Chapter Text
“No! She said we’re having waffles today, not eggs and toast.”
“You’re such a brat, Lulu.”
“I’m telling!”
“Who are you gonna tell? She’s not even up yet!”
Shit.
Your eyes ping open at that.
You reach for your phone on the nightstand, squinting through the film of sleep, trying to make out the small, bright numbers. Thirty minutes passed your usual wake up time. You grumble, rubbing your eyes hard enough to see stars, leaving a residue of black mascara on the base of your palms.
Your mouth is dry, and the water on your nightstand is empty. Rays of morning sunlight spill through your sheer lace curtains, making you contemplate crawling underneath the covers and dying there. You groan, regretting decision after decision after shot after shot.
It had been almost two years since your parents had passed, leaving you with guardianship of your three siblings - and just around three months since you’d packed up your entire lives and moved everyone to Austin for a fresh start.
A fresh start.
That’s what you’d told yourself when, Maya, the only coworker you have at the café even remotely around your age, had approached you before closing. She'd invited you to join her and her group of friends at the bar, and you were in absolutely no position to turn down friends.
At least that’s what your younger sister, Romy, told you when you'd asked for her opinion. She'd insisted you go out, and in typical Romy fashion, she was entirely too blunt about it.
“When’s the last time someone asked you to go anywhere with them? Not since mom and dad died, I think,” she had answered for you. “Remember when you were cool? I don’t. Go get laid or something, I don’t know. Whatever will make you less…uptight.”
That was it, you’d decided it was time to finally put yourself out there - at least try to make some friends your own age.
Your hometown friends were nice enough, but apparently not nice enough to come and watch your little brother, Bear, suck at baseball every Saturday, or let Lulu mess up their fresh manicure with glitter pens.
So you dusted off your little black dress and slathered on some makeup, downed tequila shot after tequila shot after tequila shot, trying to steer clear of the topic of little league and kindergarten playground gossip.
The night was going pretty well, actually. Maya’s friends were welcoming, everyone was gelling, and you’d even gotten a few of their numbers incase they were ever having another girls’ night. Everyone was friendly, and more than a few men had offered to buy you drinks. It made you feel, that for a split second, you were just a normal girl in her twenties. It was nice.
Then, you saw him.
He’d been sitting in the corner of the bar, scowling at his friends, or coworkers by the look of their matching shirts that all read Miller Contracting. He’d finally cracked a smile when they all gathered around him, singing a terribly poor rendition of “Happy Birthday”. You think you may have even seen his shoulders bounce with laughter.
There was something about this guy. Something that drew you in.
Maybe it was the way he looked all serious most of the night, crease between his brows and everything, glass of whiskey in hand. Maybe it was his dark brown curls and patchy scruff, peppered with grey. Perhaps it was the fact you’d always been attracted to older men.
But if you had to make a real scientifically educated guess, not being laid in just over a billion years might’ve had something to do with the appeal.
Whatever. He was hot, okay?
It was around the fifth time you two had locked eyes that he’d gestured toward the bar, asking silently for you to meet him over there.
Fuck it, you thought - and at some point throughout the night, that became your motto. Especially when you'd decided it would be a great idea to bring him home, despite the infinite list of reasons not to.
But, who were you to deny this middle-aged man birthday sex? Right?
Right?
A sting of regret fills your eyes with each dry blink and your heartbeat flutters rapidly in your chest, which is always a super fun symptom of your hangovers these days.
Your sheets feel like a haven this morning, cradling you in luxurious warmth that you never want to leave and—
God, are you still naked? You don’t even remember falling asleep.
You cannot get out of bed right now, not with your head pounding like it is. You clamp your eyes shut, waiting for one of your siblings to come and tap at your door with their sticky hands.
Why are their hands always so fucking sticky?
Maybe they’ll just let you sleep until you have to drive them to school. Wishful thinking.
Your mattress groans as you roll lazily to your left side, swearing under your breath, heart simultaneously sinking down to your stomach when you behold what's in front of you.
He's still here, lying next to you - the man you'd brought home last night - sleeping peacefully, taking deep, languid breaths beneath your sheets.
Fuck.
