Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
We sit on the landing. Army follows with a bag. Iron pops up, seeing us, and Army takes out ice cream and cups and spoons and chocolate sauce. I grab the bottle because I can do it myself.
“Is Mom okay?” Iron looks at Macon.
“Mom’s fine,” he mumbles, scooping ice cream into the mugs.
“Trace is in bed. Ice cream for dinner.”
We all get our cups, and I squeeze the syrup into mine. Lots and lots.
“Stop yelling at Dad,” Army whispers to Macon.
“Fuck him.”
Macon doesn’t look at him, but he looks at me, and I get scared. Then, he holds out his cup, and I smile, squeezing the syrup into his as hard as I can.
He smiles a little at me, and it makes me feel good. I like it when he does that.
Army takes a drink out of one of my dad’s bottles, but Macon takes it away and finishes the whole thing. Army doesn’t get mad because Macon is scarier than Dad.
My mom was pregnant with Liv in that memory. I came to understand later what had really happened that day. How it finally dawned on me that there were a few years between Macon and Army, and almost five between Army and Iron, but there was little time between me and Trace, and Trace and Liv. My father’s ignorant attempt to give my mother a reason to live turned out to be a burden that just made it worse.
It’s a whole new experience to remember things as an adult. How Macon was only thirteen that day, but I saw him as a man when it happened. I feared and revered him more than either of my parents because he was stronger than they were. A rock. Constant.
And how incredible he was at that age to send my father running from the house. How he was often the one who made sure we bathed and brushed our teeth, and had clean dishes and clean sheets. Dad worked a lot and Mom just …
Self-isolating, Krisjen had said.
Mood swings.
Loss of appetite.
Insomnia.
It was gradual and quiet. Her withdrawal from us. Hiding away behind closed doors. Only Macon could tell what was going to happen eventually.
And now only Krisjen has noticed what the rest of us have been too close to see.
I step toward the door but see a jacket folded over Liv’s desk chair. An old leather motorcycle jacket Macon grew out of in high school that Liv found years later. I roll the soft, smooth leather between my fingers. The faded ribbed padding on the elbows and shoulders. The standing collar missing a button. He wore this a lot. On a bike. With no helmet. Because needlessly toying with death just might be worth the feel of the wind.
I drop it back to the chair, head to my room, and push my hangers aside. I dig in the back for Iron’s clothes and pull out his identical jacket. I slip it on, tie my boots, and grab my wallet.
I head down the stairs and into the garage, grabbing Iron’s keys off the ring on the wall.
“I want you to come,” I hear Army say.
I glance over, seeing Macon under the hood, Trace, Krisjen, and Army standing around him.
“With Iron gone, the Jaegers look weaker,” Trace adds. “You’re the only one who intimidates them more than him.”
Macon says nothing. I was wondering how they were going to get him to go have some fun.
“Please?” Army asks, his mood light despite their brawl the night before.
I move Iron’s bike, flipping up the kickstand as Krisjen dabs sunscreen on her nose and cheeks.
“I don’t know why y’all think he’s afraid to come,” she chirps, looking at her reflection in a hub cap hanging on the wall. “St. Carmen is your land, too, isn’t it?”
“Was,” Trace tells her.
But I chime in. “Is.” They all look at me, like they didn’t expect me to really come. “I know what to do,” I inform them.
Macon rises, his attention piqued. “And what’s that exactly?”
I roll the bike out of the garage. “Remind them that we’re still here.”
It’s all our turf. We forgot that. “Krisjen, you coming?” I call back.
She hesitates for a second, but she doesn’t ask questions. She climbs on behind me. I hand her a helmet, but she tosses it back on the couch in the garage. I smile.
In no time, Trace and Army follow with Dex, all of them climbing into the truck, and I start up the bike, Krisjen wrapping her arms around my waist. I rev the engine, seeing Trace smiling at me, and I catch movement in my rearview mirror, watching Macon pull on a faded leather jacket. He stares after us, looking reluctant for a moment.
But then he turns and grabs his keys.
The wind flies at me, hitting my sunglasses, but I only go faster, gripping the handlebars tighter. Krisjen’s arms constrict like a snake.