Chapter Eight

AARON

“Grab the machete from the back of my truck.”

“Excuse me?” Amelia asks, stopping her exit from my truck. She looks around and says, “You take me to an empty cornfield and ask me to grab the machete from your truck with only darkness surrounding us? Do you realize it looks like you’re about to decapitate me and feed my brains to your old person zombie crew back home?”

Old person zombie crew? Oh Fuck. I laugh . . . hard, my hand gripping my steering wheel.

“It’s not funny.” She smacks my arm. “I don’t know you anymore, and for all I know, you could be plotting out my death.”

I shake my head, still chuckling. “Amelia, if I were plotting your death, why the hell would I ask you to get the machete? Wouldn’t I grab it myself?”

She pauses for a second. “Huh, I guess that’s a good point.” She hops out of the truck and says, “I’m getting out now so you can’t switch things up and try to murder me instead of whatever else you had planned.”

“Jesus,” I mutter, still chuckling. I flip my headlights onto high, lighting the entire dried-out field of corn my friend hasn’t chopped down yet.

We spent the last hour sifting through the slim pickings of Halloween decorations my friend had left, trying to come up with some sort of game plan for decorating the house. We settled for a Spider’s Kingdom feel—idea courtesy of yours truly—and bought all the spiders and fake webbing we could grab. Honestly, I’m kind of excited about it, because her house is going to look pretty badass.

When I hop out of my truck, I see Amelia hanging over the side of the bed, digging around, her feet dangling and a soft mumbling coming from under her breath.

“Need help?”

She lifts up. “Oh no, I’m faring well over here in the dark, hanging over your monstrous truck looking for a damn machete.”

“Okay, I’ll grab the twine then.”

She hops down and stops me with a hand to my chest. The minute she makes the connection, even though it’s dark, I can see the surprise in her eyes. I’m a much bigger man, a different man than she once knew, and she’s feeling it right about now. Yup, that’s what a few years of self-hatred will do to you—nothing better to do than work out.

She quickly steps away and clears her throat. “You can grab the machete. I’ll just wait here, keep a look out, you know for any egg throwers who might have followed us.”

“They’re tucked in bed right now, one of the reasons I got us the hell out of there when I did. I knew their bedtime was looming.” I wink and reach into the back of my truck, making sure to grab the machete on the correct end. The twine was a little harder to find in the dark, but once I located it, I nodded for Amelia to follow me.

“Can you explain what we’re doing here? I’m getting a little nervous.”

“I’d never let anything happen to you, you should know that by now.” Not physically anyway. I take a deep breath. I want to move on. Trying to put her at ease, I continue, “We’re getting some dried-up corn husks for you. Your house has some great pillars and spots for corn husks. We can even wrap some around the oak tree in the front yard.”

Studying me for a second, a tilt to her head, an interesting look in her eyes, she says, “You’ve thought about this.”

I shrug my shoulders, feeling a little embarrassed. “I like decorating for the holidays.”

“Why?”

Funny thing about my two-year relationship with Amelia, I never really went into detail about my family life. She met my mom a few times, but it was always in public places. Holidays were spent with Amelia’s family because I was too nervous she’d learn things I didn’t want her to know if she spent too much time with my mom.

How can I possibly explain my childhood? I’ve gained strength to love my mom, but I’m not sure it ever eclipsed the desire to lead a different life, a life like my brothers. A life traveling around the world, experiencing new foods, new places, being able to fly on an airplane, being able to rely on my parents rather than wishing they were someone else.

And maybe, just maybe I would be less bitter, have less yearning for a different life if I wasn’t drowning in the dreadful question of why she kept me. Every few months I’m reminded what my brothers have—their amazing life and future opportunities—and I feel like the poor cousin. I bet they’ve never wished they were me, even if I am their older brother. They’ve probably felt embarrassed . . .

“Uh,” I clear my throat, trying to rid the thoughts of my mom’s choices from my mind. “It’s fun.” Lame response, but how can I tell her the truth? That I’m making up for a part of my childhood I always wished I had, just like stairs . . .

I can remember the conversation so vividly as if it was yesterday.

I was talking on the phone with Tyke’s adoptive parents, when he’d just turned one. They were telling me what he likes to do, how he loves running around the house with his walker and pulling magnets off the fridge. I was laughing, thinking how fun it would be to chase him around the house. And then I asked what his favorite thing to do was and without even skipping a beat, Sue, his adoptive mom, told me that he loved climbing the stairs. I can feel the sink of my stomach I experienced that day.

Stairs.