You freeze, bloodshot eyes wide, willing him to disappear into thin air.
Who the hell doesn’t sneak back home in the middle of the night after a one-night-stand? Isn’t that, like, the polite thing to do?
You clench your eyes tightly, hoping he’s a figment of your imagination - but when you open them, you’re met with tanned, broad shoulders, lightly dusted with freckles from the sun, and the back of his curls, loose and sloppy from sleep and sex.
It's no wonder your blankets are radiating so much heat - he's the goddamned kindling.
“I’ll start the waffles,” you hear Romy sleepily croak, muffled through your bedroom door. “Go wake her up, Bear. She probably forgot to set her alarm again.
You gasp. A deep, genuine plea for air.
Shit. Shit. Fuck. Shit.
You would be so dead if your parents weren’t.
You begin assessing your situation. You have about two minutes before Bear snaps out of whatever book he's reading, and actually comes to wake you. That is, if Lulu doesn’t get to you first. In that case, you have about twenty seconds.
“Lulu, no.” Romy snaps her fingers like she’s scolding a puppy. “Go get your homework and put it in your backpack. Sissy told me that Ms. Diaz said you’re missing two days worth. You're in kindergarten, Lu, how are you missing homework when it's all cutting and pasting?”
“But—"
“Go,” Romy rasps.
The pattering of tiny jelly sandals, and a squeaky whine from the five-year-old echoes through the crack under your door. You can almost see the way Lulu lets her head hang in shame when she’s caught. Her long, wavy hair in front of her face while her cheeks pink up.
Okay. You have two minutes then.
Your eyes snap back to the man in your bed. He’s dead asleep, each breath deep and slow. He smells like your perfume mixed with cedar and the whiskey that spearheaded this whole situation. His skin looks so soft against your plush, white sheets. He looks calm.
Fine.
You'll be nice and let him sleep. You can only hope that he’s at least smart enough to not come out of the room while you’re dealing with the monsters beyond your bedroom door.
Slowly and carefully, you roll over, wriggling free of your tangled bedding, hoping that - was his name Joe? No, Joel. Joel - hoping that Joel isn’t a light sleeper.
No such luck. You look back, jaw clenched tight like a jaguar, and there’s pair of sleepy brown eyes staring back at you.
“Good morn—“
You all but pounce on him, placing your hand over his mouth. His eyes widen at your legs sprawled over his middle, and they grow even wider when he hears tiny voices coming from the kitchen, coupled with the clanking of a whisk in a plastic bowl.
“Shhh." You retract your hand from his mouth and place your finger to your lips.
“Bearrrrr!” Lulu’s whines could literally be echolocated by the bats inhabiting South America. “Romy said to wake her up!”
“I’m going! Just lemme finish this paragraph!”
“But, she needs to look over my homework and she needs to fix my hair and—“
“Jesus, Lulu, just let him finish. Come grab the first waffle and I’ll do your hair later.”
“Is that—“ Joel tries before your hand is back to concealing his mouth in an instant.
“What’d I just say,” you whisper harshly.
He raises his hands in defeat.
Since when were his hands so big?
His sleep-worn eyes trail down your body, the lines around them creasing as a smile breaks beneath your hand.
You follow his eye-line, realizing you’re still completely naked, bare chest fully on display.
“Perv.” You cover your breasts with your free arm, cheeks flushing as you feel him smile wider into the palm of your hand. “Not funny." You grab his jaw. "Wait here."
He nods. You sloppily race out of bed, looking for anything to cover your body. The sound of chair legs scraping against the oakwood floors echoes, and itty-bitty footsteps begin thrumming toward your bedroom door.
Why the hell did you insist on having the room closest to the kitchen?
A tiny knock at your door has Joel pulling the sheets up to his nose. You gesture at him to keep still, shifting your attention to the door and the little shadow underneath it.
You spot the forest green flannel Joel was wearing last night, slung over top of your dresser in the haste of what you can only remember in hazy blurbs of Joel's tongue and hands tracing over your perfumed skin. You grab it without thought, and begin buttoning with rapidity.
Another little knock.
“Baby Bear?” you pant, Joel’s flannel now fastened enough to cover your chest. It’s hem uneven, thanks to your crack buttoning skills, hanging a few inches below your ass, covering you just barely.
