Settled
When we are used to chaos, we hope for a life that feels settled. The problem is, we also enjoy complicating our lives. So, we take the calm moments as they come, bask in them and prey they will last forever. We savor the times we feel content, because eventually, we will do something to jumble everything up. We will create drama. It is human nature. Nothing is ever settled for long.
BREEZE
LIFE WITH SHAME after what he said to me in the bathroom had been uncomfortable. Even worse, I had grown more infatuated with him.
I was a foolish little girl.
In my imagination, I pretended we were together, he kissed me before bed each night and loved only me. I knew reality would hurt, so I did my best to avoid it.
It was February twenty-fourth, the day of my fourteenth birthday. My birthdays were never big affairs, or a day of gifts, but my dad always made me pancakes. It was the one day a year he remembered I existed.
Pocket didn’t show up for school, supposedly sick, but most likely with Liam. No one else even noticed me. I checked my phone a few times during the day, hoping my dad remembered. But nothing. Not at all surprising, since I wasn’t even sure if he had my number. Hard as it was to accept, that was how my life was going to be until I turned eighteen.
I popped in the clubhouse before I went upstairs to do homework. Viv was nowhere to be found. The place was deserted. I assumed the guys were at a bar somewhere watching the B’s play. Hockey was their one true form of religion.
The day wasn’t a total loss. I found a Twinkie in the cupboard Tank kept his munchies in, and I was pretty sure I could find a candle in the house. I climbed the stairs prepared to celebrate alone with my cream-filled, pint-sized birthday cake.
“Surprise!”
It took me a moment to realize the cheers were for me. Viv came to hug me first. “Happy birthday, kiddo.”
“Did you do this?” I asked, squeezing her back.
“Eh, you know how it goes. I did the legwork, but it was Shame’s idea.”
Dozer hauled me in for a hug next. “Happy birthday.”
“Thank you, stinky feet.” He shook his head. I had been calling him the silly name for a couple of weeks now and he was fine with it.
“You’d kick my ass if I called you that,” Tank teased Dozer, before hugging me.
“She’s a girl and she’s better looking than you are,” Dozer retorted.
“I’m crushed.” Tank clutched his chest, mocking tears. “I thought I was your one and only.”
Dozer wrapped Tank in a headlock. I laughed and excused myself to see who else attended the party. Wandering through the gaps in the crowd, I looked for one face that would make it a truly memorable birthday, but never spotted my dad.
“He had to work,” Shame said from behind me.
“Oh . . .” I spun around and looked at Shame in surprise. “You invited him?”
“Since it’s your birthday, I thought—”
“Thank you,” I interrupted and slipped my arms around his waist to hug him.
It felt amazing, not only the hug, but also the sense I was no longer invisible. I had people in my life who considered me, and I felt incredibly grateful. Even stranger, I felt happy. I finally felt settled into my new life.
No one had ever made me believe they cared about me, except for The Bastards . . . all of them, even Viv. I wasn’t sure if she was technically a Bastard, but she was like the older sister I never had, but always wanted.
Maybe I was nothing more than a charity case, but I didn’t care. I felt loved, like Shame delivered the kick in the ass my family needed. I was straight. My dad was straight. And maybe, just maybe, someday, I could be someone more than the town drunk’s daughter. My life, and my circumstances, suddenly felt meaningful.
As my cheek pressed firmly against Shame’s chest, I felt my eyes watering from the joy I felt. His arms wrapped tightly around me made me feel incredibly safe. I felt his lips press onto the top of my head. Then he tensed. Shame reached behind his back and tore at my fingers until I let go. He then took a safe step backward. I saw conflict in his eyes. It was only an innocent kiss on the head, but for Shame it was a line of sorts he refused to cross.
As Shame strode away, I stared at his back with a feeling of frustration. The conflict I felt about going after him got interrupted when Dink appeared in front of me with a present. The box was wrapped in flower paper and adorned with a bright teal bow. We had not spoken since the night he attacked me. Each time he came near me, my skin prickled and that moment was no exception. “Happy birthday, Breeze,” he said with a tentative fluctuation in his tone.
“Thank you,” I muttered, hesitant to accept his gift.
His tightly pinched brows showcased his discomfort, which made me relax. “I’ve been meanin’ to talk to you, but I kept chickening out.”
“It’s fine,” I assured him.
“No. I want to apologize for what happened. I can be a dick when I drink and what I did was wrong. Forgive me?”
Had Viv not filled me in on Dink’s experiences in Iraq, I wouldn’t be capable of forgiving him. To hear Viv tell the story, Dink claimed responsibility for the death of one of the guys in his unit. Although Viv said there was nothing Dink could have done, I can’t imagine the heavy burden he carried. I would drink until I blacked out, also. Viv told me Dink had cut back after the night he came on to me and was trying to work his life out.
How could I not offer a hand?
Smiling, I took the gift from his grip and told him, “Already forgiven.” The boyish grin he gave me was adorable as he watched me open the gift. I recognized what it was immediately. My dad carried one for years on his force-issued belt. “Pepper spray?” I chuckled at the irony.
“A girl should protect herself.” He winked, but his shoulders were still tense. “I wanted to give you a nine, but Shame vetoed that one.”
Little did Shame know I knew how to shoot. I fired my first gun at five years old and was probably more accurate than half The Bastards.
“Thank you, Dink.”
“You’re welcome.” He held his hand out. “So, friends?”
“Friends,” I smiled and shook his hand before he walked away.