Such a simple thing, something many people don’t even consider a privilege, but it’s all I’d ever wanted in our house. Stairs. Just like the grand house I walked by every day coming home from school, I wanted stairs. I wanted to slide down a banister, to watch a slinky glide down them with ease, to be able to race up and down them, not letting the “goblins” get me.

I remember the exact words that came out of my mouth: “Wow, you guys have stairs? I’ve always wanted stairs.”

Sue was silent on the other end of the phone. After that, I was quickly ushered off the phone, but that conversation stuck with me. Tyke had stairs . . .

“Are you okay?” Amelia asks, poking me in the arm. “You’ve gone silent on me.”

“Yeah, sorry. Just thought of something I have to do at work tomorrow.” I lie. “Okay”—I snap out of my thoughts—“let’s get to work. Do you want to do the chopping, or do you want me to?”

Eyeing the long machete, she bites the side of her mouth and says, “You do the chopping. I’ll just stand back.”

With a heavy heart, trying to ward off the stagnant feelings in my chest, I say, “What happened to the wild one I used to know? The girl who threw caution to the wind? Where is she?”

“Grown up.” It’s a simple answer that causes complicated emotions to blossom inside me. She’s grown up, without me, because of me.

I nod and then hold out the machete. “Never hurts to let the grown-up play like a child from time to time.”

She eyes the machete and slowly, oh so fucking perfectly, she starts to grin, and there she is. The bold, fearless Amelia I used to know. “Just whack the corn?”

I chuckle. “Yeah, aim for the bottom though, we want tall husks.” I hand her the machete and add, “And it helps if you make karate sounds.”

“It does not.”

I shrug. “Try it your way, but I promise you will get more of a swing if you karate it up.”

“You’re ridiculous.” She shakes her head and gets in position near some husks. Squatting a little and cocking her arm back, she holds the machete out and gives me a glance. I nod for her to continue, trying not to laugh at her stance. With one giant swing, the machete flies into the corn husks, whacking off the tops and landing somewhere in the middle of the cornfield.

Christ.

With her hands to her mouth, she turns to me, a little laugh shaking her shoulders. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” Even though she’s apologizing, she’s still laughing. “I kind of threw it.”

Kind of?

I cross my arms over my chest and stare her down. “Kind of threw it? You chucked the damn thing like a discus.”

“It was slippery.”

“It has a special grip on the handle.”

She cringes. “It was heavy, top-loaded.”

“Not accurate.”

She capitulates. “I don’t know what happened. Maybe we can find it.”

I gesture toward the dark cornfield. “Please, have at it. I’ll just wait here while you dig around.”

She bites her lip now, turning toward the field. “It’s awfully dark out there.”

I roll my eyes and chuckle. “Yeah, and you tossed the thing about fifty yards, so we’re not getting it back.” I walk past her toward the corn husks she was trying to cut down and start ripping them out of the ground. Nothing like a little brute force to get the job done. I toss them to the side and say, “Knock as much dirt off the roots as you can and tie them up.”

Quietly she does as I ask. We start to work in harmony but it only takes a few seconds before I can hear her chuckling to the side of me. I scan back to look at her and see her shoulders shaking while she wipes under her eyes.

“You think it’s funny throwing people’s prized tools in dark cornfields?”

She wipes some more under her eyes and laughs out loud now. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . . it flew so far, I almost expected it to come back like a boomerang to slash your tires.”

“That would be my luck, especially when hanging out with you.”

“Hey, what is that supposed to mean?”

I stand straight and put my hands on my hips while facing her. “What is that supposed to mean? You’re kidding, right? Do you not remember the amount of high jinks you got me into when we were together? I swear it was like dating Lucille Ball.”

“Not true,” she huffs.

“Yeah, want to explain how I got my foot stuck in a toilet?”

“Not my fault you have terrible balance.” She smirks.

“Or how about the time I wound up being pantsed in front of the entire Black Friday crowd that one year?”

She points a finger at me. “I told you to wear jeans and not sweatpants.”

“You fell and grabbed onto my pants, ripping them down for my Johnson to be exposed.”

“Taught you to wear underwear.” She chuckles to herself, probably remembering the less-than humorous escort I had from the staff at Target, telling me nudity wasn’t part of the Christmas spirit.

“And what about the time I threw up at Buffalo Wild Wings because you thought I would like the hottest sauce they have?”

She laughs even harder. “Okay, that was my fault, and I apologized to you profusely that night, so you can’t bring that up again.”

“I threw up in front of the Syracuse football team. I have all the right to still be mad at you.”

Now she’s facing me, a fire in her eyes, the same fire she carried so many years ago. “They were calling you a sissy since you chose the honey barbeque sauce. I had to prove them wrong.”