“Can I come in?”
You reach into your underwear drawer, grabbing the first pair your hand touches and stepping into them while Joel watches intently. Grinning like he’s watching his favorite TV show.
“How ‘bout I come out,” you offer.
You hear a giggle through the chestnut-stained door. “'Kay. Lulu wouldn’t let me have eggs and toast.”
“Eggs and toast tomorrow it is, then. I’ll be out in a sec, alright? Go eat.”
There’s that giggle again, followed by thudding steps back into the kitchen, shouts of celebration about eggs and toast tomorrow, and groans from Lulu.
You look over at Joel, who's holding in a laugh.
“Wait here,” you mouth, and he nods again - this time with a wink. The bastard.
You wipe the mascara that's made a home beneath your eyes while Joel sinks back into your bed, pulling a pillow over his head.
Your hair’s a rat's nest, but the claw clip you trip over on your way out will fix that.
You open the door and slip out, loosing a breath at the sight of Bear swinging his legs, sat atop a barstool pushed close to the kitchen island. He’s shoveling a syrup-covered piece of waffle with one hand, and tracing along the words of some book about rainforests with the other. Lulu’s sat next to him, focused on getting syrup onto every square-inch of her waffle. Both wholly unaware of the middle aged man you're hiding in your bedroom.
“Ah,” you sing as you walk by Bear, smoothing his cowlick down as you make your way around the counter, “Romy made you guys waffles, huh? Heard Lulu put up quite a fight for these.”
“Wasn’t equipped to argue with her today,” Romy says, filling the waffle maker with a sloppy pour.
You nudge her with your hip.“I can take over so you can get ready.”
“Thanks.” She hands over the ladle and wipes her hands on her pajama pants.
“Thanks for picking up my slack."
“Yep,” she sighs, wiping the flour that made its way to her elbow. “Fun night?”
Your heart skips, but your face remains stoic as you clean the loose batter that seeps through the sides of the waffle maker.
You ignore her question. “Thanks for covering for me here last night. I’ll give you my tips after my shift today.”
“Happy to help.” Her eyes pull toward your bedroom door and snap back at you. “Both of you,” she says quietly, smiling like a maniac.
“Excuse me?” you lower your voice, your brows following suit. Your face is a bit more scrunched than you’d like.
“You never close your bedroom door in the morning. And under your eyes turns a specific shade of purple when you’ve been up all night.”
“You’re insane.” There’s no use in lying to Romy, she’s too damned perceptive for her own good, but you decide it’s worth a shot.
"Also, I heard you talking to someone when you walked in last night at-" she checks an imaginary watch "-two in the morning."
"I was on the phone. What are you doing awake at two?" you deflect, and not well, based on the look she's giving you.
“Should I go ask him if he wants a waffle?”
“Romy!” You wack her on the arm.
“Ow!”
“No one’s in there,” you lie again, fully aware of the fact that it’s not working.
“Fine. I’m just saying, I’m not stupid,” she grumbles. “It’s alright if there's a guy, just wake up earlier next time. Lulu spins out when you’re not up.”
“Noted."
"Good."
"Jesus, Ro, you're a mess." You dust away the flour on the neckline of pajama top. It’s got a giant rainbow trout across the chest, and it spills over her knees. "Is this Dad’s shirt?”
“Uh - yeah, I found it at the bottom of his drawer before the move." Before you can comment, she looks you up and down, raising one brow. “And whose flannel is that?”
“Dad’s,” you snap.
“Mm. Yeah. Dad never wore flannels.”
“Well - he wore this one,” you try to sell your third lie of the morning while she rolls her eyes. You grab her by the shoulders, turning her away and giving her gentle a shove. "Don't you have to get ready? Go away."
She starts up the stairs. “Tell him I say 'hi' and that he’s got nice taste in flannels!”
“Shut up!” you shout into the void.
“Ms. Diaz says we’re not supposed to say shut up,” Lulu says, smacking on her last few bites of waffle.
“Shut up, Lu. Finish your breakfast,” you say flatly, fixing yourself a plate.
