Sol
A loud banging on the front door shakes me out of my nap on the couch. I rub my eyes and get up, wrapping the blanket around me. The banging repeats and a nasty swear word leaves my mouth. My eyes flick over the wall clock. It’s 1.30 am. It’s the fucking middle of the night.
I turn the key in the lock and pull the door open. My jaw drops as my eyes meet Gunner’s violent glance.
“You look like shit,” I say.
His face is white with a greyish tinge, cheeks sunken. He has a beard. His hair needs trimming. His clothes are drenched.
My eyes travel to the item that he’s holding against his chest. It’s an urn. Subtle creepiness brushes the back of my neck as though a spider is crawling across my skin.
“Are you going to let me in or not?” Gunner barks.
“Come in,” I say angrily and move back.
Gunner walks in, removes his boots and goes straight to the kitchen, dropping into the chair. He puts the urn on the table as the water drips from his clothes and floods the floor.
“Asher?” he starts, his voice hoarse, full of torment.
“He’s asleep. Still. So you’d better be quiet.”
“Sit down.”
“What’s wrong, Gunner?”
“I said sit down.”
I sweep my hand furiously and take a seat beside him. Gloom pricks the back of my neck. My heart speeds. My eyes flick over the urn, and I feel nauseous.
“What is it?” I rasp.
“This is what you think it is.”
“No.” I freeze with my hand raised, my heart thumping in my ears.
“Yes.”
I feel like I’m eternal for one second. Like I’m sunrise and sunset clashing. Like I’m all relief. Then I’m all an agonising pain.
I rise to my feet and move back, my lungs pleading for oxygen.
“Sol.” Gunner moves towards me.
“Don’t touch me.”
He strokes my head and puts his palm on the back of my neck.
“I said don’t fucking touch me, Gunner.” I wheeze. Tears prick my eyes. “I need to be alone. With my husband. Alone. For some time.”
“I’ll take Asher to my place.” Gunner nods.
“For a day or two.”
“Okay, take your time.” He kisses my forehead and walks out of the kitchen.
I hear him talking to Asher—soothing words, funny words, warm words. I hear Asher screech with joy. My son is never in a bad mood when he’s with Gunner.
The door slams shut. Every molecule of my body jumps and disintegrates.
I’m deaf.
I’m shattered.
I’m all alone.
No—
The urn is with me.
“You see, Shay, you see where you ended up, you fucking dick. In an ugly urn. It must be fucking boring to be in an urn, huh?” My last words come out as a hoarse whisper.
I cry deep down, silently.
I cry hysterically for many hours until there is no tear left.
Then I call Christa and she comes to my place in ten minutes. Hawk is with her.
“You’d better have a good reason,” my brother growls.
His eyes flick over the urn and he blinks a few times then winces.
“What happened?” Christa asks.
“Gunner has found my husband,” I say.
Her eyes flick over the urn standing on the kitchen table. “You’re all fucked up, you know.”
A chuckle leaves my mouth. “You chose to be one of us, remember?”
“Yep.” She bobs her head.
My brother went to her just after she’d called me, asking for help. Hawk removed her stepdad from the face of the earth. The motherfucker was too loving and too caring for Christa and the foster family she was placed in were too blind to help her. Hawk sorted it out and brought the girl to our family home. Now, she’s living with my parents and Hawk. Her fake ID has just arrived from Spain.
Everything is sorted, but something is wrong with my brother. Each time I see him he looks like a hail cloud.
A sixteen-year-old girl is living in his house. He was fed up with me. I guess, he must be even more fed up with Christa.
“Your husband looks very handsome in this urn,” Christa says. “So black and so shiny.” Tears glitter in her eyes.
“I thought the same.” Tears stream down from my eyes and Christa throws her arm around my back.
“In a fucking urn,” Hawk says.
He sweeps his hand furiously and storms out of the house.