
I blow out a frustrated rush of air.
“You’re about to hit a turkey,” he says, matter-of-fact.
I slam on my breaks. Why would there be a turkey on this road? I scan the road in front and around us but see nothing. “There’s no turkey.”
“I meant metaphorically.”
What the hell? “Never tell a driver they’re about to hit something metaphorically! Jesus Christ!” I let off the brake until the car starts moving again.
“It’s a bowling term. Three strikes is a turkey.”
“I am so lost.”
He sits up straighter and pulls his leg up in his seat so that he can face me. “Conversation should be like Ping-Pong,” he repeats. “But conversation with you is like bowling. It’s a long, one-way lane. Three strikes in bowling is a turkey. And since you aren’t answering my questions, I used turkey as an analogy to describe your lack of . . .”
“Okay!” I say, holding up a hand to shut him up. “I get it. Yes. There’s a guy. Anything else you want to know before you start overexplaining metaphorical road kill again?”
I can already sense his excitement that I’m agreeing to participate in his conversation. Even if it is just to shut him up. “Does he know you like him?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Does he like you?”
I shake my head again.
“Is he out of your league?”
“No,” I say immediately. “That’s so rude.”
But even though his question was rude, it does give me pause. When I first saw Sagan at the antiques store, I had a quiet fear that he was out of my league. But when I found out he was dating Honor, it never even crossed my mind that she was out of his league. I hate that I might have thought she deserved him more than I did.
“Why isn’t he your boyfriend?”
I grip the steering wheel. I’m a mile away from the gas station. One more stop sign and I can drop him off.
“Don’t hit the metaphorical turkey,” he says. “Why aren’t you dating this fellow you find intriguing?”
Fellow? He seriously just referred to another guy as a fellow. And his turkey metaphor doesn’t even make sense. “You use analogies wrong.”
“Don’t avoid the question,” he says. “Why aren’t you and this guy dating?”
I sigh. “He’s my sister’s boyfriend.”
The words are barely out of my mouth before Luck starts laughing. “Your sister? Holy crap, Merit! What a terrible thing to do!”
I give him the side eye. Does he think I don’t realize how terrible it is to be attracted to my sister’s boyfriend?
“Does your sister know you like him?”
“Of course not. And she never will.” I motion toward his phone. “Let me see the picture of your sister’s house. I might know where it is.” I’m more eager than ever to drop him off now.
Luck scrolls through the pictures on his phone. Right when I get to the stop sign, he hands me his phone.
You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m being pranked, right? I immediately throw the car in park. I zoom in on the picture of Victoria standing in front of Dollar Voss. The picture looks a couple of years old because the white picket fence my dad put up last year isn’t in this picture.
“Looks like it might have been a church at some point,” Luck says.
“Victoria is your sister?”
He perks up. “You know her?”
I hand him back his phone and grip the steering wheel. I press my forehead against it. Five seconds later, a car behind us honks. I look in my rearview mirror and the guy behind us holds up his hands in frustration. I put the car in drive. “Yes, I know her.”
“You know where she lives?”
“Yep.”
Luck faces forward again. “Good,” he says. “That’s good.” He starts tapping his fingers on his leg again. “And you’re taking me to her house? Right now?” He seems nervous again.
“Isn’t that where you want to go?”
He nods, but even his nod seems unsure.
“Does your sister know you’re coming?”
He shrugs his shoulders as he stares out the passenger window. “There’s not really a correct answer to that question.”
“Actually, there are two potential correct answers. Yes and no.”
“She may not be expecting me today. But she can’t abandon me without expecting me to show back up at some point.”
I had no idea Victoria had a brother. I’m not so sure my father knows Victoria has a brother. And he’s so . . . different. Nothing like Victoria.
I turn onto our road and then pull into our driveway. I put the car in park. Luck is staring at the house, still tapping his leg and bouncing his knee, but not making an effort to get out of the car.
“Why does she live in a church?” He pronounces church without the r. Chuch. All of his annoying confidence is gone, replaced by an equally annoying amount of vulnerability. He swallows and then reaches to the floorboard to pick up his container of beef jerky. “Thanks for the ride, Merit.” He puts his hand on the door and glances back at me. “We should be friends while I’m in town. You want to exchange numbers?”
