leah

His style suggests a mix of preppy and effortlessly cool. That doesn’t surprise you, knowing Palomino Hills contains a heft of wealthier families. He looks nothing like the boys at your school and nothing like the boys in your basement. 

"That obvious?" you say.

"Little bit." He smiles, purely whites on full display. “I’m Tate.”

He's a senior at the high school here which gives him a sheen of mystery. He asks you questions and then actually listens to the answers. Doesn't look over your shoulder for someone better the way boys have done with you at other parties. By the end of the night he's asked for your number, and Anna is mouthing OH MY GOD at you from across the crowded living room. 

2 days later you stand in the kitchen swinging the long coiled phone cord around and around, then wrap it around your finger as you talk with Tate. He called you when he told you he would. That becomes one of the things you really like about him. He does what he says he's going to do and shows up when he says he'll show up. The complete opposite of your dad. So he gets an A+ for that. When you tell him early on that you want to take things slow physically –you brace for the face boys have made at you in the past, the one that clues you in they aren’t too pleased with your request– he just nods and says, "Whatever you need, I want you to feel comfortable, I'm not like other guys." 

It’s not that you want to take all physical things slow, just the full monty, if you catch my drift. So far he seems to be quite alright with all the other things you’re doing together. Plus you feel like you can finally breathe, having a safe place for all your physical wants that you can’t aim at either of your step-brothers without ruining it all. 

You keep Tate to yourself for close to a month. Just wanting to see how things play out between you. But you notice how the secret starts to make you feel. You come in from a date still tasting Tate’s chapstick on your lips and slide into Tommy's or Joel’s bed 20 minutes later, and you lie there feeling like you’re doing something wrong. It's not cheating. Tommy's your friend. Joel's your friend. And you and Tate aren’t even official, so there is no line anywhere for you to be on the wrong side of. 

So why does it feel like there is?

~~

You know it's kinda soon. You haven't been seeing Tate that long — you're not even his girlfriend. But when he invited you to dinner with his parents, there was something in the way he looked at you that made saying no feel impossible.  So you’ve spent the last 3 days losing your mind on what the hell you’re gonna wear. Since the dinner is at their country club. 

Well la-tee-fuckin-da.

You don't have country club clothes. Closest thing is a church dress from two Easters ago, and that just won’t do. But you have Anna, thank God. You go to her place where she has a shit-ton of options waiting for you. You settle on a simple dress and her lowest pair of wedges – so you have a fighting chance of not falling or rolling an ankle. 

Standing in front of the mirror and tugging at the hem, you try to see what a rich woman would see. 

Horse shit. 

That's what you keep thinking. That his mother is going to take one look at you and see the horse shit under her overpriced equestrian riding boots. People like that can smell an apartment kid from a mile away. Can smell the sad existence of hamburger helper and secondhand everything from across a dining room, you're sure of it. 

You're still tugging at the dress when Anna appears behind you in the mirror, arms crossed, head tilted. 

"Okay, staaaahp." She smacks your hand away from the hem. “You look perfect!”

"I look like I'm playing dress-up." Even though you’ve gained copious amounts of confidence in your body since coming back from camp, you’ve never felt comfortable in a dress. They've just never been your thing. The tom-boy inside you is kicking and screaming. 

"Don’t be such a turd in the punch bowl! You look like a total knockout!” She spins you by the shoulders to face her, hands staying there, giving you the serious Anna eyes. “Walk in there like you own the place. Fake it till you make it – that's what most rich people do anyhow.” She reaches up, fixing a piece of your hair. "You survived moving into a basement with two feral teenage boys. A country club is nothing." 

You chuckle with a wary smile. 

The rumble of Tate's car comes up the street right on time. Anna's eyebrows shoot up. "That's your ride, Cinderella!" 

You mumble something about turning back into a pumpkin at midnight, she just scoffs at you and walks you to the door. Tate steps out of the car, making his way up her driveway. When he looks up and sees you, he stops dead in his tracks. Continuing to make your way towards him.

"Wow… look at you, babycakes."

"Don't be weird about it,” you tell him, feeling more self-conscious now that you’re out in the light of the late afternoon. 

"I'm being nice about it. You look really pretty." He takes your hand in his and leads you to his car, opening the door for you. "Relax. They're gonna love you." 

"Have her home by a reasonable hour!" Anna calls from the doorway, with a big smile on her face. 

"No promises," Tate shouts back, grinning.

You slide into the seat, smooth the dress over your knees one more time, and off you go.

~~

The car pulls around the circle drive up to the clubhouse. Coming to a stop under an awning held up by giant white columns. A man other than Tate opens your door for you. “Miss,” he offers you his hand, and you oblige. Tate makes his way around the car, just in time to take you off the man's hand. “Thank you, Reginald.”

Reginald… Jesus. You really aren’t in Kansas anymore. 

Inside the place smells like lemon furniture polish and whatevers on the menu they’re whippin’ up for dinner. Dark green carpet, gold brass fixtures, oil paintings of men who look like they've never once laughed. Ah the lap of luxury. Not a lap you’d ever want to sit in – too uptight, too cold, too stiff. And not in the good way. You keep your elbows close to your body, afraid you might knock over something worth more than your mom's car. 

You make your way through the dining room, weaving through the tables of other snooty patrons. His parents are already at the table. His mother rises first – slim, ash blonde with a touch of silver that blends in well, dainty gold jewelry, the exact woman you feared – you brace for the up-and-down look, the polite frost. Instead she reaches out, taking both your hands. "Oh, there she is! Tate, you didn't tell me she was this lovely – sit by me, honey, come sit by me!" 

Well fuck. 

Now you're more nervous, for a completely different reason. You actually want her to like you now. You didn’t care so much before when you thought she’d be a cold-hearted bitch. 

His father stands next, and the first word that comes to mind is gigantor. This dudes frickin’ huge! Muscular and broad. He reaches out to shake your hand, squeezing your delicate phalanges a little too hard – gigantor doesn’t know his own strength it seems. He orders you a Shirley Temple without making it feel like a kid's drink. Then tells you to get what you want, but gives you his opinion that the filet mignon is the only thing worth eating here, ever since they hired a new head chef and changed the menu. 

Orders are placed and the conversation starts ramping up. You're waiting for the, what do your parents do? So they can discuss and laugh about it together later tonight when they're alone, but it never comes. His mother asks about you, about school and she listens, hand on your arm, smiling kindly at you. When you mention the animal shelter you volunteer at sometimes, she gets all the more excited. Telling you about all the charity work she does, one even being with a different animal shelter. Isn't that something, the two of you have to compare notes. 

Somewhere between the main course and dessert, you realize you've stopped faking it, till you make it, and you're just… talking freely. Tate's got his arm across the back of your chair and his father is telling stories about his Polo playing days. Not the most riveting, but it doesn’t bore you to tears. 

You excuse yourself to the bathroom at one point just to take a breath and stand at the marble sink to look at yourself. These people, who have every reason to look down their noses at you, don't. And you've spent so long feeling like the odd one out. The girl who doesn't quite fit even at her own dinner table, that you figured tonight was going to be a carbon copy of that – except 100 times worse. But tonight, here, surrounded by old money and the upper crust of society, you just slid into place. How fucking bizarre… It shouldn’t mean so much to you but it does. 

Goodbyes happen out front under the awning, valet pulling the cars around. His mother hugs you. It’s warm and comforting, and she smells like gardenias. When she pulls back, her hands slide down your arms and her sleeve rides up. There's a bruise on her forearm. A big one. 

You almost ask, Are you okay? But you swallow it down. Because it's none of your business, and this night has gone too perfectly to go making it weird at the finish line. She's a thin woman – thin women bruise easily, right? Probably caught her arm on a car door. A cabinet corner. Something of that nature. Her sleeve slips back down, and from the bright smile on her face you don’t think she noticed that you saw it. She says she hopes to see more of you soon. You return the smile and pleasantries, saying you hope the same. 

Tate’s parents are the first to drive off. But before leaving the manicured grounds of the country club, he pulls his car to a side parking lot and kills the engine. Then turns to look at you. 

Shifting to meet his gaze you ask, “What’s going on?” 

“You know what my mom said to me when you went to the bathroom?” He’s smiling, clearly delighted at whatever he’s about to tell you, as you answer by shaking your head at him. “She said, don’t you mess this up Tate.” 

Unable to speak, all you feel is shock. His mom likes you… and you weren’t anyone but yourself. 

"So I'm not gonna," Tate puts his hands out for you to take. When you do, his face turns serious. "I want you to be my girlfriend. No more keeping it quiet.” His thumbs brush over your hands. "And I wanna meet your family. Since you met mine.”

"Yeah," you say, smiling before you can stop it. "Okay." 

It's only later, lying in bed that night in Anna’s guest room, staring at a bare ceiling with no glowing stars on it, that the nerves show up. All your mind can think about are the 2 boys back in the basement, and what happens when they find out.

~~

Your mom, upon hearing the word boyfriend, reacts like you've cured cancer. There is squealing and a hand pressed to her chest. And okay, it's not like he's your first boyfriend. It's that you've never brought one home – never handed one over to her to be fed and fussed at. Dinner is proposed, planned, and by Saturday she's got Ric's favorite going on the stove, carne guisada that's been simmering half the day, homemade flour tortillas, rice, the whole spread. She's trying so hard, and you feel grateful for it. The house smells incredible. 

Tate shows up at six on the dot. You hear the loud exhaust announcing his arrival. When you open the door he's standing there in a Ralph Lauren button-down with flowers for you and your mom.

Your mom melts. "Come in, come in! Oh, aren't you just so sweet,” She says, taking both bouquets of flowers from him. His hands now empty, she gets a good look at him. “Myyyyy goodness, look at you!" Might you say it seems like your mom is surprised that you lassoed this strapping young man.

Ric rolls his eyes at your mother with a smile on his face. He moves to greet Tate, one hand settling on your mom's shoulder as he leans past her, the other extended. "Tate. Heard a lot about you." Which is a generous framing of the 48 hours he's known you had a boyfriend.

"All good things, I hope, sir."

Sir. Well, well he seems to be pulling out all the stops. You watch Ric's face but you can’t tell if he’s impressed or suspish. 

You all shuffle your way to the dining room and you hear the boys coming up from the basement. “What’s all the commotion?” Tommy asks, rounding the corner, Joel behind him. 

