Claire
OH MY GOD, Jackson kissed me! That one meeting of lips has stunned me completely stupid. I couldn’t even concentrate on talking to Zoey. I wasn’t really paying attention to what she was saying. That is not like me. All I know is that the babies are fine but she needs me to take Fumble for a few days—if not indefinitely. I completely walked out on Jackson and the Brad situation. But Zoey needed me and I have yet to let one of my girls down, and I’ll be damned if I let Bradford Callahan disrupt my status quo.
As I drive over to Zoey’s house, all I can think about is the damn electricity that ran through my body when Jackson grabbed my arm and then kissed me. It would be so much easier if I didn’t get the fucking tingles anytime Jackson was around. I know that at times he still considers me to be the broken girl he left behind. But I’m not that same sixteen-year-old that lost everything in one night at the hands of another.
Yes, I carry around scars that I hide from the world. And yes, second guessing my own judgement has become second nature. I’m not as trusting as I once was—what rape victim is ever as trusting afterward? But I survived and am thriving in a world that would love nothing more than to watch me fail.
Looking back, I know what Jackson saw in me all those years ago. I came off as strong, independent and sassy. But I was working under the Applebee motto of “faking it until you make it.” I had no friends. It was me and Zoey against the world. It still is. I would do anything for my girls and everyone knows it.
Losing myself once more to the memories, good ones this time, I can’t help but remember when Sasha was six months old. I packed up my beater of a car—the thing ate more oil and antifreeze than was allowable by national standards—and drove Sasha and I across country. The only other friend that I had ever made aside from Jackson was Daphne. She was my tutor freshman year, and yes looking back, she was paid to be my friend. She had moved to San Francisco the summer of the “incident” and I was always welcome. So Sash and I made the trek. I needed to spread my wings and prove to myself that I was stronger than the girl that Brad destroyed.
I loved the whole California vibe. The relaxed, laid back, live and let live environment is amazing. But after six weeks of immersing us into the culture and sites, I had had enough. I missed home. Not my parents. But my home. The tiny studio apartment that I made into a palace for Sasha and me. I kept it while I was in California, thanks to my grandparents for the inheritance that Mac couldn’t touch. But more than our tiny home, I missed Zoey. An overwhelming feeling that my sister was going to need me and my guidance, which our parents wouldn’t know how to provide her, had me and Sasha heading home—to my other girl. She was going to need me; I knew it in my bones.
Arriving at Zoey’s, I pull myself out of my memories and inner musings. Zoey and Derrick have chosen to live in my parents’ home. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a beautiful house, but it’s my parents’ house. Zoey made major changes after Mac died just so that she could live there. They were mostly cosmetic, but she sunk a good portion of her inheritance into it, and between the two of us we made it hers. Once she and Derrick finally got their shit together, Derrick demanded that additional changes be made.
I think the home gym was so that Derrick can monitor Zoey’s running. I know that she used to run while he was either asleep or not home. It’s my sister’s way of dealing with stress. Even Ben, Derrick’s best friend and the quarterback of the New York Giants, has noticed that Zoey hasn’t put on enough weight to sustain twins. Whereas I prefer yoga to decompress from life, Zoey runs. Her doctors all say that because she was so healthy and active prior to the pregnancy, and as long as she doesn’t push her normal limits, she will be fine. Unfortunately, Zoey doesn’t know her own limits. She still thinks she’s that indestructible eight-year-old that is never going to die. Derrick and I call bullshit but we both realize that Zoey is going to do exactly what Zoey wants to do, so we just monitor her activities. Closely.
Derrick likes to think that he has helped curb Zoey’s natural inclination for depression by making her promise that she wouldn’t run more than three miles a day. Even fitted her up with a Fitbit that monitors everything. Plus he watches her like a momma kangaroo. If he could tuck Zo into a pouch that is attached to him he would. I have to give him credit, Derrick has done everything to make sure that his wife and children are safe. He has even resorted to bribing her with her favorite junk food. Which has not gone over lightly with my sister. As healthy as Zoey is, she loves three things: her husband, the boys, and Utz Cheese Balls. So when her favorite munchie is on the line, she can negotiate as well as Ben can. Ben has a law degree and can argue his way out of anything. My tiny sister has surpassed even Ben when it comes to her munchies.
However, I know my girl and nothing is going to make Zoey do anything that she doesn’t want to do. And don’t misunderstand me when I say that she isn’t cognizant of her and the babies’ health. She just has a tendency to push her limits from time to time. So we all are very vigilant of her health and well-being.
Walking into my sister’s house, because neither of us actually rings a doorbell or knocks, I yell out, “Zo, I’m here! Where are you?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?! You little bastard! What did I ever do to you?” I hear my sister’s voice come from upstairs.