I shake my head and open my door. “That won’t be necessary.” I pop the trunk and get out of the car.
“I can get my own stuff,” he says. “You don’t have to help.”
I open the trunk. “I’m not. I’m getting my dog food.” I struggle to pull the bag out from beneath all of Luck’s belongings. Once I have a secure grip on it, I head for the front door.
“Why are you taking your dog food to my sister’s house?” When I don’t stop to answer him, he starts following me. “Merit!” He reaches me just as I stick a key in the front door. When it unlocks, I face him. He’s still staring at the key in the door.
“Your sister is married to my father.”
I wait for him to absorb that information. When he does, he takes a step back and tilts his head. “You live here? With my sister?”
I nod. “She’s my stepmother.”
He scratches his chin. “So that makes me . . . your uncle?”
“Step-uncle.” I walk through the front door and toss the bag of dog food onto the floor. Luck stands in the doorway as he runs a hand through his hair and then grips the back of his neck. “I already pictured you naked,” he mutters.
“Now would be a good time to stop doing that.”
Luck glances back to the car and then peeks his head inside the house. “Is my sister home right now?” he whispers.
“She doesn’t get back for a couple of hours. Get your stuff and I’ll show you where to put it.”
While he heads back to the car, I drag the dog food through the kitchen and set the bag next to the back door. I find a couple of old bowls and fill them with water and food, then take them out back. Wolfgang is halfway out of the doghouse, lying on his stomach. His ears perk up when he hears the back door shut, but he doesn’t move. His ears go limp again when he sees me. He just watches as I set the bowls down next to his doghouse. He makes no move to devour the food, even though he’s been a whole day without it.
I reach out and pet his pathetic head. “Are you sad?” I’ve never seen a grieving pet before. I didn’t even know they could grieve. “Well, you can stay here as long as you need to. I’ll try to hide you from my father as long as I can, but you better not bark all night.”
As soon as I stand up, Wolfgang lifts himself off the ground, just far enough to reach his food bowl. He sniffs the food and then the water, but he lies back down again and whimpers.
Luck appears next to me. “Has he eaten that brand before?” He’s still holding his suitcase, trash bag, and backpack. I look back at the house.
“Why didn’t you just leave your stuff inside?”
He looks down at his stuff and shrugs. He nods his head toward the dog. “What’s wrong with him? Is he dying?”
“No. His owner died yesterday. He showed up in the middle of the night last night because he used to live here.”
“That’s impressive,” Luck says, tilting his head. “What’s your name, dog?” Wolfgang’s eyes scan over Luck, but he doesn’t move.
“He can’t answer you.” I think that goes without saying, but I’m not convinced Luck comprehends how reality works. “His name is Wolfgang.”
“What?” Luck grimaces. “That’s a terrible name. He should have been named Henry.”
“Obviously.” I’m being sarcastic, but again, I’m not sure Luck comprehends that level of communication.
“Are you in mourning?” Luck asks Wolfgang.
“Will you stop asking the dog questions?”
Luck looks at me, perplexed. “Are you always this angry?”
“I’m not angry.” I turn and walk toward the house.
“Well you aren’t not angry,” he mutters from behind me.
Once we’re inside the house, he follows me to Quarter Two. I take him to the spare bedroom across the hall from me. “You can stay in the guest room.” I open the door and pause in the doorway. “Or not.”
There’s stuff all over the guest room. Shoes on the floor, the bed is unmade, there are toiletries on the dresser. Who’s staying here? I walk to the closet and open the door to find several of Sagan’s shirts hanging up. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
How could my father allow him to sleep in the same house as her? This is further proof that he doesn’t care. He doesn’t even care if Honor gets knocked up at seventeen!
Luck slides past me and walks to the wall opposite the door. Several sketches are lying on the dresser. He focuses on a sketch of a man hanging from a ceiling fan by a string of feathers. “Looks like I have a very morbid roommate.”
“You don’t have a roommate,” I say. “He doesn’t live here. I don’t know why all his stuff is here.”
Luck picks up a toothbrush on the nightstand. “You sure he doesn’t live here?”