Sooooo, here’s the thing. As far as you know, nobody’s told them you had a guest coming over. Let alone that the guest just so happens to be your new boyfriend. You had your chance to tell them both last night when you were all chillin’, and you chickened out. Could have told Tommy when you fell asleep next to him. But guess what… bockkkkk bock bock bock. Told yourself you’d do it in the morning. Then morning came and went. So here you are now staring down the barrel of the gun, wishing you’d done it sooner. 

"Boys, this is Tate," your mom chirps. "Your sister’s new boyfriend."

You squeeze your eyes closed for a moment. Please don't be mad, you think at both of them, uselessly. Please. To your astonishment, their faces don’t give much away. They seem fine with it. Odd. They both introduce themselves to Tate. Tommy giving a grin you know all too well, the performance one. 

"Great to meet you guys," Tate says warmly. "She talks about you all the time."

She does? You don't remember doing that.

Everyone moves towards the table to sit and that's when you catch Tommy’s eyes. His face, now giving everything away. He’s no longer grinning. He’s just looking at you – hurt, plain as day, and betrayed. You were in my bed last night… and I'm finding out like this? 

You hold his gaze hoping the look your face says, I’m so sorry. 

Then you look at Joel. He won’t meet your eyes at all. His are fixed on the middle of the table, and he looks upset. Not mad, upset. Sad, upset. And you just want to hug him, tell him you’re sorry too. It's like you can see the gears turning behind all his stillness. How long? Why didn’t she tell me?

You take your seat next to Tate with your stomach in a knot. Counting down the minutes till you get to speak with them alone later tonight.

~~

Dinner, honestly, goes well.

Tate is good at this. He compliments your moms cooking and asks for the story behind the recipe. She tells him it’s Ric’s mom’s recipe, so she can’t take all the credit and Ric reaches over squeezing her hand at some point as she babbles on. Tate watches them with an expression of such warmth that you feel proud of him. Another A+ on the books.

Tate asks Ric about himself, while he keeps a light hand on the back of your chair, not on you – respectful, claiming adjacent. 

"So how'd you two meet, exactly?" Tommy asks, tearing a piece of tortilla. His tone is friendly. His eyes… not so much. 

"A little get-together at my buddy's place. She was standing in the kitchen looking like she wanted to leave." Tate smiles at you. "Figured I'd give her a reason to stay."

"Hm, how thoughtful of you." Tommy says, unimpressed, words laced with sarcasm. 

You try to give Tommy the stink eye, but he won’t look at you, so you let it go.

A little later, Tate's telling a story about his car – the Cobra, how his dad helped him get into cars – and you happen to look at Joel then. He isn't eating. The fork in his hand rests against his plate while Tate talks. He's watching him, studying him.

"You should hear this thing run," Tate says, pulling your eyes away from Joel. "’93 SVT Cobra. Nothing like it."

"Boys are building a Mustang too out in the garage actually," Ric offers, with a note of pride in it. "'67 Fastback. Been at it a few years now."

"No kidding." Tate turns to the brothers, showing interest. "That's awesome. Old ones are cool!”

By dessert, your mom's telling the story about you falling in the toilet at 2 am your first month here. “She never checked the seat, these 2 heathens never put it down." Tate is laughing, and Tommy pipes in, “In our defense, we never had to worry about putting the lid down.” And for a moment the whole table is laughing together. You look around at all of them mid-laugh and think, maybe this will all be just fine.

~~

You walk him out after dinner. The Mustang sittin’ pretty at the curb under the streetlight. Tate takes your hand on the way down the driveway, swinging it a little. 

"Well," you say. "I think that went really good! My mom likes you. Like, really likes you. Ric'll come around more, think he just doesn’t really know how to handle all this." You laugh, bumping his shoulder. "But I'm really glad you met them. All of them."

"Me too." He stops at the car, turns, takes both your hands. "Your mom's great! Ric seems solid, but I get what you're saying, him never having a daughter before you." Tate pauses for a moment, then continues. "Your step-brothers, though...."

"What about them?" You quickly respond, a little defensive.

"Nothing, nothing. They just seemed kind of… cold, I guess? To me." He shrugs. "The younger one with the little comments, and the older one barely said two words the whole night. I don't know." He looks at you, brown eyes warm and a little wounded. "Do they always act like that with you? Or is it just me?"

"They're—" You laugh a little, wanting to set the record straight. "That's just them. Tommy's got a smart mouth and Joel's quiet with everybody. That's not – they weren't being cold."

"Okay." He says it fast, hands up, retreating smoothly from the conversation. "Forget I said anything. You know them better than I do." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and smiles. For a second the act of Joel doing the same that first night in his room flashes in your mind, before Tate speaks again. "I just care about you. I notice stuff, that's all."

He kisses you goodnight, soft and unhurried. The Cobra roars away down the street. You stand in the driveway a minute after he's gone.

Do they always act like that with you?

Not any more they don’t. Sure, when you first moved in. But they weren't cold to him. Were they? Tommy asked questions. Joel's always quiet. That's just them, you know them, you live with them.

When you come in, you have a feeling the boys are gonna be waiting on you. And you should be walking down there annoyed. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't lie. You just… didn't tell them. Therein lies the problem, because they know you pretty much tell them everything, and you chose to omit this and say nada. Then drop the bomb on them in front of everyone, where they couldn’t do or say anything about it, aside from smile and take it. You did do something wrong, and you can’t feel annoyed. All you feel is upset with yourself, for treating them this way. 

You stand at the bottom of the stairs and take a deep breath, not knowing how this will go. You haven't given yourself a moment to play it out, aware your brain will only concoct up the worst outcomes. Rounding the corner, there they sit on the couch, waiting up for you as you anticipated – Tommy at one end, Joel at the other, the middle cushion empty. Your cushion. You don't sit. You stand in front of the couch with the coffee table behind you, hands clasped, eyes on the floor. Ready for your scolding like a kid in the principal's office. 

Tommy finally breaks the silence. “So,” he says, stretching the word out. “Tate.” He says the name like someone just handed him a baby he didn't ask to hold – arms straight out, wanting no part of it, waiting for somebody to come take it back. "Real nice car." 

"Tommy—" you start, looking over at him.

He cuts you off, putting his hand up. "No, no. Cobra. ‘93. Nothing like it, I hear.”

Your eyes start to burn, feeling the pain you caused them. “I’m sorry,” you drop to your knees in front of them, head hanging with shame while the tears build. 

They could let you sit in it. They could make you feel it, could return an ounce of what got dealt to them at the table, and it'd be fair. But as they look down at you like this – small and wrecked, kneeling at their feet – neither one of them has it in them. Because there is nothing you could do that would make them want to watch you hurt. Not one thing. They'd take the ambush a 100 times over before they'd take this. 

"Hey. Hey, c'mon, don’t do that.” Tommy's voice has lost all its bite from before. "Come up here with us.” You don't get up. You just shake your head, the first tear falling, hitting the carpet, and you watch as it darkens the fibers. You're about to say sorry again, but there is a hand on your jaw. Joel’s. Two fingers under your chin, gently tipping your face up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. He's leaned all the way forward off the couch to reach you, forearm on his knee, and his face isn't cold or closed off. It's just Joel, but he’s looking at you the way he looked at you the night he said you’ve got a place here with us.

"Stop," he says, quietly. His thumb catches the tear on your cheek before it can get far. "None of this." 

"I should've told you," you get out, wobbly. "I should've told both of you and I didn't and then you had to find out like that…”

“Yeah, you should’ve.” Joel says, not letting you off the hook.

“But hey—” Tommy says, and you turn to look at him, Joel’s hand dropping from your face. "You didn't do it to hurt us. You did it 'cause you were scared of how we'd take it. Right?” He shrugs, mouth tugging sideways. 

You nod.

Joel extends his arm out to you, hand open, palm up. “C’mere. Get up here with us.” You take his hand and he pulls you up off your knees, and Tommy pats the middle cushion. You fold down into the space between them. They both scooch in close to you, not giving you the difficult choice of who to lean towards. All 3 of your heads leaning back against the couch. 

There is a little bit of comfortable silence before Joel says, "You know we don’t want you to be afraid of us… you can always come to us, tell us anything. No matter what it is.” Tommy finishes his brother's thought. “And will always be here for you.”

Oh great, here comes the water works again.

What have you done to deserve these sweet boys? You shut your eyes tight, a tear or two escaping down your cheek. You clear your throat before speaking, “I know, and I will from now on. I promise.”

On either side of you, the brothers are thinking the same thing. That you're not the problem. The problem drives a cherry red Mustang. And the problem, they both suspect, is just getting started.

For the next couple weeks you can tell their disdain for Tate is growing by the day, though you're unsure as to why, all their short interactions that you’ve seen between them have been friendly. You still end up in one of their rooms most nights. Even on the nights you've been out with Tate, even when his cologne is still on your neck and in your hair. You come home and slip out of the new version of yourself you wore for him, and let yourself be held by boys who still know you better than your boyfriend does, and they continue to hold you like nothing has changed, thankfully. Because you don't know what you'd do if they stopped.

You keep this from Tate, having a feeling he wouldn't be too keen on the whole set up – his girlfriend sleeping in another guy's bed, two other guys' beds actually, step-brothers or not. ‘Cause you don't know the right words to say to explain it in a way that sounds innocent. Because it is innocent. 

Isn’t it?

~~

You're not ready. You're supposed to be ready. Tate said seven and it's seven when you hear the Cobra rumble up the street. You’ve been running behind more and more recently. Always trying to make sure you’re at your most presentable for Tate. 

You hustle through the kitchen and pop your head out the door to the garage. The big door's rolled up, both brothers puttsing around – Tommy bending over the engine bay of the Fastback, Joel sitting at the workbench with a part in his hand – and beyond them, Tate coming up the driveway, looking like a guy straight outta the Polo Ralph Lauren catalogue. 

"Hey! I'm almost ready, just a few more minutes, I swear." You shout, waving him toward the garage. "Just hang out here, talk cars with the guys." You know he hates when you're late, hates waiting on you. So when you see his smile fall, you know you have to get your ass in gear. 

“Sure thing, babycakes.” Tate says with a flat tone.

You glance at your step-brothers. Who are still focused on their tasks. “Be nice,” you whisper to them with Tate still out of ear shot. Then duck back inside.

Joel hears the door shut, sets the carburetor down, and takes a deep breath before he swivels around on the stool. He really doesn’t wanna interact with this jackwagon, but knows it’ll make you happy.

Tate stands at the edge of the garage. Joel figures it ‘cause he doesn’t wanna get his ritzy outfit dirty. 

Privileged little cocksucker.

