Damon’s brother Ray comes over for dinner every Thursday night. And since Thanksgiving is on a Thursday, we’re lucky enough to be graced by his presence. It’s a two-hour trip from Reno in good traffic. He must really miss his brother to come all this way for some conversation and a few beers every week.

I don’t like Ray. There is something about him that gives me the creeps. Something about the way his eyes linger on me for too long whenever we’re left alone together that makes my skin itch. So much so, that I make sure we’re never left together alone.

I serve dinner and everything seems to be okay. Damon’s in a strangely quiet mood, but Ray’s presence sometimes has that effect on him. I half listen to their conversation as they talk about the weather and Ray’s job. He can be pretty funny when he tells stories about the casino where he works security. I make sure to laugh at the appropriate points in the conversation to keep from pissing anybody off. Life with people is just one big act for me these days.

After dinner, I’m exhausted. I’ve eaten far more than normal, just shoveled in turkey and potato casserole mindlessly while Ray talked and talked. Usually it’s just Damon and me, and we talk about other things, and I’m too busy talking to binge eat half a turkey. I desperately need to empty my stomach.

I go upstairs and vomit up as much as I can, and then I clear the table and wash and dry every dish, and they’re still talking at the table. Damon looks distracted, and I can’t help wondering if he’s bored by Ray, too. I sit back at the table, the damp dishtowel in my hands.

Damon raises his eyebrows at me as if to say, ‘Are you okay?’ I nod. “I’m tired,” I announce to the table, as soon as there’s a gap wide enough in the conversation to interrupt. “Mind if I turn in?”

“Go,” Damon murmurs, standing at the same time as me. “Sleep in tomorrow. I’ll fix breakfast.”

Jekyll and Hyde is being nice to me, for now. I wonder if that mood will last long enough for me to sleep in, or if he’ll conveniently forget what he said and berate me for being lazy in the morning.

I’m too tired to think about it. I say goodnight, get a super awkward hug and cheek kiss from Ray (shudder), and then I pass out upstairs, face down across my bed, without even so much as taking my shoes off.

I’m awoken by a creaking noise. I’ve been sleeping deeply, so deeply that I have drool on my cheek. I sit up with a start, wiping my face as a shadow moves in the slightly cracked doorway.

“Damon?”

The door swings open, and illuminated in the hallway light is Ray.

He steps into the room, smiling like a fucking creep. “Forgot to thank you for the dinner,” he says, walking himself over and sitting next to me on my bed. He’s close enough that I can smell the beer on his breath.

“You’re welcome,” I say, moving away. If he tries anything, I will claw his goddamned eyes out.

The light snaps on. I’m blinded momentarily.

“Thought you were waiting in the car,” Damon says tightly, talking to Ray but looking me over. “I miss anything?”

Ray laughs, messing my hair up with his hand as he stands up. “Nothing worth writing home over,” he says. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

“Go where?” I ask, fixing my hair and thinking I need a shower to get rid of Ray’s touch.

“We ran out of beer,” Damon says. “Back in five.”

I wait until they’re gone, watching the taillights out the window. Once I’m sure I’m alone, I check all the locks in the house before jumping into the shower. With a kitchen knife on the shower sill and a chair up against the door, I shampoo my hair, using every bit of hot water in the tank. Then, after I’m dressed and warm, I get into my bed, pull the covers over my head, and pass out.

I dream about Leo. About the dog barking and dirty well water and Karen. About a snowstorm and two cars and death.

I wake with a start again around three. The dog is going crazy outside, barking up at my window. I go downstairs and let her in even though Damon forbids animals in the house with his allergies. I let her sleep on the end of my bed until morning, when I sneak her back outside.

In the morning I’m up early to sneak Rox outside. Damon despises the dog, makes her stay out in the yard. In winter he (very begrudgingly) lets her sleep in the garage, but the poor dog just wants to be with me. Sometimes she disappears for a day or two, back down to Leo’s I suppose, and when she comes back she smells of campfire and rain.

Downstairs, Ray is passed out on the couch. I almost shit my pants when I stumble into the living room and see him there. I hurry Rox outside and close the door again, making sure it’s locked.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Ray says, sitting up on the couch. He’s still wearing his jeans and sweatshirt, his shoes neatly placed beside the couch end, his dark hair mussed up at the sides.

“Morning,” I reply, suddenly feeling self-conscious in my thin cotton pajamas and the way my nipples are poking out against the fabric, bemoaning the cold. I cross my arms over my chest, smiling briefly. “I’ll make some coffee.”

I brace myself for more awkwardness with Ray, but he simply asks to borrow a towel and takes himself off to the bathroom. I hear the shower start a moment later and breathe a sigh of relief. The coffee starts to drip into the pot, a reassuring sound to my sleep-addled brain. I’m flicking through the local newspaper when I spy something on the kitchen table, amongst a bunch of empty beer bottles.