I take the stairs two at a time, following her voice, because she is still rambling on. “Zoey! Where are you?”
“Claire? Bear? I’m in my closet! Hurry he’s eating everything! HELP!”
Reaching the master bedroom, I make my way over to Zoey’s closet, where I hear Zoey huffing and puffing and a puppy growling.
Zoey is a clothes whore and Derrick isn’t allowed to use her space, he actually has a closet in one of the spare rooms. That was the second item on their remodel list. And the bitch got the closet of all fucking closets. It’s bigger than Sasha’s bedroom!
Walking into Zoey’s closet, I find her on the floor—again—surrounded by the entire lower rack of one of her shoe walls. Walls as in plural, Zoey loves her some shoes. I love shoes as well, but where I need to put Sasha through college, Zoey has my kid’s college tuition on one of the two wall to ceiling shoe racks. She is hysterical. Tears stream down her face as she tries to pull a pair of Jimmy Choo sandals out of Fumble’s mouth. All while Sam, Reilly and Steeler are watching the entire scene unfold from their perch on the little couch she has in here.
“Are you fucking kidding me. Stop! Stop you fucking monster! So help me God, you put one more of my shoes in your tiny, filthy mouth I am going to kill you, and feed you to your father!”
“Zoey! What the hell is going on here?”
“Bear, make him stop,” she says in defeat when she finally sees me. “He is a fucking menace! He somehow managed to get in here; the door was closed, I know it was, and he has eaten one of the heels off of my Gucci boots, a pair of Cole Hann heels and my favorite Prada flats!”
Finally, able to maneuver herself over to the offending canine, she picks him up and shoves him at me. “Take him! I have never hurt an animal in my life. Not once. But I’m about to run him over with my car and not care. PLEASE, Claire! Take him!”
Laughing and shaking my head, I walk over to the absolutely adorable puppy my sister is shoving at me. “Derrick will kill you if I take him,” I say, taking Fumble away from her. She is literally shaking and the poor little man will be lucky if he doesn’t have shaken baby syndrome. So happy to see me, he scrambles up my chest and arms and starts to give me kisses.
“Sure, kiss her. Pretend that this mess isn’t all your fault, you little beast!” she says, flinging her arms out to encompass the total chaos he has created.
Enjoying the lavish kisses that I’m receiving, I know that I need to get my sister up off the floor before Derrick gets home. I have absolutely no intention of taking this little man home, but I need to calm Zoey down and make her realize that she is over reacting without her actually realizing that is what I’m doing.
Putting Fumble down on the couch next to Steeler, all to my sister’s horror, I walk back over and proceed to pick her up off the floor. Pointing over to the couch, I give a commanding, “Sit,” which gets all five of them to do as I say. Then proceed to clean up the mess that Fumble has made.
I’m proud to admit as I stand and survey the damage that my five-dollar flip flops look just as good as Zoey’s two hundred dollar ones, and hide the chewed up Coach heels I know she loves so much before she has a chance to see them. Once I have straightened everything to rights, I take a look around. With a final huff of breath, I look over at my sister who has been unusually quiet and see that she is holding Fumble and is unconsciously petting him.
“You sure that you want me to take him?” I ask.
“God, Claire, he is a freaking menace,” she says as Fumble crawls up her belly to kiss her hand. “Please just do something with him,” she says, shoving him at me.
“Zo, he isn’t the problem, you are. Look at you, the five of you are a unit,” I say, looking over at her with all four dogs surrounding her, and every one of them is touching her in some way. “He loves you already, Zoey, shocker, and you him. Your first instinct was to pick him up and soothe him when he was scared.” Walking over to my sister and her menagerie, I reach out to grab Fumble from her arms and say, “Give him over. I think that he and the girls will get along. Well, I hope they will. If not, I think that he’ll enjoy the backyard.”
Pulling him into her chest, she looks at me as if I’m attempting to steal her first born. “I can’t believe that you just said that. He needs love and compassion. He’s a baby, Claire. What he doesn’t need is to be left to flounder with Dallas and Legs. Go home.” She waves a hand in dismissal. “Go home, Claire. We’re fine.”
“If you insist, Zo, okay. Call me later.” And with a kiss to my baby sister’s forehead, I turn on my five-dollar flip flop heel and walk out. Just as I get to the closet doors, she says, “Thank you. For coming. For cleaning this up. But more so for pulling me from the edge and putting me in my place. Derrick would be so hurt if Fumble wasn’t here when he got home.” This is said as she pulls the little guy up and nuzzles his head.
Looking back at my sister, I wink at her and walk out. Just as I get to her bedroom door, I hear her say to the boys, “She’s a sly one. We have to stay on our toes with Aunt Claire, guys.”