Be nice. That’s what you asked of him. So fine. Joel can do a few minutes of nice. 

"So this is the project, huh?" Tate asks, finally taking a few steps into the garage. Both boys know he’s looking at the car like it's a hunk-of-junk, their poverty hobby.

"Yep." Tommy straightens up out of the engine bay, and pats the fender. “Pulled the motor over the winter, rebuilding her top to bottom." 

"Cool, cool." Tate nods along. "What's it got in it?" 

"Right now? A 289. Might stroke it though, we haven't decided." Tommy tosses out. "You know, might just keep it period-correct. How ‘bout ‘ur?" 

"Nice. Yeah, mine's got the – it's the Cobra motor." Tate hooks a thumb back toward the street where the red car sits. "Two-forty horse. You should hear it open up." 

Joel leans back against the bench, arms crossing. He’s got a suspicion that his car has never seen a wrench that wasn’t wearing a dealership shirt. "Pushrod or dual overhead cam?" 

Tate’s eyes widen. "It's the… I mean, it's the SVT setup. They only make so many of 'em a year." 

"Huh," Joel says. Tommy's got a rag going through his hands, and Joel can feel his brother arriving at the same place he just arrived at without either of them looking at each other. 

Bought. Not built. 

This trust fund Ken doll doesn’t know a thing about that car aside from what he read off the brochure. He knows the badge, the number the salesman told his daddy, but he’s never had that hood up a day in his life. He’s the kind of guy who’ll rev that Cobra at every stoplight in town and never know all the small details that go into making that noise. 

Just then your laugh comes though the other side of the door. Loud and spilling out from somewhere in the house. All 3 of the boys look at the door. A smile finding both Joel and Tommy’s face – a reflex your laugh now pulls out of them. 

"She laughs really loud sometimes." Tate says. "You guys ever noticed that? Can hear it clear across a restaurant." He shakes his head, a little indulgent. "Told her we gotta work on her inside-voice. Now I just give her a little look and she stops." 

And just like that the smile dies on Joel's face.

A little look.

Joel thinks about the thrift store. How loud your laugh was when you doubled over in that aisle when he stepped out from the dressing room, asking him to give you a little twirl in those ridiculous JNCOs. Never once has Joel heard that sound and wanted to silence it or wished it quieter. Your laugh has always made him want to laugh right along with you. And the idea that Tate has trained a look that shuts it off –that there's a signal you’re already obeying– makes him feel ill.

Tate stands there and checks his watch. "She always run late like this? Seems like I'm always waiting on her." 

Agitated as hell now with this entire conversation, Tommy chucks the rag onto the fender. "You know what, maybe she's just tryin' to look nice for you." 

Tate huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I guess. I do have her wearing her hair down more – she looks way better like that." 

Joel can feel his few minutes of nice coming to a close. At first he was just annoyed by this silver-spoon-sucking little shit. Spent this whole conversation deciding Tate’s just a harmless idiot. But after both remarks about you, Joel’s starting to see red. Tommy pipes up, trying to keep his cool, searching through the tools next to his brother. "Funny. I’ve always thought she looked nice, however she wants to wear it.” 

“We all have our preferences. I just voiced mine to her.” Tate says, before plastering a devious grin on his face. “She’s so eager to please.”

In that moment, Joel thinks back to you kneeling before him and his brother. And the restraint Joel typically holds is nowhere to be found, when the stool screeches back across the concrete as he flies off of it. Two steps of bad intentions already in motion. He’s gonna strangle this polo wearing prick. But Tommy's hand clamps around his brother's upper arm. Hard. He doesn't yank, doesn't make a scene of it – just locks on and holds, planting himself half a step in front of his big brother. Not here. Not now. Joel feels from his brother's action, as the door to the house flies open.

"Okay, okay, I'm ready!" You come out in a rush of vanilla and flowing hair, grabbing Tate's hand and hauling him down the driveway before anybody can say another word. “Bye guys!” You toss over your shoulder, bright and happy and completely clueless as to what all was just said and what was about to happen. 

Tommy lets go of Joel's arm. The Cobra fires up at the curb, Tate revs the engine like a deliberate middle finger he couldn’t resist throwing, and pulls away with the sound of his car echoing off every house on the street. The taillights swing around the corner, and everything goes quiet except the radio on the workbench, where Axl's opening scream is just starting in Welcome to the Jungle.

Neither of them says anything. Joel stands there staring out at the road, hands flex at his sides. This country club cum stain has no idea who territory he’s stumbled into. If he keeps fuckin’ around, he’s gonna find out real fast what kind of animals he’s messed with. They both know the version of you Tate gets, a polished up princess, who has an apology on her lips because she’s already been trained to think making him wait is some kinda unforgivable sin. But they know the real you.

They know this preppy parasite has spent his whole life taking, taking, taking. He probably sees you as nothing more than another object to add to his collection of pretty things. A girl he’ll try to shape and mold into what he wants, a girl he’ll teach to obey him. Tate can have the Cobra. The trust fund. The country-club future where he can continue to take everything that’s handed to him – where his mommy still, pretty much, wipes his ass and coddles him. He can have the whole fucking world if he wants it.

But he can’t have you. Not your laugh. Not your messy hair when you can’t be bothered. Not your soft skin. Not your happiness or your sadness. Those things don’t belong to Tate, he doesn’t appreciate them like your step brothers do. 

Joel & Tommy know the world is full of men who’d love to hurt you –not just Tate– and having you in their lives has given them a reason to stand guard again. Has given something back to both of them that they lost the morning their mother was wheeled out of the house – someone to look after, someone to keep safe. They couldn't save their mom. They were kids, they were too small, they didn't have the power or the knowledge. But they aren't kids anymore. 

Guys like Tate always trip over their own act eventually. The mask will slip where you can see it. And until then if he frightens you, hurts you, puts his hands on you in a way you haven't asked for, or makes you feel any other way than good.

They’ll kill him.

~~

Couple nights later, Tate pulls up in front of the driveway, exhaust rumbling. He gets out and leans his back on the car next to the passenger door, waiting for you there. Tate sees Joel and Tommy in the garage once again, fiddling with the project car. You open the front door, stepping out of the house even more dolled up than normal. As you reach the car Tate gives you a grin. He grabs your face and pulls you in for a kiss. “Damn babycakes,” he says, pulling out of the kiss to look down at you. “Looking so fine and on time.”

Your brothers don’t even try to hide the way they watch. Stepping out, around the car, walking towards the opening of the garage. Both of them with a heavy wrench in their hands. Joel slaps one end of his against the palm of his opposite hand as they come to a stop. Tommy’s wrench loose in his hand at his side, mirrors Joel’s stance half a second later – the way he often mirrors Joel. Two boys who learned the same body language growing up in the same den.

Tate glances over at them, then back at you with a small, dismissive laugh. “Your guard dogs on duty tonight?”

Stealing a look over your shoulder at the pair of them, and yeah, they do look defensive standing there, squared up, shoulder to shoulder, every line of their bodies communicating something protective. But even with their rigid posture you swear you see a flash of dismay in their eyes. You’ve been so busy lately with school, friends and now Tate, that you haven’t had much time to hang out or talk with them. You push down the panicked feeling threatening to overwhelm you. The feeling of this new person in your life is going to really start to change things between you and them. That every step you take toward Tate is a step you take away from them. You give Joel and Tommy a worried smile, hoping it conveys, please don't let this change us and slide into the passenger seat.

It’s gotta be just classic territorial step-brother shit, right? Instinctive. Just brothers not wanting to see their sister get hurt. The kind of thing Ric would be proud of if he saw. That's all this is. You repeat this to yourself on the drive, while Tate’s hand finds your thigh.

~~

Joel crosses the basement to your room. Finding the door open and bed empty, he heads towards Tommy's room. Some part of him hoping to find you already curled up in his brother's sheets, back from wherever Tate took you, safe and done with the night. But when he knocks and opens the door, the only person in Tommy's bed is Tommy, sitting up against the headboard with a magazine.

He looks up when Joel comes in, the question already answered by the lack of your presents, but he asks anyway. "She's not back?" 

"No." Tommy tosses the magazine aside. 

Joel stays standing, one hand braced on the doorframe. The clock on Tommy's nightstand reads 11:47. You left at 7:00.

"Where the hell did he take her?" Tommy asks.

"I don't know."

"It's almost midnight, Joel."

"I'm aware." Joel pushes off the frame, shuts the door and starts pacing – 2 steps toward the desk, 2 steps back, the room too small for the restlessness running through him. 

Tommy swings his legs off the bed, plants both feet on the floor, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. "That guy's phoney as fuck,” he says looking towards his big brother. “I really don't fuckin' like him.”

“I don’t either, Tommy.”

"And the way he talked about us tonight. Guard dogs… fuckin’ guard dogs, Joel. Can you believe that shit?!”

“I heard him.” Joel stops pacing. “He's tryin' to make her think we're the problem. So when we do say somethin', she's already been primed to brush it off."

Tommy's quiet for a second, processing. “So manipulative."

Joel doesn't argue. Tommy's right, and the fact that Tommy can see it so clearly when Tommy usually charges through life headfirst without pausing to read the room tells Joel everything he needs to know about how wrong this feels. 

Joel drops into the desk chair, elbows coming to rest on his knees, hands holding the side of his face. "Somethin's really off about him. I feel it in my gut. Somethin' ain't right – aside from the things he says about her."

Tommy leans forward, picking at the fraying knee of his jeans. "I feel it too. Thought maybe I was just bein'—" He waves a hand. "I dunno. Jealous or whatever."

"Are you?" Joel’s head quickly lifts to see his brother.

Tommy looks at him, and in his face Joel can see the honesty Tommy has never been good at hiding. "Yeah. I am. But that's not what this is. This is somethin' else."

Joel nods. Because he's jealous too – in a way that has nothing to do with Tate's Mustang or his looks and everything to do with the fact that you chose someone else's passenger seat and Joel had to stand in a garage and watch you go. But Tommy's right. The jealousy is just an overtone. What's underneath the jealousy is a gut feeling. 

"We need to talk to her," Joel says. “We sit her down and we tell her what we see." 

"You think she’s gonna get upset with us?”

"Maybe."

"What if she pulls away from us even more than she already has..." Tommy shakes his head and falls back on the bed. "What if she stops comin' to our rooms? We just lose her to this sweater vest wearing twat?"

"No." Joel says it hard enough that Tommy lifts his head from the bed. "Listen to me. We’re gonna be nice, just tell her what we see. We say our piece and regardless of how that goes – whether she listens or tells us to go to hell – we treat her the exact same as we have been. No pulling back. We don't get cold with her. If she still wants to come into one of our rooms at night, we let her. We don't shut her out."

