Twenty-three
Maddox
I help my mom get Maggie loaded into her car so she can take her and McKayla back to my house. Maggie is less than pleased.
“I want to go,” she says, scowling at me like I took her favorite toy away. “Why can’t I go?”
“Because Kris and I have some things we need to talk about,” I tell her while I buckle her in.
“Grown-up things?”
“Grown-up things,” I confirm, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. “Listen to McKayla. If you’re awake when I get home—”
“I know,” she says, suddenly sounding sixteen instead of six. “You’ll hang me by my toes and tickle me to death.”
“Not to death—only until you pee your pants.” I give her a wink and she laughs at our running joke. “I love you, Magpie.” I start to back out of the car but she stops me, reaching out to grab my hand.
“I love you too, dad,” she says, sitting back in her seat. Pops her thumb in her mouth, a sure-fire sign that she’s exhausted. “And I love Kris too.” The words are garbled, pushed out around the thumb in her mouth. “Tell her, okay?”
“Okay.” I have a hard time saying it. “I’ll tell her,” I say, backing out of the car. Her eyes are closed before I even close the car door.
Kris is standing by truck, waiting for me to take her home. I almost asked my mom to do it but I didn’t. She would’ve laughed at me and told me no anyway.
Time to handle your shit, son.
I can practically hear her say it.
Using the fob, I unlock the truck and start it while I cross the near-empty lot. All that’s left is the clean-up crew and a few vendors who are still breaking down their booths. By the time I get to the truck Kris is already climbed in and settled into her seat. I have a sudden flash of that first morning after. The way she sat ramrod straight in her seat, refusing to even look at me. How she didn’t want to talk about what happened between us.
Why?
Why do we need to talk about what happened won’t make it unhappen.
We’re practically to her house before she says anything.
“I did mean it, Mad. I just—”
I give her a quick glance when she doesn’t finish her sentence. “You just what?”
“I just didn’t want to.”
Hearing her say it is a kick in the teeth. I have to stiffen the back of my neck to keep my head from snapping back. “Didn’t want to?” I aim my glare out the windshield because looking at her is a risky proposition right now. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean—you didn’t want to what? Love me? Be with me? Admit I fucking exist.”
“Yes.”
“Why?” I can barely get the word out. That’s how much it hurts, knowing she’s ashamed of me. Of what happened between us. “Because I’m your step-brother?”
“That’s what I told myself.” She says it to the cuticle she’s picking at. “That it was a mistake—one both of us would grow to regret. That with distance would come clarity and we’d both have to admit that what we were doing was wrong.”
“Nothing.” I bite the word in half and spit it at her. “Nothing that happened between us was wrong. None of it was a mistake.” I refuse to accept that. “We belong together. To each other.” I’ll go to my grave believing it.
“I know.” She looks up at me, brow furrowed like she’s trying to figure out a way to put it all into words that I’ll understand. “I’ve always known.”
“Then what happened?” I hate the way my voice sounds. Desperate. Demanding. “What did I do?” I hate it, how willing I am to take the blame for something she did to me. That’s how much I need her. Over the past ten years I’ve been a soldier and a dad. A son and a brother. But I haven’t me. I haven’t been Mad. I didn’t even realize it until I saw her again, how empty it’s been without her.
We’re parked in front of her house, the truck idling in the driveway. She looks past me, at the house, gaze traveling slowly like she’s searching for something. “You said you loved me and that you wanted to be with me forever and then you left.” She finally looks at me. “You left me.”
I remember lying next to her on the treehouse floor. Telling her that I enlisted. That I was leaving for basic training after graduation. “You said it was okay.” I shake my head at her. “You said—”
“I know what I said. I said I loved you and that I wanted to be with you forever and I’d wait for you and I meant that too... but then—” She stops herself. Looks away, out her own window, gaze aimed at the house she grew up in. “My dad walked out that door when I was ten, with every intention of coming back to me and mom. He promised me French toast, kissed the top of my head, told me he’d be right back and I never saw him again. He didn’t leave us. He was taken. I meant it, Mad—every word.” She looks at me, tears in her eyes, jaw set at a mutinous angle to keep them from falling. “But then you walked out the door and I just couldn’t—I don’t think I could’ve survived that twice.” She shakes her head. “That’s not your fault. The only thing you did wrong was trust me.” She shrugs, suddenly at a loss. “You were perfect—we were perfect—and I’m so sorry I hurt you.”
Just like that first morning after, she pops her door open and scrambles out of my truck and is gone, before I find the right words to say.