The memory of my dad teaching me about guns forced tears in my eyes. While other daddies took their daughters ice skating or to the park, Peter Clery took me shooting in the woods on the edge of town.
I was a natural. From the start, I rarely missed. If my life hadn’t taken such a horrific turn, my dad wanted me to compete in tournaments hosted by the Junior Riffle Association. Even now, years away from those memories, I could hear his shouting, “Yeah, that’s my baby girl.” I could also hear the deafening sound of the gun firing. I remembered the echoing ping of the bullet as it connected with the tin cans we lined up on tree stumps.
Those happy times dissolved when my mom left for good. The daddy who adored his baby girl left with her. In return, I gained a dad who didn’t take his daughter anywhere. Didn’t tell her he loved her or that she was his world.
How could he see me as his world when I let my mom leave?
A sinking feeling settled in my gut. I never realized I blamed myself. I felt responsible for my dad’s drinking. If I ever found my way back to my dad, I hoped he would forgive me.
It is hard to stay settled when we are always fighting against some nagging feeling or emotion that wants to control us. We seek stability. Things are supposed to be a certain way and we can’t relax until they are.
SHAME
The party had dispersed downstairs to the clubhouse. I watched Breeze interacting with Tank and Dozer, who she fondly referred to as stinky feet, and felt uneasy. She had acclimated to club life almost too easily, forged friendships with many of the guys, and blended in like she grew up with us. But she didn’t. She was better than us. Some days I felt like I was the only one who saw it. I saw something else in her too, something profoundly sad and vulnerable and that was the thing that scared me most. If she found a place where she belonged, if she settled in, I feared she would never leave.
Breeze waved me over. When I shook my head, she came and got me. “Come play.”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“It’s my birthday and I would love to see you relax for one night. Come on. One game—” She exaggerated a sad face. “For me . . . Please?”
“For you.” I smiled and followed her to the pool table.
“You rack,” she instructed, chalking her stick with a challenging grin. “And I’ll even let you break.”
“Okay,” I said arranging the balls in the triangle.
“Thanks for the party,” Breeze said. “It was nice of you.” I glanced up briefly and lifted the triangle. “When’s your birthday?”
I tensed. “Not tellin’.”
“What? Why not? You should have a party, too.”
I chuckled. “My life is a party.”
“Come on, when is it?” she pressed.
“I don’t have a birthday,” I replied and turned away to find a stick. “Gave them up after Pop died.”
I grabbed a stick off the wall rack and turned around to see her frowning.
“That’s sad,” she said in a low voice.
For me it wasn’t emotional. It was my existence. When pop died, I died. Hard to celebrate birthdays when you were dead. Breeze looked like she wanted more, but I leaned over the table to break before she said anything.
I sunk two quick solids, one in the corner and the other in the side pocket.
“You’re solids,” she told me, as though she was teaching me how to play, which I found delightfully amusing.
“Yeah. I know.”
She giggled.
After I made short work of sinking three more solids, Breeze mumbled something. Her arms were crossed now and she no longer smiled. As I continued, she attempted to distract me by standing close and making noises she pretended were accidental. Her efforts didn’t faze me, and when only the eight ball remained, she sighed. “Is there anything you aren’t good at?”
I winked. “Not that I can think of.” The eight ball fell softly into the corner pocket. “Play again?” I asked and loved that her bottom lip popped out.
“You suck,” she whined.
“Why?” I laughed. “Cause I didn’t let you win?”
“Maybe.” She huffed. “It is my birthday and all.”
“I have a reputation to uphold, Dimples.”
“And what’s that exactly . . . you’re mean to girls and don’t give birthday gifts?”
Her hands were firmly on her hips and a playful gleam sparkled in her soft, green eyes. I stepped close and let my fingers softly peruse the ridge of her cheekbone. “No, how despite a beautiful distraction, I never lose.”
Her eyes went wide. “You think I’m beautiful?”
The air rushed out of me. I had to take a moment to answer with something that wouldn’t give her hope for us, but that wouldn’t damage her confidence. “You’re young, but when you’re all grown up, I hope you’ll see how remarkable you are.”
She laughed. Out loud and in my face. My mouth opened but I was honestly taken aback and didn’t know what to say. Then she mocked my words all melodramatic and shoulders swaying.
“I’m glad you find me so amusing,” I said, aware of the irritation in my voice I failed to control.
“Extremely. I mean, seriously. What was that?”
“I was being honest.”
“No, you were being careful. God, lighten up. Don’t try so hard.”
“I was trying not to say something inappropriate.”
She laughed again and this time it took her longer to compose herself. “Oh, my God. Okay. I got it. I know you’re never gonna touch me, okay?” She paused and waited for me to see her point. I stared at her like she was mad, which I began to think she was. “There’s nothing sexual going on. Stop being so afraid. Stop being careful. Be the goofy, dumbass who shares his beer with Gus and slurps his cereal . . . because . . . he’s cool.”
One day that feistiness of hers would get her in trouble, but for now, I truly enjoyed how she stuck up for herself. “That guy is not cool.”
A full-blown smile spread her lips. “Yeah, well, he’s a lot less uptight.”
I cracked a smile. I was uptight, but I was also fun. “Rack ’em,” I challenged, letting my fingers graze her waist. Her cheeks flushed and she smiled. “And Breeze . . . You’re very beautiful.”
Sometimes the best thing we can do for ourselves is quit trying to control everything. Sometimes we simply have to let things settle where they may and pray for the best. Letting go can be hard, it can even have consequences, but when we stop caring, we can find brief moments of happiness.