Tommy stares at his brother with uncertainty. He was already halfway to considering exactly what Joel just forbade. Because pulling back is what he does when something scares him.

"I'm serious. Her fuckin’ dad walked away from her, Tommy. You think I'm gonna be the next guy who makes her feel like she's not wanted? You think I'm gonna let you be that? We're not gonna be the guys who disappear because she's doing somethin' we don't like or who make her feel like she’s only worth keepin' around when she does what we want."

The frustration drains out of Tommy’s face, understanding taking its place as Joel continues.

“She needs to know she can always come to us. No matter what. Like we told her. Because she's gonna need us. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But something is up with that guy, we both know it, and sooner or later, she’s gonna know it too and we gotta be there for her when she does. Got it?"

"Yeah." Tommy sits back up, nodding. "Yeah, I got it."

"Good."

At 12:14, headlights sweep across the basement window and they hear the all too familiar sound dipshit’s exhaust. Then a car door, followed by the basement side door opening and closing, carefully and quietly. Tommy lets out a long breath, Joel stands up from the chair.  

“We talk to her soon.” Joel says in a hushed voice.

Tommy nods in agreement as they listen to you move through the basement, getting ready for bed – shoes off, bathroom, water running. Your footsteps come towards their bedrooms. You pause outside of the younger brother's door. Then they hear a soft knock on Joel's.

Joel looks at Tommy. Tommy lifts his chin. Go.

Joel opens Tommy’s door, closing it behind him, to see you standing there in front of his door waiting. Your makeup washed off, your eyes tired, and one of his t-shirts gracing your frame. 

"Oh hey," you say, looking at him surprised and nervous. "Can I—"

"Get in there," Joel says, with a small smile and the tilt of his head towards his room. 

You smile back, big and grateful. You climb into his bed, tucking your face into his neck, right where it belongs. He pulls you close and whispers c’mere estrellita, there you go – he feels your whole body relax and part of him lets go too. But the worry and vigilance. Those stay. Those stay as long as Tate is in your life. 

No. 

Those stay as long as you are alive and breathing.

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─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

March, 1999. Joel.

Isla wasn’t back yet. 

Joel had told her for weeks leading up to today that it was Sarah’s birthday and that he wanted to do a little family get together for her. The common thought is that a mother should know her daughter's birthday by heart, but Isla wasn’t really a mother. 

He had gone back and forth with his anger toward Isla - was he even allowed to be angry with her? Joel had forced her to go to the doctor to get tested for postpartum after Sarah was born. Sarah was unexpected, but he had accepted the fact that he was going to have a baby. Isla, on the other hand, never seemed to accept it. She didn’t want to go shopping for cribs, or baby clothes, or toys. Joel constantly got calls from the clinic that she didn’t show up to her monthly appointments and he would have to pay a hefty fee. She never ate enough, and she was always disappearing for days at a time. 

He was probably in denial. He thought the behavior was odd, but that she was just in denial that she was entering motherhood and it would come in time. But even when Sarah was born, and the nurses handed her their silmey, wiggly, and absolutely perfect daughter, her eyes were completely fogged over. She put her down the minute the nurses told her it was okay, and she didn’t pick her up again. 

She stopped showering. She didn’t work, so Joel would leave to go work while she was home with Sarah. There were several times when he got home, and Sarah would be screaming in her crib, and Isla was nowhere to be found. When she randomly appeared hours later, she never explained where she was. She didn’t want to breastfeed Sarah, which Joel didn’t mind, but she never made an effort to feed her. He had to constantly ask Tommy to leave the construction site to go check on Sarah at home at make sure she was fed and not sitting in a soiled diaper. 

It made Joel absolutely furious. His relationship with Isla had grown more and more toxic over time, and he was always forgiving, but there was something bigger than himself now. Someone he cared about more than anyone else in the world - his daughter. And any time his wife was actively neglecting his daughter, he couldn’t restrain his anger. He yelled, and pleaded for her to tell him what was wrong and why she hated their daughter so much. 

But Joel had a hard time staying angry. Because Isla wasn’t completely numb to all of this. When he raised his voice at her, she would cry. She would break down in tears for hours, because she didn’t understand why she felt nothing toward Sarah, and that she just wanted to feel normal again. 

That’s how Joel got her to the doctor and diagnosed with severe postpartum depression. 

Things should have been going up from there. She was medicated and going to therapy and making little bits of progress, like bottle feeding Sarah (under Joel’s supervision). She seemed to be getting better. Seemed.

But the progress plateaued. It was like the medication and therapy only took her so far before she actually had to put the work in herself. And it seemed like she never wanted to work. 

The door to the apartment creeked open at 8 pm. The few friends and family that came by and brought presents and cooed over Sarah were long gone. No one had mentioned the lack of presence by Isla, because they all knew that this was the norm for her. No point in asking obvious questions. 

Sarah was fussy and refused to go to bed, so Joel was sitting with her in his lap, bouncing her and trying to distract himself by making his girl laugh. It was partially for selfish reasons - he knew if he laid her in bed and tried to get her to fall asleep by herself, his anger and misery would spill over and he would do something stupid. 

Isla crept in like she was a teenager sneaking in after a night out. And Joel took on the role of the dad who is eerily sitting in a lounge chair in the dark, who flicks on a lamp, scaring the shit out of the teenager.

“Where were you?”

Isla flinched, her shoulders jerking up toward her ears. She froze under the doorway, her keys clutched tightly in her fist. Like she was afraid. 

She was always a petite girl, but she looked particularly tiny in her oversized cardigan, her skin almost greying in this light. Her hair was a greasy, tangled mess and her eyes…her eyes. When they finally flicked up to meet his, they were pinned down to tiny, dark needles.

"Don't do that, Joel," her voice slurry around the edges as she shuffled past him toward the kitchen. She didn't look at Sarah, who was sitting up in Joel's lap, her tiny fingers clutching the collar of his shirt. Didn’t even ask why their daughter was up an hour after they usually put her to bed. "I had errands. My head was pounding."

"Errands," Joel repeated as he slowly stood up, cradling Sarah securely against his chest. The rage he'd been sitting on all afternoon was starting to violently overflow. "For twelve hours, Isla? It’s her birthday. She’s two years old today. My parents were here. Tommy was here. I had to sit there and make up some pathetic lie about where you were because you couldn't be bothered to show up for your own kid's cake."

Isla didn't turn around. She was leaning against the kitchen counter, her back to him, her fingers mindlessly tapping against the counter. "She's two, Joel. She won't remember."

"Look at me,” He was trying to sound as stern as he could without triggering her rage. Her anger was a lot scarier than Joels. "Look at me, Isla."

"What?! What do you want from me, Joel? I'm here! I'm home!"

"Are you?" Joel stepped into her space, looking at the slight sweat on her forehead, the way her jaw was constantly clenching and unclenching. "Are you even fucking here right now, Isla? Or are you floating on whatever you took out of the medicine cabinet this morning? Are you high right now?"

"Don't you dare accuse me of that! You think you're so perfect? You think you're the king of this castle because you bring home a paycheck from your stupid little construction trucks? You don't know shit about what I'm going through!"

"I took you to the doctor!" Joel whisper-yelled He was trying so goddamn hard to keep his voice down for Sarah, but her disregard for anyone elses feelings was pushing him over the edge. "I got you the pills! I pay for the therapy! And you're still disappearing for days, leaving our daughter in a soiled diaper while I'm out breaking my back! You're an addict, Isla. You've been popping the painkillers they gave you for the delivery for two years, and you're letting our baby drown because you're too goddamn lazy to put the work in!"

"I am not an addict!" she screamed, her hand flying out.

Her palm slapped hard across his left cheek. The force of it didn't move him - he was much bigger than her - but the violent movement made Sarah start crying. She buried her face into Joel's shoulder, her tiny body shaking as she sobbed.

"See?" She pointed a trembling finger at him. "You're a pathetic father, Joel. You can't even keep her quiet. You're just a control freak who trapped me in this shithole life. You're the reason I'm like this! You and your bastard kid!"

"Shut up. Don't you ever call her that. Don't you dare look at her and say that. Do you forget that she’s your daughter too?"

Sarah’s crying grew louder, and Joel wanted to start crying too. He just wanted his daughter to have two loving parents. To have a normal life.

"Shut her up, Joel!" Isla exploded, completely unhinged as she lost whatever grip on reality she had left. She turned around, her hands shaking as they hit the cluttered sink. "I said shut her the fuck up!"

In the heat of the moment, before Joel could even register the movement, Isla’s fingers wrapped around ceramic dinner plate sitting in the basin. A plate that had just served birthday cake to their family. She spun around and hurled it directly past Joel’s head.

SMASH.

The plate struck the drywall right next to the kitchen opening, exploding into a dozen flying shards.

Joel didn’t care about the shards bouncing off of his shoulder. She threw things on the regular at him. But time around started slow when he heard a gasp from his arms. 

Sarah’s crying instantly stopped, cut off by a choke of agony.

Joel looked down. A three-inch piece of the ceramic had sliced cleanly across Sarah's chubby little forearm as it shattered off the wall. The blood was already welling up fast, spilling over her skin and instantly soaking into the sleeve of her yellow birthday pajamas.

He wanted to throw up. 

Isla froze, rage draining out of her face in an instant. Her mouth fell open, her eyes widening to the size of saucers as she stared at the blood on her daughter's arm. She took a step back, her hands flying to her mouth.

"Oh my god... Joel, I didn't - I didn't mean - "

Joel didn't hear her. The apartment went completely silent, a ringing static filling his ears. He looked at his daughter’s bleeding arm, and then he looked up at the woman he had married.

The expression on his face wasn't anger anymore. It was something far worse. It was an absolute, icy execution of whatever humanity he had left for her.

"If you are here when I get back…I will kill you."

He didn't wait for her to speak. He didn't look at her tears. Joel instantly scooped Sarah closer, his massive hand coming up to press his palm flat against the cut, putting pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding. 

It was a deep cut. She would probably need stitches based on the way her blood pour through Joels hand. 

"I gotcha, baby, I gotcha," he whispered frantically, his voice finally cracking as he sprinted out of the kitchen. He grabbed a clean dish towel off the counter, and with his teeth, he wrapped it tightly around her tiny arm as he kicked the apartment door open and flew down the stairwell into the night.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Tuesday, September 2003. Joel.