“You can sleep in my father’s office.” I have Luck follow me to the end of the hallway. “There’s a sofa bed in here. When Sagan leaves, you can have the guest bedroom.”
“His name is Sagan?” Luck follows me into the room and drops his backpack on the sofa. “I can see why you find him intriguing. His art is . . . interesting.”
“I don’t find him intriguing.”
He laughs. “You said in the car you found him intriguing. Is Sagan not the guy who’s dating your sister?”
I close my eyes and release a frustrated breath. I only told him that because I never thought I’d see him again.
Luck props his suitcase against the desk and looks around the room. “It’s not much, but it’s already better than where I’ve been sleeping.”
“You better not repeat that,” I say to him.
He looks at me like I’m the weird one of the two of us. “That this is better than where I’ve been sleeping?”
“No. The other thing. I only told you about my sister’s boyfriend because I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
Luck smiles. “Relax, Merit. Your love life doesn’t interest me enough to repeat it.”
I don’t know why, but I believe him. “Thanks. You want a tour of the house?”
He nods. “Eventually. I’d like to unpack first.”
“Okay.”
I turn, expecting him to want privacy, but instead he says, “Why is there a statue of Jesus Christ on the living room wall?” He opens his suitcase and begins pulling out clothes. “Or better yet, why is he dressed like a Packers fan?”
“This used to be a church.” I take a seat on the sofa and watch as he unpacks.
“Is your father a preacher or something?”
“Quite the opposite, actually.”
“What’s the opposite of a preacher? An atheist mime?”
“My dad doesn’t believe in God. But he got a good deal on the church, so he moved us in a few years ago. Right before he started sleeping with my mother’s nurse.”
He glances over his shoulder. “Your father sounds like an asshole.”
I chuckle. “You’re being way too kind.”
Luck pulls a shirt out of his suitcase and walks it to the closet. “What happened after your mom found out about the affair?”
“He divorced her and married his mistress.”
“I guess the mistress would be my sister?”
I nod. “How do you not know any of this? Has it been that long since you last saw Victoria?”
He walks over to the couch and drops down next to me. He falls back against the arm of the couch and props his arms behind his head. “Why don’t you live with your mom?”
“I do. She moved to the basement.”
I wait for the shock to register on his face, but he just casually raises an eyebrow. “She lives here? In the basement of this house?”
I nod. “Why did you say your sister abandoned you?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Where are your parents?”
“Mostly dead,” he says, matter-of-fact. “I should try to get a nap in before she gets here. It’s been a while since I’ve slept.”
He does look tired, but I’ve never seen him before today, so I have no point of reference. I nod and head for the door. “Good night.”
I step out into the hallway and acknowledge what a weird twenty-four hours this has been. Pastor Brian dies, Wolfgang returns, I randomly pick up a hitchhiker in a kilt who turns out to be my step-uncle. This day might call for an addition to my trophy collection by the time it’s over.
As I’m making my way through Quarter Two, I pause at the door to the guest room. I glance left and right even though no one is here but Luck and me. And my mother, of course. I open the door and inspect the room Sagan is staying in. I’ve always been kind of oblivious, but this takes oblivion to a new level. How long has his stuff been here? I just assumed he’d been coming over for breakfast every morning and staying late at night. I’m surprised my father is allowing this, even with how lenient he is sometimes.
I sit down on the guest bed and pull his sketchbook onto my lap. I know I shouldn’t be looking through his things, but I feel justified since I was out of the loop that we added a new member to our household. I flip through the sketchbook, but all the pages are blank. All of them except for one. In the very back of the sketchbook, there’s a drawing of two girls with their arms around each other.
After closer inspection, I realize there’s more to it than that. My hand goes to my mouth when I realize what I’m looking at. It’s a depiction of me and Honor, stabbing each other in the back.
Why would he draw this?
I flip it over, but this one isn’t titled like the one from this morning.
“What are you doing?”
I immediately slide the book off my lap. Sagan is standing in the doorway, which marks the second most embarrassing moment of my life. Funny that they both include him.