“I like honey barbeque sauce; be happy I didn’t get sweet and sour.”

“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes and turns back to twining the husks. “God, you and your sweet and sour sauce.”

She mumbles something under her breath, and I can’t help but smile as I get back to work, pulling husks out of the ground. This feels good. It feels like old times. I haven’t dated over the last three years, and even if I had wanted to, trying to open myself up to someone new hasn’t really interested me. I never wanted to lose Amelia. Her bright. Her crazy. Her sweet. And now? I’m slowly becoming addicted to the feeling of having Amelia back in my life. And tonight is how it always was. Fun. Easy.

It’s dangerous, but hell, I like walking on the dangerous side of life on occasion.

***

“I think we should husk first then web second. What do you think?” I ask as we pull into the our shared driveway.

“You really don’t have to help me. I think I can take it from here.”

I put the truck in park and turn toward her. “Are you really going to deprive me of decorating? That’s the best part.”

She gives me a once-over. “What’s your obsession with decorating houses?”

I casually grab the back of my neck and stare at my legs, not wanting her to see the pain in my eyes. “Never got to as a kid, so I guess I’m making up for lost time.” I don’t bother looking at Amelia or catching the way she reacts, as I’m sure it will hurt me even more. “You grab the bags, I’ll pull out the husks.”

Before she can respond, I hop out of the truck and quickly start tossing the husks into the yard.

“Aaron . . .” She comes up next to me, trying to start a conversation I don’t want to have.

“It’s getting late, and we have a lot of work to do. Unless you want to be egged tomorrow, we better get moving.”

“But . . .”

Sighing, I glance at her only to catch regret written all over her face. “Nothing to worry about, okay? We’re cool. Now get your ass moving.”

I dismiss her, and luckily she goes with it, never pushing too hard. That’s exactly what I was hoping she’d do.

Together we unload the truck, separating the decorations into sections of how we would put them up. This will be easy. Forty-five minutes tops, and yet I wish it will take us longer. Maybe I’ll dawdle, just to be able to spend more time with her.

“Oh my God,” she shouts as she’s on her way to grab some pushpins.

“What?” I call out, starting to pick out what husks to put where, grouping the taller ones together to put around the tree.

“Aaron, you have to come see this.”

Glancing up from my squatted position, I see her bent over on the porch, looking at something. A little worried, I jog up to her where she’s hovering over something on her welcome mat. “What is it?”

Standing, she holds out a carton of eggs and a note. “It’s from the golden-age gang.”

“What?” I chuckle, snagging the note from her and reading it out loud. “Best you watch yourself, missy. We’re onto you. And don’t corrupt our wonderful Aaron.” I laugh even harder; oh hell.

“It’s not funny.” She taps my stomach. “They’re going to superglue me to my lawn with their denture cream. I just know it.”

“You might possibly be right. Better watch your back, babe.” The term of endearment slips past my lips before I can stop it, but she must not notice or care because she doesn’t skip a beat when she holds the eggs close to her chest.

“Little do they know, I’ll be making breakfast with these tomorrow. Shows them.”

Awkwardly I laugh, still feeling weird about my slip-up. “Yeah, that will get them.”

“And you know what?” She points her finger at me. “I’m going to take a picture of me eating the scrambled eggs and print it on flyers with a note that says thanks for the eggs and stick it in all their mailboxes. Ha, nice try, saggy britches!”

“Okay.” I try to tamp her down. “You’re getting a little too excited.”

She starts jumping in place, her eyes looking wild. “I’m fired up. I feel like doing flips off the sides of their houses. Hold these.” She hands me the eggs and starts stomping toward the house next to hers. She gets in position, scratches her feet against the ground like a bull ready to charge, and that’s when I hop over her porch fence and grab her at the waist before she can make a total ass of herself.

“Hey, Simone Biles. Let’s simmer down for a second.”

“Let me at them, let me at them. I’m going to flip right off their houses.” She snarls and struggles against my grasp. Thankfully I put the eggs down before I hopped her porch so I can wrangle her back. For being a little thing, she sure does have a lot of power.

“There will be no flipping off houses. If you can even do that—”

“I can!”

“Okay, okay. You can flip off houses. I believe you, but we won’t be doing any of that tonight, nor will you be sending out flyers of you eating their eggs. You might think you have more energy than them, but they have numbers over you and will make your life a living hell. I’ve seen it. Don’t let their age fool you. They’re feisty. It’s best you get on their good side. Which you can do by decorating the house, okay?”