His eyes stayed locked on the scar on Sarah’s arm as he dialed the number for Annie Whitman elementary school. 

She was happily munching on her cereal and fruit that Joel had cut into stars at her request, completely unfazed by the wound she had. He knew she probably didn’t remember it - she was only 2 afterall. She never even brought it up or asked where it came from, but Joel knew that one day that question would come. 

The doctors said the scar would fade with time, and it did. It wasn’t raised anymore, or outlandishly bright against her skin. It had flattened and was starting to blend in with her skin tone a bit more. 

“Annie J. Whitman Elementary School, Lisa speaking.” 

Joel had to call the main office once a year ago to update Sarah’s family paperwork. He recognized Lisa as the receptionist. 

“Hi Lisa, this is Joel Miller,” He paused when he realized she probably spoke to 100 parents a day and didn’t recognize him. “My daughter Sarah’s in the 1st grade.” 

“Oh yes! Sarah Miller, of course. What can I do for you Mr. Miller?”

A flash of insecurity flared through him - did she know her because of her panic attack? He didn’t want Sarah to get the reputation of the problem child already. 

“I was, um, wondering if I could speak to -” the name of the principal slipped his mind. “ - the principal. Please.” 

There was some clicking of a computer.

“Sure. Good thing you called early, Karen’s phone gets flooded around 10. Can I ask what you’re calling about so I can brief her on the issue?”

Joel looked back up at Sarah, who had now finished her breakfast as was sitting on the living room floor playing with her favorite doll. It was one of those Barbie Fairytopia dolls, all colorful with wings. She named her Egg. 

“I wanna ask about switching my daughter's classroom.” 

The clacking on the other end stopped, and he heard shifting, like she was adjusting the phone on her ear. 

“Oh!”

“Is that a problem?” he asked defensively. 

“No, no! Of course not. We just don’t get that request unless something serious happened, especially not so early in the year.” 

He thought about what genius thought it would be a good idea for you to be Sarah’s teacher. All of these administrators were older than him, meaning many of them were likely living in Dallas when the accident happened. What idiot would put…the sheer stupidity of these people made him mad. 

Luckily, he didn’t have to explain himself anymore.

“Karen just got into her office, I’ll put you through Mr. Miller.”

The phone clicked before he could even say thank you.

“Huh!?” A different womans voice shrieked in his ear. “Why is he calling so early? Lisa you need to speak up, my office is far away from your desk!”

The voice was so loud he had to hold the phone away from his ear. Even Sarah turned, her head perking up at the sound blaring through the phone. 

“Hello?” He cleared his throat, which was almost certainly not loud enough, so he cleared it again. 

“Oh, Mr. Miller are you there? How are you this morning? You’re calling real early.” 

That wasn’t entirely untrue, but this was the only time he could call before the workday. 

“I work in construction, m'am. Early mornings.”

She snapped her fingers. 

“Right! Miller Construction. It’s been so great watching your business grow, especially after everything that happened…”

The muscles in Joels arms flexed as he tensed on the other side. So she did know who he was. She wasn’t even trying to feign stupidity.

“Yeah, I’ve been tryin’ real hard to move on from everything. Makes it real hard when the girl I was in that wreck with is my daughter's teacher.”

He wasn’t trying to hide the hostility in his voice, even though he knew it was impolite. Frankly, he was tired of always having to be the polite one. Any time he showed any anger or frustration, the same narrative from the accident came running back, so he always tried to be your traditional southern boy whose mama taught him manners (which she did). 

Oh what an angry man. Do you think he’s drinking again? Did you know it was his fault? Because he was yelling at her while she was driving. Maybe if he wasn’t so aggressive, the accident never would have happened. He was the toxic one. 

“Ah,” Karen sighed, and Joel heard a seat creaking like she was leaning back. “I had a feeling this would come up.” 

His eyebrows furrowed instantly. 

“You had a feeling?” 

“Well sure. Joel, I’ve been around for a long time. I remember reading the news about two young kids flipping their car. I recognized her name in the paper…she was supposed to be a big writer, wasn’t she? I saw her face on posters all over town about her book signing. Guess she was good, huh?” 

It didn’t brush past him that she stopped calling him Mr. Miller and started speaking to him like she knew him personally. With how much of his life was in the news, she technically did.

“She…she is a good writer.”

Joel may not like you, but he was not a liar. You had a skill beyond anyone else, and denying that just felt petty and beneath him. 

“It’s a shame she can’t write anymore. I’m sure she’d write a great biography about what happened - oh! Maybe you can write it for her?” 

His lips parted at the sheer audacity of this woman. He had not called to catch up with his daughter's principal. He called to get her into a new classroom. 

And yet, the allure of you never truly left him. Now that he realized that you didn’t know about the lawsuit, he was curious how much he didn’t know about you. 

“What, um…what do you mean she can’t write anymore?” 

Karen chuckled on the other end like the topic of a life changing injury was funny to her. 

“She told me that she was going to inform the parents about her brain condition before back to school night. Did she back out of that? I told her she could do whatever -”

“No,” Joel cut her off. “She did. I just don’t understand how that means she can’t write.”

He heard a faint inhale on the other end like she was about to respond, but she caught herself. She cleared her throat. 

“What can I help you with Mr. Miller?”

“I want to switch Sarah’s teacher.”

She sighed on the other end, and he heard the jangling of bracelets as she scratched her temple. 

“I can’t do that for no reason.”

“No - ” he scoffed, trying to keep his temper down with Sarah in the next room. “ - no reason!? I think her and I’s history is enough of a reason. Certainly a conflict of interest?”

“Joel,” she switched back to using his first name like a disappointed parent. “You aren’t really trying to drag your personal business into your daughter's education are you?”

“No!” He grit his teeth defensively. “I don’t want my daughter to be taught by someone that has shown to me time and time again that she values her own needs over anyone elses.” 

“Time and time again? Has she not been living across the country for the last 7 years?”

Joel pushed his hair back as he leaned into the counter. 

“I meant her and I were in a relationship for 6 years. I had a wedding ring picked out for her. I know her better than anyone else at that school, parents, administrators, whoever.”

“Joel,” every time she said his name, his grip in his hair tightened harder and harder. “She is the most qualified teacher in this building.” 

He rolled his eyes on the other end. 

“Yeah, I got a whole mouthful about her awards last night. That means nothing to me.”

“Well they should. Those are extremely prestigious awards that most educators don’t win in their entire lifetimes, never mind before they’re 30.” 

Joel did look up the names of all of the awards once he put Sarah to bed last night. He knew he shouldn’t do any digging into your life because that would open a wormhole for him. He was nothing if not obsessive once he allowed himself to be. He was that way with alcohol. And he was that way about you. 

A mere search for what a Golden Apple award was turned into. That turned into finding a Boston Globe article of you with the Mayor of Boston after collaborting on the project you referenced. He found a post on a Boston bulletin board for Prince fan club that had your name attached to it. He couldn’t find anything on new stories you’d put out, any local author talks like you used to do sometimes back in Dallas. 

Sure, the awards were cool. You don’t see teachers taking photos with mayors very often. But none of it moved him because he knew how superficial it all was. 

“Awards are great and all until you realize that she will abandon all of those kids at the drop of the hat the minute she gets a better opportunity, or shit gets too hard. My daughter is the most important person in the world to me, and I don’t want to constantly be worrying that her teacher has some vendetta against her because of her and I’s personal relationship, or she has some health scare and has to abandon Sarah again just like her mother did!”

He didn’t realize he was shouting until he realized Sarah had stood up and walked closer to him, holding Egg in her right hand. 

“Daddy? Who are you yelling at?”

All of the anger left his face, his lips morphing into a frown. He covered the phone and whispered back.

“Sorry baby, Uncle Tommy’s bugging me again. Go play, we’ll drive to work in a minute and then your Uncle will drive you to school.”

She nodded, understanding that Uncle Tommy often bugged Daddy and he was okay. She was always worrying about him. 

He closed his eyes and inhaled before speaking again. 

“I’m sorry. That was rude of me.” 

“No, no,” Karen’s voice was so soft, he almost thought he was speaking to someone else. “I understand your upset. Frankly, I do take fault for this. I didn’t realize you and her were on such poor terms. But I absolutely see your fears. I do. But do you have any reason to believe she would use Sarah as some sort of ploy in your past relationship? That’s an accusation I have to take seriously.” 

His throat bobbed when she said ‘accusation.’ He was on such a role with his anger toward you, his own frustrations spilling out of him easily, but the minute a word as serious as an allegation was dropped, his breath stuttered. 

Because he wasn’t 100% certain in what he was accusing you of. In that closet yesterday, the way you stepped right into his space and shouted at him with such disdain and unbridled hatred toward him caught him off balance. He thought about how you tried to call him a bad father, despite everything he went through, despite years of trying his best. You insinuated that she would be better off without him. It was unacceptable. 

But he couldn’t help looking at you last night, he saw flickers of the girl he used to love. The girl who would always wave to babies being held by their parents in grocery stores. The girl who would always hand cash to a homeless person she saw and have a discussion with them. The girl who came over to take care of Tommy when he broke his leg and he and his parents had work. 

He knew, deep, deep down that you wouldn’t hurt Sarah. You couldn’t. If it was true, and you weren’t exaggerating, that you were the only person with her while she was having a panic attack, then maybe this wasn’t about Sarah. 

God…he wanted you gone though. He wanted to feel vindicated by getting you fired and seeing you packed up and getting hipped right back to Boston so he never had to look at you again. He spent so long without smelling burning rubber and blood where there was none. Now, he smelled it all the time. 

“She’s not…I don’t think she’s using Sarah as a ploy,” he admitted, even though he was watching his pride get stabbed in front of him. “But she’s unstable. She pulled me inside before the night started and she flipped out on me. It was so unprofessional; calling me every insult under the sun, attacking my parenting, insinuating that I don’t try and teach my daughter,”

“And then she had the nerve to tell me that she thinks Sarah has dyslexia. And a-a god damn anxiety disorder! She knew my daughter for less than 24 hours and tried to tell me that something was wrong with her because I work too much. How dare one of your teachers attack my family like that? How dare she?”

It was quiet for such a long time that Joel thought he was disconnected. But then she sighed, her bracelets echoing through the phone. Her office chair creaked as it rolled closer to her desk. 

“Joel, can I play the devil's advocate here?”

No.

“I know you’re hurting,” she continued. “I know there’s history between your families. God, I feel like I’m living in Romeo and Juliet here. I will talk to her, okay? Because if what you’re telling me is true, that is unprofessional and I want to make sure there’s boundaries before the year really kicks off. I’ll bring her into my office today and I will make it very clear that personal grievances stay outside of the school.”