The morning is pretty standard, as far as mornings have gone in the last two years. Romy gets ready in her room. Bear and Lulu’s homework gets checked by you, while Bear spits out facts about some frog he's learned about in some encyclopedia he’s picked up from the library that week. You pretend to be extremely interested, all while Lulu insists on you doing her hair over Romy, because 'she pulls too hard'.
Everything’s done with about fifteen minutes to spare. Except this time, there’s a stranger in your bed. A stranger who patiently awaits your instruction.
He’s probably fast asleep, you’d kept telling yourself while your morning tasks seemed to take a lifetime. Each plait of Lulu’s french-braid found it’s place in slow-motion, and Bear’s droning on about the strawberry poison dart frog appeared infinite as you tapped your foot through it all, listening for any signs of stirring behind your bedroom door.
“Everyone get in the car. I need pants,” you say, handing the keys to Romy. Finally - fucking finally, this morning was almost over. Almost.
You bolt to your room about a millisecond after the front door clicks shut behind them. He’s probably asleep, you repeat to yourself, taking a deep breath before you turn the knob.
You open your door slowly, revealing a man sitting up on the edge of the bed, fully dressed (minus a green flannel), complete with a smug little grin plastered on his face.
Your eyes lock on one another. You lean your back against the wall, loosing a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in all morning.
“Y’alright?” he asks.
“I’m so sorry,” you say with a winded laugh, placing your head in your hands. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Busy mornin’?”
“What do you think?” You begin surveying your room for a clean pair of jeans or sweats or anything that can cover your legs.
”I’m thinkin’ so,” he chuckles.
You quickly find a pair of jeans and slip one leg in, pausing to look up at the man on your bed. His curls are tousled and his scruff seems thicker than it was 8 hours ago.
“You said you were-“
“Twenty-five,” you say, fighting with your zipper.
“S’right. Twenty-five.” He places his hand on the back of his neck and rubs a knot that’s probably been there for just as long. “Twenty-five,” he repeats.
“Isn’t gonna make me any older the more you say it.”
He doesn’t seem to notice that you’re being a smart ass. That, or he doesn’t care. Either way, you see his wheels turning and you know what he’s about to ask. You wish people didn’t always have to ask.
“Twenty-five ‘n - how many voices were there? Three?”
You look down, attempting to fix the buttons on your stolen flannel.
“Um, yeah. Three.”
“Any of them-“
“Mine? No,” you interrupt. “They’re my siblings. Fifteen, seven, and five.”
Before he has time to ask any more questions you start again.
“Hey listen - I really gotta go. My sister’s already suspicious, so um, if you could let yourself out after we take off - like, without stealing anything - I’d really appreciate it.”
Your tactic fails.
“Your parents?”
“Out of town,” you say quickly, trying to avoid the inevitable condolences from someone you're never going to see again.
Technically it's true, they are out of town - just buried 6 feet further down than you’d prefer.
“You can leave the door unlocked,” you continue before he can ask more questions. “I’ll be back soon. I have to get ready for my shift.” It dawns on you that you may have made this poor man late for work. “Oh shit, are you - do you have to be anywhere right now?”
He shakes his head and peeks at his watch. “Not ‘til ‘bout nine.”
“Okay, good.” You know he’s lying. He glances at his watch every second he thinks you're not looking. “Alright so,” you clap your hands together, “I guess just don’t steal anything - and leave right after you hear me leave. Okay?”
He leans back, placing his palms on the bed.
“You always this - twitchy?”
Your brows scrunch. “What?”
“You heard me. You always this keyed up? Or was last night just a fluke?”
“Only when there’s a strange man in my bed who won’t stop asking me questions.” You cross your arms.
“So you always let strange men into your bed?” His brows raise, brown eyes twinkling at you like a goddamn puppy. “Or am I just special?”
“You always fuck someone twenty years younger than you? Or am I just special?"
His brows lower. That shut him up. Finally. Now you can-
“Only when they beg for it."
Oh.
Oh this fucking guy. Now you remember this fucking guy.
"I did not beg for it." Your ears feel like they're going to melt off.
"Didn't beg for it," he repeats. "Must be misrememberin' things, then."
"You are."
He chuffs.