I have my arms wrapped around her, holding her back from doing anything ridiculous, and I have to admit, it feels fucking good to have her against my body again. I forgot how perfectly she fit, how right she feels.

Fuck, I have missed this.

Terribly.

I want it back. I want her back.

“Fine,” she huffs and puts space between us. She fixes her blouse that rode up slightly and pushes her hair behind her ears. “But you know I can flip off their house anytime I want.”

“Yup, got it, no doubt in my mind you would flip the shit off those houses.”

“Damn right.” Taking a deep breath, she says, “Let me get those pushpins and change. You get started.”

She retreats into the house, leaving me to put up the husks. Luckily, this isn’t my first time and I know exactly how to secure the husks while still making this look nice. By the time Amelia comes back outside, I have the oak tree done and I’m partially done with one of the posts on her porch.

“Wow, you’re quick.”

“Not my first time. Here, hold this string for me.” I hand her some of the twine while I stack up the husks.

Amelia shifts on her feet and says, “Hey, thanks for helping me out tonight. I know you didn’t have to, especially with how I’ve been acting toward you.”

“Don’t sweat it,” I answer, even though my heart is beating a mile a minute.

“I’m serious, Aaron. I want you to know I appreciate it and I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch toward you.”

“Bitch, no. Cranky . . . maybe a little.” I chuckle.

“It’s your fault.”

“Yeah?” I put more stalks around the post and pull tight on the string Amelia is holding. “How do you figure?”

“Well, for one, you’re not supposed to live next door to me. For another, you’re not supposed to be all beefy with muscles.” Beefy with muscles? I like that.

“No?” I raise my eyebrows at her. “And how am I supposed to look?”

“You know.” She motions at my body. “Fat and bald. That’s what every woman wishes for her ex-boyfriend to become.”

I pause and give her a once-over. “Not like you make it easy for me either, Amelia. You’re the one I let get away, and then you come stomping onto my turf, my geriatric neighborhood, looking hot as fuck. Think that’s easy for me, hmm?” I give her a pointed look, which causes her to smile.

“You would live with a bunch of seniors.” Choosing to ignore my compliment, fair enough.

“Old neighbors who love to bake delicious treats equals free baked goods year around. I’m a genius.”

“I guess you are, an annoyingly attractive one.”

I laugh, tying off the husks and moving to the next pillar. “Back to how hot I am, huh? Can’t let that go?”

“I can . . . it’s just that”—she pauses and then gestures at me—“you’re so big. You were never that big when we were together.”

“I wasn’t a shrimp either,” I state, trying to defend my younger self.

“No, you weren’t, but now it’s like . . . do you have any shirts that don’t look like they’re about to pop open with every move you make?”

“You know, Amelia, if I didn’t know any better, I would say you’ve been checking me out.” And that makes me feel fucking good.

“Oh please,” she huffs. “I have a boyfriend, so I don’t need to check you out.”

And there is the confirmation I didn’t want to hear. It’s funny how casually she said it, but how desperately horrible it makes me feel. Seeing her again, spending moments with her, reinforces how much I lost. Now? I wish we could start again. I hated letting her go, but I’m justified, because she achieved her dreams. She wanted to work with kids and she’s there. She wouldn’t have that had she stayed with me. I did the right thing. And now? Now there are a million roadblocks to getting her again. Instead of getting frustrated, I try to breeze past her confession.

“Still doesn’t mean you don’t check me out.” I spin toward her real quick where her eyes snap to mine. “See, right there, you were just checking out my ass.”

“What? Was not?” She stands taller.

“I saw you.”

“No, you didn’t. I wasn’t staring at anything.”

“Okay, keep telling yourself that, babe.” I give her a quick wink and turn back to my work.

For the rest of the time together, we work in silence, stretching cobwebs all over her front porch, bushes, and oak tree, strategically placing the giant spiders in spots that will startle the trick-or-treaters. It’s perfect. I’m actually pretty jealous of her setup.

“Damn, I should have done this for my yard. Its badass.”

She glances over at my house that’s lit up by a porch light. I went with the theme, Land of the Pumpkins, which is basically pumpkins everywhere and used in every which way. “Yeah, yours doesn’t have the scare factor.”

I place my hands on my hips and assess my yard. “It will have the scare factor when I put a flame thrower on the side of my house so whenever someone rings the bell, a blast of fire shoots near them.”

“Good luck getting a flame thrower on such short notice.”

“Eh, I know people,” I say nonchalantly. I know no one.

She chuckles and yawns while stretching her arms above her head, revealing a small patch of her beautiful olive skin. “I better go to bed. Thanks for your help tonight. Still seems ridiculous that I had to do this to fit in with the elderly folk, but I guess it does look pretty badass.”