Joel let out a joyous exhale like he just won the lottery. He did win something, actually. 

“But,” Karen cut his celebration off. “I need you to listen to me too. Put your pride in your back pocket and look at the bigger picture here. You just told me she thinks Sarah has dyslexia, correct?”

“She’s just saying that to get under my skin -”

“Shut up and listen to me Joel Miller,”  Karen cut him off, her voice turning scolding and disappointed. “She told you how qualified she was last night. I’m telling you how qualified she is. She didn’t just spend all of those years working at a snobby private school, she spent years developing specialized curriculums for children with social and emotional challenges. She literally designed the modern day curriculum for children with learning disabilities in Massachusetts. If she was my childs teacher, and she believed they had a learning disability, I would be greatful that my child was in such good hands.” 

His jaw made a sharp screeching sound which usually happened if he was grinding his teeth too hard. 

“Daddy, your mouth needs oiling.” 

When his jaw first made that noise, he tried to explain it Sarah by saying that he just needed some oil because metal gets real dry and crackly after a while. Really, the metal they used was just cheaper, and Joel didn’t care enough about his body to try and remove stress from his face.

“Yeah baby, one second.” He said to Sarah before returning to the phone. 

“Now, I’m not qualified to say if Sarah has dyslexia or not. But you and I both know that Sarah is a deeply sensative and anxious little girl. If she is struggling with reading, you have the most decorated and qualified teachers in the state of Texas sitting in that classroom. Plus, she’s legally obligated to give your daughter 40 hours a week of her attention. At no cost to you. Most specialists cost thousands.”

Thousands. Thousands of dollars that he didn’t have. 

“Use her Joel. Use her to your advantage. You swallow that pride of yours, you look past that car accident, and you help your daughter. Because she is so smart and she has the exact tools Sarah needs to succeed. If you truly love your daughter, which I know you do, you will want what’s best for her. And what’s best for her right now is her teacher. Do you understand me?”

He chewed hard on his lower lip and looked up at Sarah, who was now braiding Egg’s hair. He was her protector, and right now? Right now, he wasn’t doing his job. He had high hopes for Sarah, hopes for all of the things he never got to accomplish; college, pursuing her dreams without the fear of money, travelling the world. 

She couldn’t do any of that if she didn’t have the proper foundations. As her protector, he needed to make sure she learned the foundations so she could have a better life than him. 

“Yeah,” he swallowed. “I understand.”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Joel sat behind his trailer desk, which was illuminated by a few measly lightbulbs since the sun wasn’t fully risen yet. He was surrounded by stacks of blueprints, concrete invoices, and a mountain of bureaucratic safety logs he needed to sign off on before his crew arrived. And yet, he couldn’t focus.

Ever since he hung up his call with Karen,, a migraine had been clawing its way from the base of his neck to the front of his skull. The silence of the trailer had never felt so loud.

He clenched his teeth in pain after a head rush from sitting upright too fast and his jaw let out that screech again. The physical therapists had told him that he would have to learn to divert tension in his face with his  new jaw…whatever the fuck that means. Clealry it didn’t work.

Sarah was entirely oblivious to his pain. She was sitting on a milk crate, wearing her backpack over her shoulders, waiting patiently for Tommy to show up and drive her to school. To pass the time, she was using his blueprints as a temporary runway (he guessed what it was) for her Fairytopia doll. 

"Fly, Egg!" she whispered softly. Maybe she was more aware of Joels migraine than he thought, speaking so quietly like that. 

He watched as Egg took off of the runway and Sarah made ‘brr….brr’ noises like a plane. He wasn’t quite sure where this new fascination with planes came from. He had never been on a plane, and that meant neither had she. He didn’t watch any shows on the TV that had planes in them, and he wasn’t aware of any kids shows that were centered on planes. 

Kids are so fascinating. 

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, baby?" Joel didn't look up from the invoice he was pretending to read. His thumb was rubbing the scarred skin beneath his beard where the metal met his bone.

"I miss Mommy," she said casually, making the doll do a loop-de-loop over a concrete slab.

The pen in his hand froze mid-signature, the ink bleeding into a blotch on the paper. 

He flung his head to the side at the sound of a shatter ceramic plate against the wall and Sarah’s wail. The same wail that she made while she was bleeding through her PJs and all over him.

Why was she missing her? 

Sarah had been so understanding when Joel explained that she wouldn’t be seeing Mommy anymore. She was good when they were going through the divorce too. He knew he should have been more hesitant at that reaction. He knew he should have been less easy going - what toddler doesn’t bat an eye that her mother is leaving?

 Isla hadn't sent a single card, hadn't made a single phone call, hadn't looked back once after she signed away her rights. He had done everything he could to supplement her. He broke his back at work every day, he learned how to braid her hair, he cut her fruit into stars, he stayed up through every nightmare, he played dolls with her.

Is it because of the reading? Is it because I shouted during the phone call? Am I not enough for her?

He turned his head to look at her.

What's that, Sarah? Why…why you sayin' that, sweet face?"

Sarah paused, holding Egg by her glittery wings, her eyebrows furrowing slightly as she looked up at his upset face.

 "Because Katherine in my class yesterday said her mommy lets her sleep in her bed when she gets sad. And I got sad in the library yesterday. I just thought... maybe if Mommy was here, I could sleep in her bed. And she would help the letters not swim."

It wasn't about Isla at all. It was about the exact thing you had accused him of letting happen. She wanted a mother because she thought a mother would notice the letters mushed on the page. She thought a mother would fix the broken parts of her that her daddy was apparently too busy or too blind to see.

He stared at the scar on her little forearm. It meant so little to him, but it was a reminder to Joel of the night he chose to stop drinking. The night he ripped the bandaid off and spoke to a lawyer. He had thought he saved her that night. But standing here, watching her feel so insecure and sad, he realized he was still letting her get cut by the shards of his own life.

Before he could find his voice, the trailer swung open and a rush of exhaust came in.

"Alright, sorry I'm late, man," Tommy said breathlessly, stepping into the trailer with a travel mug of coffee, his boots muddy from the lot. He walked straight over to Sarah and extended a hand. "Come on, time to get you to school before the bell rings. Uncle Tommy's buying you a donut on the way to make up for it."

Sarah's eyes immediately lit up. She scrambled off the milk crate and shoved Egg in her backpack. 

"A chocolate one?!"

"You bet," Tommy chuckled, ushering her toward the door. "See ya when I get back Joel."

Joel didn't move. Didn’t say bye. He just watched the door click shut behind them before bursting into tears.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Joel was an alcoholic. 

He didn’t have a hard time admitting it. Anymore. He couldn’t say the exact moment he started developing a problem with alcohol, but he could say the exact moment he decided to pursue sobriety. 

It was one month after Sarah was born. Isla was so far gone she was practically out of the picture, but that wasn’t to say Joel was much of a saint. He was far out of the picture because he was afraid that if he spent too long with his daughter, he would contaminate her. That’s what Isla had told them in one of their last big fights before she was born, hadn’t she? That he ruined everything he touches? That he would ruin their daughters life just like he had ruined Islas?

She said…things during their fights a lot. Things that Joel learned to brush off because she would always come back and cry, claiming that she didn’t mean it. But something about this specific comment never left his blood, even today. 

By the time Sarah was born, his drinking was at its worst. But it was several bricks that had been placed since he was 18 years old, bricks that pushed him further and further into alcholism.

He never felt quite normal. That was the only way he could articulate it. He had a great childhood. Incredibly kind and supportive parents. Him and his brother got along well. He had friends that were like brothers to him. And yet, he never felt very fulfilled. Looking at the big picture, his life was nice. But the day to day was a drag for him to get through; it felt like shackles were stuck to his feet, trying to pull him into the center of the earth. 

He remembered a world with color, so he knew that his life didn’t have color anymore. It was as if someone took a turkey baster and sucked all of the color out of the world around him, leaving him to try and exist in a dull, grey hellscape. 

When he started drinking socially, he was amazed that all the color had been repainted onto his surroundings. God, did he miss vibrance! Saturation! Rainbows! When you have color every day, you grow to appreciate it less and less because you know it's going to be tere tomorrow. You don’t know what you have until it’s gone. 

He craves the color back so badly that he makes more and more excuses to find a drink at a party. He managed to keep his yearning for it pretty underwraps for a while…until his relationship with you progressed and he got more and more insecure. 

All you wanted more than anything was for your writing career to take off. All Joel wanted more than anything was for your writing career to take off. He had the privilege of being the first person you let read your stories, which meant he had the privilege of being the first person to know that you would go down as a writing legend. He wanted nothing more than to see you take off and reach your dreams.

He just didn’t expect for your dreams to change you so much. 

The sweet, shy girl he forced into publically reading her story publicly became…well, mean. Sharp. Aggressive. He once expressed his insecurity to you that he wasn’t going to college and working a blue collar job unlike most people he went to high school with. He was afraid that deep down somewhere, you judged him too and would grow out of him. But you swore up and down, left and right that you would never. Someone’s education and job does not shape who they are here:

You tapped his heart.

The change started with little comments during fights, about how he wouldn’t know good writing since he never took a real college class on it. You began throwing your own college education in his face like a weapon. You’d insult him over dinner, glare at his grease-stained hands, make passive-aggressive comments about how he never had to use his brain because building houses required no skill. You systematically made him feel small and unworthy of being in your orbit.

And instead of fighting back, he just drank even more to numb the bleeding. Because despite the insults, despite how cruel you could be, you were still the only good thing he had ever known. He was so terrified of losing you that he swallowed the poison you fed him and washed it down with cheap bourbon.

There was one night toward the end of your relationship, where your roommates at your college apartment were throwing a Halloween Party. Joel had made the drive out, excited to spend some time with you since your school work was really swamping you lately. 

But the party really wasn’t fun at all. He felt so out of place in that apartment, even though he was with you, the only person who ever made him feel at home. Hell, he was a contractor standing in a room full of trust fund literature students who were talking about the fancy vacations they were going on over Thanksgiving, or the internships they had lined up.

He had stepped out to grab himself another beer, having lost you almost an hour ago. But when he saw your bedroom door slightly ajar, he walked over to go sit with you. You always made him feel better. Yeah. You would make him feel better. 

But before he could open the door, he froze. The sounds bleeding out into the hallway were unmistakable. 