I don’t normally snoop. I don’t know how to talk my way out of this. I stand up, painfully aware that I don’t know what to do with my hands when I’m this embarrassed. My arms are stiff at my sides. I clench my fists and then unclench them.
“I didn’t know you moved in,” I mutter.
He steps into the room and his eyes fall to the sketchbook I was just skimming through. His eyes meet mine again. He looks annoyed. “I’ve lived here for two weeks, Merit.”
Two weeks?
Until this moment, I never realized just how much time I spend alone in my room. For two weeks he’s been living across the hall from me? And no one thought to tell me?
He stares at me and I stare right back, because I have no idea what else to do.
I hate the way he looks. I hate his hair. I especially hate his mouth. His lips are weird. They don’t have grooves in them like most lips have. They’re smooth and tight and I hate that every time I look at them, I remember what it was like when they were kissing me.
But what I hate the most about him are his eyes. I hate how I feel when I look at them. Not that his eyes are accusatory, but I always get swallowed up in guilt when he’s looking at me. Because no matter how much his individual features annoy me, they complement each other very nicely. I look down at my feet and wish the last five minutes never happened. I shouldn’t have walked in here. I shouldn’t have looked at the sketch he drew. And I shouldn’t have stared so long at him just now. Because I’d give anything for him to look at me the way he looked at me when he thought I was Honor. The fact that I want that embarrasses me more than being caught in his room.
I rush past him, refusing to look at him as I make my way out into the hall. I walk straight to my bedroom door and open it, then slam it shut. I fall onto my bed and I feel the tears as they begin to sting at my eyes. I don’t even know why I’m emotional. It’s so dumb.
What a weird, shitty day.
I pull my phone out of my pocket to text my father. I rarely ask him for anything, but this is an emergency.
Can you stop by the thrift store on your way here and see if they have any trophies?
I wait a few minutes to see if he responds, but he doesn’t. Sadly, I’m not surprised.
I lie down on my bed, pull my blanket over me, and think about the picture Sagan drew of me swallowing a boat this morning. It’s such a strange picture. I hate how much I like it. I hate that no matter how hard I try not to, I like him a little more every day. Part of me wonders if it’s actually him I like, or if I’m just a jealous person. I’ve never been jealous of any of Honor’s boyfriends before him. But then again, they were all dying.
I’m so angry that he’s living here now. I was convinced it would be easy to avoid him, but now he’s living in the room across the hall from me. I’m going to be subjected to their relationship and to him kissing her and loving her.
I know my father doesn’t believe in God, but luckily, atheism isn’t hereditary. I hardly ever pray, but I feel like now is as good of a time as any. I roll onto my back and look up at the ceiling. I clear my throat. “God?”
Not gonna lie. It feels weird talking to the ceiling. Maybe I should kneel like they do in the movies.
I throw the covers off and kneel on the floor against the bed. I lower my head and try it again with my eyes closed.
“Hey, God. I know I don’t pray as much as I probably should. And when I do pray, it’s always something selfish. I apologize for that. But I really need your help. I’m sure you saw what happened with my sister’s boyfriend a few weeks ago. I can’t stop thinking about him. I don’t like the person it’s turning me into. I’ve been having these irrational thoughts, like maybe he was meant for me and not Honor. Maybe you created him as my soul mate, and because Honor and I are identical, his soul got confused and fell in love with her. Because they’re nothing alike. They have nothing in common. She doesn’t even like the best parts of him. But even if they were to break up, there’s no way it would work out between us. I’d never do that to my sister, and as much as I’m attracted to him, I could never love someone that was once with Honor. It’s out of the question. So I’m not coming to You to ask You to show him the error of his ways. I’m coming to You to ask if You would just send me someone else. Someone who will completely take my mind off him. I don’t want to have the thoughts I’ve been having anymore. Or at least I don’t want to be having them about my sister’s boyfriend. I wouldn’t mind having these thoughts about someone else. So . . . yeah. I’m merely asking for an alternative soul mate. Or even just a distraction. I don’t even care if it has to do with another person. Any interest that isn’t Sagan would be great. Whatever you can spare.”
I open my eyes and then crawl back into bed. Praying is so awkward. Maybe I should do it more.
“Oh, yeah. Amen.”