“Okay, then. I have to go," your voice falters. "Sorry again for all of this, and - um - don’t steal anything.”
“You said that already, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. Fuck off.
“Then don’t do it.” You glower.
He just laughs to himself, like he's trying his hardest not to push it.
“Looks good on you by the way,” he says, still leaning back on his palms. His biceps flexed under his faded black tee.
“I - huh?”
“My flannel.” He points. “Well, your daddy’s flannel - 'f that's what ya wanna call it. Works either way, I s'pose."
Your eyes shift between his. He gives you a fox-like grin. You could slap him right now, if you weren't so busy trying to keep yourself from blushing over the fact that he'd definitely heard everything beyond your bedroom door this morning.
“I don't have time for this,” you swear under your breath, tripping your way through your cesspool of a room.
“Had fun with ya last night,” you hear him say while you’ve got one foot out the door.
Your limbs freeze.
“Yeah - um. Me too.” You peer back into the room. “Nice meeting you, uh -“
Oh fuck, how did you already forget his name? You just had it an hour ago. It started with a G. No, a J. Juh. Juh. Juh-
“C’mon, darlin’. Had you screamin’ it last night, ’n ya already forgot?”
Alright, fuck this guy.
“Guess it just wasn’t that memorable.”
“Bullshit,” he huffs a laugh. “The mouth on you, girl."
Your nose scrunches with a vindictive grin.
"It’s Joel,” he says. “Joel Miller.”
“I was getting there."
“Didn’t want you hurtin’ that pretty little head thinkin’ too hard.” He winks. “Nice meetin’ you too, darlin’.”
“Alright, Joel-“
He interrupts to say your name back. Just to make your stomach swirl. Just to show you he remembers.
“Leaving now," you say, heartbeat drumming in your ears.
“We’ll see,” he says. You don’t have to look at him to know he’s grinning.
“Bye, Joel Miller. Happy birthday,” you say on your way out.
Good riddance.
————
Miraculously, you get all three kids to school on time. You speed home, hoping you’ll have more than five minutes to shower this time, and maybe more than that to actually put on some makeup before your shift at Sweet Pea's Café - a charming little mom-and-pop restaurant that you'd applied to a few weeks after the move.
The door’s creak is the only sound that fills the house when you enter, followed by your strained, “Hello?”
No response.
Nothing greets back, save for the smell of freshly brewed coffee and maple syrup, stuck for life onto the plates that the kids forgot to rinse after breakfast. Except, you don’t remember making any coffee this morning. In fact, you haven’t used the drip coffee maker since before you’d moved.
It belonged to your dad, and you had only saved it because the counter would look completely off-kilter if Dad’s coffee maker weren’t here taking up some space - like the heart of the house would be missing. So there it sat, unused, untouched, and cloaked in a gummy layer of coffee grounds-past.
You saunter into the kitchen, and for a split second you expect to find your dad, sipping entirely too loudly from his under-washed, borderline unusable coffee mug.
And maybe the thought would’ve lasted longer if you weren’t met with the pile of dishes you had to do, and to the right of those, a note.
Words written on a piece of torn printer paper, its ends curled up like ribbon, lying next to the half-full coffee maker.
You pick it up:
Tried my hardest not steal anything, but you left a perfectly good waffle out on the counter. Couldn’t have a waffle without some coffee, so I stole some of that too. Try not to be too mad, the coffee tasted like shit, so now we're even. Also, the roses in the windowsill could use some water. Or a trashcan.
Joel
You let a smile slip before you can catch yourself. You turn the note over :
If you want to yell at me for all the stealing.
His phone number follows, written neatly underneath.
A freshly washed plate, mug, and fork sit lonely on the dish-rack, which makes you smile even wider.
Your eyes flit up toward the windowsill above the sink, where the dried roses are sitting. Restfully. Gathered together, bound in a transparent green vase. Their color drained out from stem to petal - the way marrow dries up in the bones of a corpse. Stiff, hollow, and lifeless.
Nothing like the smile on your mom’s face the day your dad brought home that same bouquet of red roses. The kind of red so deep, it makes you feel something. You hadn’t seen her so giddy before, the way her smile lines creased so sweetly and her eyes beamed. She sang quietly to herself while she trimmed the stems and filled the vase with water, arranging the blooms perfectly.