It was the heavy breathing of two people behind a closed door, one of which wasn’t his. There was that guy from the hockey team he saw hovering around you all night. It made him uncomfortable how he looked at you, but he…It wasn't a misunderstanding. It wasn't something he could rationalize or explain away. You were in your room with someone else while Joel stood in the hallway feeling his entire universe collapse.

He didn’t do anything in that moment, because the numbness he felt his whole life doubled down. He didn't say a single word to you about it. Not that night, not the next day, not ever. If he brought it up, it meant admitting he wasn't enough. It meant hearing you confirm every single insecure thought he’d ever had about himself.

So he just left the party. He walked out into the night, climbed into his truck, and drove straight to the nearest dive bar he could find. And he drank.

From that night on, the alcohol wasn't a medicine anymore. It was a suicide mission. 

He drank before he went to see you, masking the scent with gum. He drank after he dropped you off. He drank until his chest stopped burning from the memory of that hallway. Every time you looked at him with those big pretty eyes, every time you made a remark about his background, he just went back to the bottle. You were the only good thing he had ever had and you had severed the rope. 

A month after Sarah was born, his mom was supposed to be watching her for a few hours so Joel could supposedly "clear his head" and sleep off his exhaustion. Instead, he had spent 6 hours sitting in a (suspiciously) sticky booth at a tavern, drowning himself in cheap tequila, trying to drown himself from the inside out. He didn't care about his job, he didn't care about the bills, he didn't care about himself.

When he finally stumbled back to his parents' house, the screen door slamming loudly behind him, he was pathetic. It was undeniable. He reeked of alcohol, his shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his clothes were disheveled, and his eyes were bloodshot and completely out of focus. He didn’t hide it as much around his mom, because he knew she had a hard time confronting him about it. 

But he didn't find his mother waiting for him in the living room.

He found his dad sitting entirely alone at the kitchen table. Sarah's diaper bag was sitting on the counter next to an empty baby bottle.

Joel tried to feign sobriety, instantly pulling his shoulders back and masking his slurred speech with an attempt at swagger. He looked like an idiot. He grabbed the edge of the kitchen counter to steady his rolling vision. 

"Heyyyyyyy, Dad. Mom around?"

Scott didn't buy it. He didn't yell. He didn't throw a fist the way Joel half-expected him to. He just slowly stood up from the chair, looked at his eldest son and broke down in tears. 

It was the first time Joel had ever seen his father cry in his entire life, and the sight of it horrified him, snapping him out of most of his drunkenness.

He didn’t even notice Tommy was there. He walked out from the back hallway, holding a sleeping Sarah against his chest. His face was completely pale, his eyes fixed on the floor. He was disappointed in Joel. His younger brother was disappointed in him. 

"You're gonna kill yourself, son," Scott choked out, gripping Joel’s shoulders, shaking him slightly. "And you're gonna leave this little girl with nothin'. No mama, no daddy. Nothin! You gotta stop, Joel. Goddamn it, please. We can't lose you too. I can't bury my boy."

So much had happened in his life, and yet, the sight of his daughter sleeping in his brother's arms completely broke something inside Joel's chest. 

He collapsed forward into his father’s arms, his face burying itself deep into his dad's shirt. He fell to his knees on the linoleum, dragging his father down with him.

"I don't wanna do it anymore. I don't want to be here. I'm ruined. I ruin everything I touch. Isla's right... Sarah... Sarah would be so much better off without me. I'm just a piece of shit. I'm just gonna contaminate her. I'm gonna ruin her life too."

It spilled out of him so fast he was surprised his dad understood any of it.

He didn't offer a lecture or tell him he was wrong, and he didn't tell him to man up. He just wrapped his arms completely around Joel. He rocked him slightly, refusing to let go until the shaking finally stopped and the liquor ran dry in his veins.

Now 6 years later and sitting back at his desk in the construction trailer, Joel stared down at his hands.

They were clean. He hadn't touched a single drop of alcohol since that night on his parents' kitchen floor.

He had chosen to stay alive for Sarah. He reminded himself that no matter how much his jaw ached, and no matter how much the ghost of your voice tried to tell him he was unworthy, he was the one who held his daughter when she cried. Not Isla. And certainly not you.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

“How was pickup today?” 

Andrea had picked up Sarah today so Joel could stay after hours at work and finish this damn elderly home project. After he found the faults in the wall yesterday, his team had to tear down a large chunk of what they had done, and they needed to start over. He gave his guys a choice if they wanted to stay or not, of course offering overtime pay. Two of the younger guys agreed, but the other men had families they had to get home and feed, so they left.

So did Joel. But he was running this business.

“Oh she seems so happy there Joely. I know you said she got upset yesterday during the day, but she came in just raving about her teacher, and - “

“TELL DADDY I DREW HIM A PICTURE!”

Joel snorted at the loud squeal of his daughter on the other end. 

His mother chuckled and spoke to Sarah. 

“You wanna tell Daddy yourself? Come take the phone sugar.”

Joel waited patiently, perking up slightly with excitement to hear from his daughter. Her little voice just sent an injection of dopamine straight into his veins.

“Daddy,” she sounded almost breathless from excitement. “We did art today.” 

“You did art? You love art!”

“I. Know. My teacher told us to draw a picture of us with our families somewhere we loved. So I drew us at the zoo.”

He thought Sarah’s zoo phase would leave about a year ago. She often did that little kid thing, where she discovered something new about the world and became obsessed with it for a month. But her love for the zoo has been going strong. 

“Yeah? You put any animals in there?”

He mouthed lions on the other end of the phone.

“Lions. And monkeys. Can we hang it on the fridge when you come get me?” 

“‘Course baby,” he paused and rolled his lips into his teeth. “You do any reading today?”

“We practiced learning how to say new words. Like s-a-t, sat. Teacher gave me something special to do too.”

Joel stiffened, like he was bracing for her to say that you did something mean to her. 

“Yeah?” 

“She put cream on my desk daddy! That stuff you put on your face in the morning! Everyone else was just saying the letters outloud, but she told me I got to write the letters in the cream.”

His head tilted on the other end. Shaving cream? 

“Do you…do you feel like it helped you read the letters a bit better?”

“Yep!”

His whole body warmed with joy and he couldn’t fight the grin on his face. She was so little she probably didn’t know how it helped, but if it helped her, he would take it. Oh god, he would take it. 

“That makes me so happy baby,” he could hear his own happiness in his voice. “You have fun with GG okay? I think you’re having dinner with her, but I’ll pick you up after. I love you.”

“Love ya,” it was quiet for a moment before Andrea was on the phone again. 

“It makes me so happy that she’s enjoying school.” 

Joel didn’t tell his mother that you were Sarah’s teacher. Everything surrounding the lawsuits and the accident were a sore spot for her, and rightfully so of course. None of them ever really came back from that, and he couldn’t handle the additional stress of his mother worrying why you were back. 

“...me too.” 

Andrea paused.

“Are you okay sweetheart?” Moms and their ability to read their childrens tones. “Is that old folks home having trouble? You don’t usually have to stay this late.”

He checked his watch which read 7 p.m. Fuck, it was later than he thought. He ignored his mothers question.

“I thought it was still 5ish, I didn’t realize it was so late. Did Sarah have dinner? I told her I would pick her up after dinner. I can come get her - “

“Joel,” his mother said firmly. “Hon. You sound exhausted. Why don’t I watch Sarah for the night? That way you can focus on your project, get to bed early, treat yourself.” 

She was funny if she thought Joel slept. 

“You already watch Sarah so much -”

“Do you think I care if I spend a lot of time with my only grandbaby Joel Miller? I would snatch her up from you if I could. And besides, she hasn’t had a sleepover since the beginning of August. That’s a whole month.” 

“You know some kids don’t see their grandparents for whole years.”

“And I will not be one of those grandparents! Go have a night to yourself, I’ll get her to school tomorrow morning and you can pick her up.” 

“I -”

She hung up on him. 

It was a nice thought for her to do that, but he was physically incapable of having a night to himself. It was like his brain was always on addreall, which was an accurate description because he tried adderall several times at high school parties. He was always worrying about Sarah, and house bills, and new contracts, and business bills, and lawyer bills. 

His work phone started buzzing in his pocket. One of the better purchases he made for the business, so now his personal phone wasn’t blowing up with requests from clients. 

“Miller Contracting, this is Joel.”

“Hi Joel!” A cheery womans voice was on the other end. “My name is Laurel Watson, I’m the Chair of the Historical Preservation Trust here in Dallas.” 

She paused like Joel was supposed to recognize what that was. Did she seriously think ordinary people had time for frequent historical monument visits?

“How can I help you Laurel?”

“I’m calling because the Trsut just secured a massive federal revitalization grant,” Laurel explained. “We’re looking to completely overhaul the old Johnson’s Crest textile mill over east - you know that one? That really big brick building?” 

Joel reached over to his desk to grab his Redbull.

“Yeah, I know the building. That shits been abandoned since before my parents were around. What are you gonna do with it?”

“We want to convert the entire facility into a public library with a community arts hub attached to it. We’re even looking to maybe build a small charter school next to it, but that would be later. It’s one of the biggest projects we’ve ever worked on. The budget we’ve allocated is upwards of 6 million dollars.”

He choked on his Redbull. Full on, soda out the nose, burning, coughing. 

He started running the quick numbers, looking around the material costs and labor fees. A project of that scale meant a guaranteed, massive payout. Probably enough to wipe out his parents legal bills - the legal bills that had been draining his mothers spirit and ruined his fathers retirement. 

His own bills and debts were probably too high, but to finally lift that weight off his families shoulders felt like a miracle.

But miracles don’t happen to Joel.

“That sounds like a hell of a project,” he laughed skeptically. “But Miller Contracting is a small group. We do residential builds mostly. Concrete pouring. I’m sure you got firms out of Houston and Austin who bid on stuff like this. Why are you calling me?”

Laurel let out a reassuring laugh. 

“Because those firms don’t care about Dallas. They want to tear down the original building, gut the character, and turn it into some concrete box. I’ve seen the work your crew did on the firehouse downtown last year. You really respect what you do because you know how to rework old structures without taking away from their history. I think your team is exactly who I want.” 

Hearing a complete stranger express complete belief in his capability made him feel confident in a way he hadn’t been in years.

He looked down at the safety logs on his desk that he still had to sign, then out the window where it was now dark outside.

He didn’t want to work until it was dark out anymore.

"Alright…Alright, Laurel. Send over the preliminary blueprints and the grant specifications to my office trailer. I'll review the structural integrity reports and have a formal bid on your desk by Friday morning."