“It really does and believe me when I say you’re going to have praises sung about you by the neighbors. You might have the best house on the block.”

“Let’s not get carried away. Seriously though, thank you.”

“Don’t sweat it.” I walk backward and wink at her. “Night, Amelia.”

“Wait,” she calls out. “I have a rent check for you.”

Is it bad that for a brief second I thought she was telling me to wait for entirely different reasons?

I set my tools on the ground and jog to her house. She holds the door open for me and says, “Come in, I’ll be a second.” I walk into her house and try not to look around too much but curiosity gets the best of me. “You don’t mind taking it to Mrs. Ferguson, do you?” she calls out from the kitchen.

“Not at all.”

Hands in my pockets, I take in the house, and immediately I’m hit with Amelia. She’s decorated this house to suit her perfectly. Bright colors, flowers, pillows . . . rugs. It’s warm and inviting and so Amelia. I glance around, seeing her knickknacks, pictures, and magazines scattered over the coffee table. Some things never change.

I chuckle to myself and turn toward the fireplace, where there are picture frames propped up on the mantel. Curious, I take a look at them. One with her father from her college graduation. There’s a picture of her with her sister, who I didn’t know well because she lives in Rochester. And then there’s one with a man.

That must be him.

Looking behind me, I check for Amelia. She’s still working on the check so I step closer, wanting to size up the man she’s dating. I want to know if he’s good enough, if he looks like a douche, or if he has kind features, the type of man I know would take good care of Amelia.

My heart skips a beat and my breath catches in my throat. Total numbness encompasses me as my mind starts to swirl around in one giant what-the-fuck moment.

“No fucking way,” I whisper, snagging the picture from the mantel and bringing it closer to get a better look.

Blue eyes stare back at me. The same shade of blue as mine, and the same that belong to my mom. “Holy shit.” I rub the man’s face over the glass, trying to make sure I’m not just seeing things, but I’m not . . .

It’s clear as day.

Amelia is dating my brother.

Tyke.

My fucking brother.

Unable to comprehend this is real, I stare at the picture long and hard, taking in their smiling faces, the way his hand is wrapped around her shoulders . . . He’s fucking touching her.

Just the thought of his hands on her causes my mind to spiral into a pit of dark thoughts.

They’re dating.

They’ve kissed.

They’ve had sex.

My brother has had sex with my Amelia.

I pull on the strands of my hair, rage starting to boil deep inside me.

“Hey, here you go,” Amelia says, causing me to whip around, still holding the frame in my hand. When she looks at it, her smile fades and a look of guilt crosses her features. She shouldn’t feel guilty, but fuck if I don’t want her to. “Snooping?” I can see she’s trying to break the tension crackling between us.

“Uh, just looking around.” Needing confirmation, I ask, “Is this your boyfriend?”

Lovingly, she takes the picture from me and holds it against her chest. “Yes, that’s Trey.”

Trey.

Fucking Trey.

With the mention of his name, it’s like the memory floodgates open. Picture after picture flash in my head. Trey at Disney World. Trey playing baseball. Trey riding his bike. Trey being hugged lovingly by his parents. Trey with a brand new car. Trey graduating college. And now, just to top off that wonderful slideshow? Trey . . . with Amelia.

He’s had everything I always wanted, so naturally, he has Amelia too.

I nod and try to plaster on a smile. There is no way in hell I’m going to tell her. For one, she doesn’t know I have brothers, and for another, I don’t want her to see how angry this makes me, how I’m about to snap in half right now from the thought of my brother having one more goddamn thing I want.

I take the check from Amelia and say, “Thanks, I’ll be sure to give this to Mrs. Ferguson. Have a good night.”

I retreat before I do something stupid. The anger inside me is a living thing, and I don’t know if gathering the boys at Reardons would work tonight. I want to yell life fucking sucks but there is no one to yell at. No one gives a flying fuck, especially not my mother.

Amelia lived in a city of over seven million people. How is it possible that she not only met my brother, but is in a fucking relationship with him?

I want to drag her into my home and claim her as mine. I love her. I never fucking stopped loving her. I gave her to him. I’m not going to accept it. Not this time. Not for another thing. No, I want her as mine. I take a deep breath to try and calm the anger. The resentment.

Tonight showed me how we once were, but it also showed me how we can still be.

As I make my way to my house, my mind reeling with a million different emotions, there is one thing I’m certain about. For once in my life, I’m going to have something I deserve, something my brother won’t have.

I’m going to win back Amelia.