A milk carton. I don’t remember leaving it there after I cleaned up. Maybe the guys had some milk after they finished their beers. Damon occasionally likes that rum that you mix with milk.

Glancing around to make sure I’m still alone, I cross the kitchen, picking up the carton. It feels strange in my hand. Waxy. Old.

It is old, I realize, as I turn it over in my hand. It’s barely held together by the plastic coating that’s started to peel away from it. I put it to my nose and sniff it. It smells unbelievably sour. I make a face.

“Whatcha got there?” A voice calls out behind me. I drop the carton, turning around to face the noise.

It’s Ray, dripping wet, a towel wrapped around his waist as he makes a puddle on the floor I just mopped yesterday.

He has a kitchen knife in his hand. “Which one of you showers with a weapon?” he asks, clearly amused. Oh, shit. The same one I took into the bathroom last night. I laugh it off, pretend like it’s no big deal, going back to the counter and pouring the now-finished coffee with a steady hand. Three cups, one for each of us, and then I pray that Ray goes home. I push one of the mugs toward Ray and he smiles, “Thank you, sweetie pie,” as he places the kitchen knife down on the counter between us.

“I’ll just take this up to Damon,” I say, picking up the third coffee and going to walk past Ray. He catches my wrist, and some of the hot coffee splashes onto my hand. I wince but don’t move. It’s the hand that got burned in the accident. The nerves have never really settled and it hurts like a bitch.

“He’s getting something from the attic for me,” Ray says. “What’s for breakfast?”

I put the coffee down on the counter and start pulling plates full of leftovers out of the refrigerator. When I turn back to the table, Ray and the milk carton are gone.

Damon knows his brother is a creep just as much as I do. So when he comes down from the attic, a black trash bag in his hand, he makes a beeline for me. I can tell he’s looking for Ray at the same time.

“Morning,” I say, handing him fresh coffee. When he’s nice to me, I’m nice to him. We get into a rhythm like this, and we can go for weeks without him turning into a demanding asshole. The only good thing about Ray coming to visit is that it makes Damon and I get along. I know how much he wishes he could ‘divorce’ his brother and never see him again — he tells me every Thursday night after Ray leaves. Every Thursday night, for the past almost-decade, we’ve had the same conversation. But not this week. Because this Thursday night, Ray didn’t leave.

Ray’s never stayed overnight before. It’s weird. He’s never worried about drinking and driving before — ironic since his brother is a police officer. Still. Our delicate schedule has been altered, and it makes my skin crawl. I like predictability. I like routine. I like not having a fucking creep on my sofa in the morning.

“Where’s Ray?” Damon asks, sipping at the coffee. His blue eyes close when he takes that first sip, like he’s in heaven or something, and it makes me unreasonably satisfied that my coffee-making skills do that to somebody. At least I’m good for something.

“Smoking,” I say, pointing at the back door that leads from the kitchen off to the backyard.

Damon nods, leaning against the counter beside me. He’s dressed in his tan-colored sheriff’s uniform, gun holstered snugly on his hip. All he’s missing is the hat.

“He give you any grief?” Damon asks quietly.

I shake my head. “No. He was fine.”

No use upsetting Damon unless his brother actually does something. Being born creepy in itself isn’t a crime. Should be in his case, but still.

“He’ll leave, soon,” Damon says, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to reassure me, or himself.

Ray swaggers back into the kitchen, reeking of burnt tobacco.

“You should put on a bra, young lady,” he says, staring at my chest. “Somebody might get the wrong idea.”

I feel blood rise in my cheeks, my arms crossed as tightly as possible. “OhmyGod,” I mutter under my breath. Seriously?

“Ray!” Damon says. He glances at me before fixing his eyes on his oblivious brother.

“If I had a daughter like Cassie, I sure as hell wouldn’t let her run around like that.” He sips his coffee like talking about my tits is the most casual thing in the world. I look down at my pajamas, then at Damon, with a look that says ‘HELP ME.’ “I didn’t know you were here,” I say slowly.

Ray chuckles. “So if I wasn’t here, you’d be fine wearing a see-through shirt with your titties on display for my poor brother here to try not to stare at?”

“Ray!” Damon yells.

An edge develops across Ray’s expression. “What. She’s the spitting image of her poor mother. What do you want me to say?”

Jesus Christ. I need to get out of here. I back up until I’m at the base of the stairs. “You’re absolutely right. I should get dressed.”

“And we should get going,” Damon says tightly.

“See you next week, Ray,” I call over my shoulder, climbing the stairs to my bedroom and closing myself in there. Fuck you, Ray! I take my shirt off, my eye catching movement in the yard at the same time. Ray’s back outside, smoking again as he stands by his truck. He’s looking up at the house, though I doubt he can see anything from this angle. I close the curtains properly and then flip him the bird through the thick drapes as I get naked and search for something clean to wear. He can’t see it, but somehow it makes me feel better.