You clench your teeth, swallowing the lump that’s formed in your throat as you ball Joel’s note into your fist and throw it into the garbage.
————
Friday finally comes, and you’re thanking whatever the hell created the universe after the way this week dragged. Each day felt agonizingly long; even work at the café was eerily slow. Helping the kids with school projects. One customer popping in here and there.
It was the definition of mundane, and it didn’t exactly leave you with much to do besides think. Think about your night with Joel and that stupid note he left. Fantasize about his calloused hands on your bare skin. He had infiltrated the walls inside your mind like a fucking termite who was immune to extermination.
That night was gnawing at your brain. That morning was gnawing at your brain. Joel Miller was gnawing at your brain. The way he'd made you laugh at the bar, the moans he’d drawn out of you in your own sheets, the phone number he’d written out just for you. It was relentless. Sickening, even.
It didn’t help your case once you had begun to string together piece after piece of that drunken night you two shared. You’d get flashes of it in the shower, in bed at night, and it even begun invading your mind at work. His sweat-soaked skin against yours. His low drawl sending chills up your spine while he whispered against your ear. The way he felt inside of you and told you how pretty you looked, ‘takin’ it like a good girl’.
It all ended the same way - with your hand between your legs the moment you were left alone in your bedroom.
Sleep had evaded you night after night, and instead, had you lying in bed and staring at the ceiling - willing yourself to keep still, rather than going to search for Joel’s note at the bottom of the garbage can, sodden and sticky with syrup and grape-jellied crusts from Bear’s sandwiches.
Times like that - when the gnawing was so incessant you thought you might scream - you’d think of a list of reasons why it would be a monumentally bad idea to go dumpster diving for that stupid fucking phone number. The list you’d come up with was logically sound, and painstakingly long. You’d repeat it to yourself over and over and over to lull yourself to sleep.
Toward the top of your imaginary list, the age gap between the two of you danced in your head like a tragic ballet. This must've been a lapse in judgement for him. Maybe a mid-life crisis or something he had to get out of his system.
The kids were the most glaringly obvious con on the list. They rely on you fully, and they don't need you getting distracted by whatever having Joel's number saved in your phone would entail. You hadn't even told him the kids were under your legal guardianship, and if you did, who's to say he wouldn't run for the hills like everyone else.
On Wednesday night, you’d concluded that you couldn’t have been the first woman Joel had left a note for, anyways. There was absolutely no scenario in which there weren’t other women he’d gone home with - maybe even your age - that hadn't found a slip of paper with his number written on it the next morning. Who are you to think that you're special enough to be the only one? Who are you to think that he’d been waiting impatiently for you to call? He's not making a list. He’d forgotten all about you by now.
But sometimes, you’d fail to catch the thoughts that wandered too fast and far, unable to squash the fantasy of it all. The asinine daydream where you were the only one, having allowed yourself to keep his note in your back pocket and call him whenever you wanted. Whenever you were ready. A world in which you could sleep with a man the night before, and not have to keep him hidden like a secret in your room; or not having to treat any semblance of a chance at a relationship with a man like a mushy, over-ripe, banana - tossing it out before it has the chance to rot in front of the kids.
This particular Friday afternoon, though, your mind had finally quieted. It was as if the night you’d shared with Joel threw the ecosystem in your brain off balance - changed the pH of the soil, and the temperature of the climate. The repeated list of reasons not to reach out had been the controlled burn you’d needed to silence the flashbacks and fantasies. Finally, you could breathe.
You were finishing up your afternoon shift when you felt a buzzing coming from your apron pocket. You fish out your phone, a silly contact picture lighting up the screen with each vibration.
Romy.
“Ro? Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” you whisper from behind the cash register.
“I just needed to ask something real quick?"
“Yeah?”
“Before you say no, my homework’s already finished - I did it in fourth period - and my room is clean and -“
“What d’you want?”
“There’s this girl, Sarah - she switched into my AP Bio like two Wednesdays ago - anyway, we’ve been hanging out at lunch too and sometimes even in the library - “
“Spit it out, babe,” you snort.
“She asked if I could sleep over at her house tonight. So I was wondering...”
“Of course you can go.”
“Really?” she squeals.
“Yeah, Ro. You’ve been helping me out a lot since the move. Maybe too much, actually. You deserve it. Plus you have, like, zero friends by my count.”
“Shut up,” she chides. “Thank you. I can’t wait to tell her. She said her dad was gonna get the pool all ready for us and everything!”
“Jealous,” you say, mindlessly skimming a customer’s receipt. “I have to meet her parents first, though. You know the drill.”
“I know, I know. But it’s just...parent. Just her dad.”
“Okay, whatever,” you sigh, half listening. A lady with rosy cheeks and a button nose meanders over to read the menu above your head. You flash her a plastic smile, saying into the other line, “Gotta go,” before hanging up the call to ring up a blueberry muffin and an iced chai.
————
You pick the kids up from school after your shift, and Romy wastes no time in packing an overnight bag the second you all get home. You freshen yourself up, changing into jeans and a comfy sweater, wiping the work day and coffee grounds off your skin. It’s nerve-wracking to meet the parents of any of your siblings’ friends, because they're one: always so much older and more put together than you - and two: always surprised to see a sister in lieu of a mom. It was always jarring for other people, and for some reason, however understandable, it bothers you.
“You ready?” you ask, clasping your hands together - Romy excitedly pacing in the kitchen with a backpack full of pjs and toiletries waiting for your go-ahead.
You try to swallow your dread as Romy whirls around with a huge smile. She hasn’t been this giddy in months. She was finally acting like a teenager, and you can’t recall the last time she’d been able to be one. She’s practically beaming.
This will be good for her, you think. She could use a friend.
You all pile into the car and Romy types the address into your phone.
“Oh,” she says, handing it back to you, “it’s only three blocks away.”
“Well maybe if this goes well, you could walk there next time,” you bat her on the shoulder and she squats you away.
It takes all of about two minutes to get there, pulling your car beside the curb. Romy’s excitement is palpable, even making you feel a little nervous.
“Don’t embarrass me,” she says with a wince, throwing her backpack around her shoulder.
“You don’t embarrass me,” you assert.
You leave the car running with the two little ones in the back, urging them not to touch anything. You throw an arm around Romy as you walk up the drive and make your way up the front porch. She takes a deep breath before she nods in your direction, prompting you to knock on the door.
*Knock knock knock*
“Is that my hair clip?” Romy asks with a tone.
“Huh?” You feel the back of your head, where the clip holds your hair in place. “I don’t know. I just grabbed it out of my bathroom.”
“It’s mine.” You both turn and face each other, ripping your arm from her shoulder. “Why do you always steal my stuff?”
If you had a dollar for every time Romy picked a fight when she's nervous about something...
“Steal your stuff? Isn’t that my shirt you’re wearing?”
“You gave it to me, idiot!”
“I don’t remember giving it to you. Why would I give something to someone that won’t even let me borrow a fucking hair clip?” You whisper harshly.
“I would, if you would just ask like a normal fucking human!” Her features pinch tightly.
“Oh my god," you scoff. "You’re so annoying - I’m glad I’m getting rid of you tonight. Maybe I'll get lucky and Sarah’s dad will offer to adopt you.”
“Good! Maybe he won’t steal all my shit and pretend like it’s his," she mutters angrily.
“Romy,” you say through your teeth, “watch your fucking mouth before-“
Someone clears their throat in front of you, the smell of cedar and coffee wafting out toward you two. It grabs both of your attention, whirling your heads back to the door in front of you - except now it’s open, a man broad enough to block the entrance staring back at both of you.
Your stomach plummets down to your ass. No - further.
Not because this guy definitely just overheard you cussing out your little sister. Not even because Romy specifically asked you not to embarrass her - which you'd undoubtedly just done.
No. None of that mattered right now.
Not when the hand propping open the door was the same one that had been wrapped around your neck Sunday night. Staring back at you are the same brown eyes that he made you look at while he talked you through your climax. And a familiar mouth - one that already knows the taste of your cunt - twisted in that same sardonic grin he'd donned Monday morning.
Joel fucking Miller.