"Wonderful! I knew I called the right man," he could hear her excitement on the other side . "Have a wonderful morning, Mr. Miller."

"You too. Thanks."

He clicked the phone shut and tossed it onto the desk. And then…he laughed. For the first time in seven years, he felt a genuine spike of excitement coursing through his veins. He wasn't just surviving anymore. He was going to pay off his family's debts, he was going to build something that mattered, and he was going to secure his daughter's future. 

It was the kind of joy that made him lose his mind for a moment. $6 millio. He had never been affiliated with the word ‘million’ before. He felt giddy like a child, so much so, that he stood up from his desk chair and danced.

Badly. But it was dark.

It was a dorky dad dance, shuffling to side, his arms popping in different directions. It was like his body had a thermometer that was filled with joy, and right now he had a fever - joy and happiness shattering the glass and pouring over the edges.

He was a simple guy. If he didn’t have all of his and his parents' debt, he would move to Tennessee. Not have a whole farm, but have some animals for himself, maybe a couple of chickens. Oh, a cow! A cow seemed fun. He’d buy a big ole’ farm house where he would have his dream guitar collection, and when Sarah was old enough, he would teach her how to play too. He would take her on trips to all of the big monuments across the world, and even though he didn’t know anything about them himself, he would do research on them beforehand so he could answer all of Sarah’s questions.

But, for now, paying off all of the debt you caused him and his family would do.

BANG BANG BANG

It wasn’t out of the ordinary for one of the guys to bang loudly on the door. But not when it’s dark outside and all of them are either home or in the home. And not when he was in his own world, dancing. 

He walked over to the door, his pulse thrumming out of his wrists. It was probably just one of the guys telling him they were done for the night. 

“Yeah you guys can wrap-” 

He froze when his eyes finally connected to his mouth. Because he wasn’t looking at one of his men. 

He was looking at you.

You, with hair slightly frizzy from the extreme Texas humidity. You, with the glossed over eyes, almost as if tears were going to fall. You, who was holding yourself upright against the DIY railing he made and yet still stumbling around. You, who smelled like like strawberries and cream, cigarettes, and whiskey. 

You…were drunk. Anyone could see it, but he had seen you drunk enough that he knew all of your little obscurities you had when you were drunk. You weren’t wearing a usual going out outfit like you did while the two of you were dating, but you were also nearly 30. Did women still having designated going out tops at 30? Either way, you looked like you went to the bar straight after work, still wearing your landyard, a long pale pink skirt, and a blue shirt that said ‘Book Worm’ on it.

“Did you try and get me fired!?”

You took a step forward, pushing your finger into his chest. You nearly fell over just doing that. 

Meanwhile, Joel was still speechless that you were standing outside of his work trailer. He instinctively reached out, holding the sides of your arms to keep you upright, and he guided you into his trailer. 

“What the hell are you doing?” He hissed, ignoring her question and sitting her down at his desk. Not the most comfortable chair for a drunk girl but he wasn’t going to put you on the floor. He hated you, but he wasn’t an animal. 

“Don…” your words were slurring. “Don’t fucking ignore my question Miller.”

Joel slammed the trailer door shut and locked it before walking over to you. 

“I’m not ignoring your question.”

You looked so…silly. In the dorkiest and most ridiculous way possible, you looked like the most dishevleved teacher in the entire world. It didn’t help the warmth that was spreading through his cheeks when you looked up at him with your big puppy eyes, your pupils absolutely blown with intoxication. 

“Did you try and get me fired?” you asked again, still slurring, but not so loud this time. Your head lolled back so hard against the headrest that Joel swore he heard your neck cracking. 

Joel’s arm shot out before he could even register what he was doing. His  hand cupped the back of your head, his fingers splaying across your neck so you didn't whip your spine against the hard seat. He held you there for a moment, one that felt so familiar, Joel let his thumb brush the hairs at the nape of your neck. As soon as he realized what he was doing, he let go, but he stayed close, his boots pressing right up against the wheels of your chair.

You glared at him, oblivious to his worry.

“Karen just pulled me into her office and threatened to throw me out of the district! She said I was a liability! Because 'I' pulled you into a closet and screamed at you like a lunatic!”

He raised an eyebrow. That wasn’t at all what Karen said she would do. She just said she would talk to you.

“I didn’t tell her to do that. That’s not what she told me she was going to do at all,” he muttered. He did say some awful things to Karen about you, but something about seeing you in his space, vulnerable and clearly hurt made him feel guilty. 

He hated feeling guilty. You deserved to be reprimanded! What was he doing?

“But you did pull me into that closet. And you did scream at me. I called the principal this morning because I wanted to talk about my daughter's classroom placement. I didn't ask for your contract to be reviewed.”

“Bull-fucking-shit!” and you were yelling again. You stood up shakily, your palms slapping his desk. Your knees buckled almost instantly, sending you nearly crumbling into the sharp edge of his metal filing cabinet. 

Joel caught you by the waist with both hands, his fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt, pulling you flush against his chest to absorb the impact of your fall. For a second, you were entirely in his arms, the scent of your hair filling his lungs. 

He held you the same way he held your limp body on the side of the road. Except this time, you didn’t smell like blood and burning rubber.

His heart started racing as you thought back to that night, like your body was a time machine. He quickly lowered you back to your feet and dusted his hands off. 

"Sit down before you break your neck,” He stepped back, crossing his arms tightly to keep from reaching out a third time. But you kept going.

"You just want me gone! You've wanted me gone since 1996! You wish I was dead didn’t you? You wish I died in that accident and I would be gone from your life…”

As you rambled on, Joel’s heart fractured. You thought he was so evil that he would prefer you dead. And of course he didn’t want you dead. He did everything he could keep himself conscious so that he could call for help for you. Hell, sometimes he wished he would just let himself die, but that meant you wouldn’t be here either.

"I called the school because I don't want a woman who has a 7 year personal vendetta against me diagnosing my kid just to hurt my pride. But Karen told me what you did up north. She told me you're the most qualified person in the state to help her. So I swallowed my pride. I told her you weren't using Sarah as a ploy. I saved your damn job this morning.”

You blinked up at him, your slurred defiance faltering for a fraction of a second as his words registered through the alcoholic haze. And in that flicker, he saw the youthful, innocent you, the one he fell in love with. The one he lost.

"You... you told her that?" you whispered, your hand instinctively coming up to clutch your lanyard.

"Yeah, I did," Joel sighed, straightening back up and rubbing the bridge of his nose/ He reached over, grabbed his half-empty bottle of water from the desk, and pushed it into your hand, forcing your fingers to wrap around the plastic. "Drink some water. And then you need to tell me how the hell you got here, because you are in no condition to be driving a car."

You tilted your head at him like he just asked the most stupid question in the world. 

“I don’t drive.” 

Joel froze, his hands half way through rubbing his face. 

“What do you mean? You seriously walked all the way here?” His eyes darted to your feet, which must be aching. “You…you never got behind a wheel again? Not once…”

He didn't ask anything else. He couldn't. Because the truth was, Joel carried a mountain of guilt about the smell of dirt, burning rubber, and flipped metal under a black Texas sky. It was guilt about the absolute horror of waking up upside down, coughing on smoke, and realizing you were flung through the windshield. Despite his pleas for you to wear a seatbelt, he had failed to save you, and that failure had fundamentally broken something inside him.

He hated you now. He had spent seven years building a wall of pure spite to survive that guilt. But underneath the anger, Joel was a man who was physically incapable of not taking care of the people he loved. It was in his DNA. He was a protector, a provider, and a savior to a fault. And looking at you right now, his old instincts didn't care about the lawsuit or the bitter words - they just saw you.

"Where's your phone?" he demanded gently, stepping into your space and reaching for your small handbag.

"No," you slurred, trying to weakly swat his hands away. "Theo... Theo's gonna kill me, Joel. He's bein' so good to me... letting me live with him. If I walk in like this... he's gonna know I messed up."

Joel didn't say anything as he fished the flip phone out of your bag. He knew Theo, and he knew he would absolutely lose his mind if he found out you were anywhere near a Miller, let alone drunk in a construction trailer. He flipped the phone open, and posing as you, he typed out the quickest lie he could think of.

 Got invited out for drinks with some of the other teachers from school. Going to stay at their place tonight to be safe. Love you, see you tomorrow.

He hit send, snapped the phone shut, and slid it into his pocket. No drunk texting for you.

"Come on.”

"No! Let go of me!" you protested, your slurred voice rising as you shoved his chest. You fought him all the way out of the trailer, your heels dragging in the gravel lot, but Joel just kept a grip on your waist, hoisting you into the passenger seat of his truck like a doll. He closed the door, rushing around to the driver's side before someone thought he was kidnapping you. 

There was a certain irony about your inability to drive yourself and how quickly you fell asleep in the car, like the engine was a lullaby. Like you found peace in being just far enough away from the trauma. The trauma was behind the wheel.

When he finally pulled into the driveway of his house, it was pitch black. He turned off the ignition and looked across the bench seat. You were entirely dead to the world, your head tilted against the glass in a way that looked ridiculously uncomfortable.

Joel sighed at how helpless you looked. He climbed out of the truck and walked around to the passenger side. Opening the door, he leaned in to carefully unbuckle your seatbelt, making sure his hands didn't snag your lanyard - they were so calloused they looked almost like splintered wood. He slid one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you out of the cab bridal style.

He used to dream about holding you like this.

As soon as frigid air hit you, you whimpered. Your body instinctively sought out the closest heat source you could find - his chest. You turned inward, your face burying directly into the crook of his neck, your hands clutching blindly at  his shirt as you snuggled yourself as deep into his space as you could possibly get.

Joel’s breath hitched. His heart began hammering against your ribs. The sensation of just holding you was melting him from the inside out. It was too familiar. It felt too much like the nights he used to carry you to bed when you were 19, entirely safe and entirely his. He adjusted his grip, pulling you a bit closer, his chin resting gently against your hair as he kicked his front door open.

He had fully intended to give you the couch. He had told himself you didn't deserve his bed. But Joel was a gentleman, and the couch was far too small, and his body simply wouldn't let him treat you poorly right now. He carried you straight past the living room, down the hallway, and into his own bedroom, laying your body onto his mattress. Still small, but more adult sized.

"Hey," he whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed and shaking your shoulder with a tenderness that contradicted everything he’d said today. "Hey. Wake up for a second, sweet girl."

He gulped when he said the name he used to call you. Sweet girl…his sweet girl. 

Well. You weren’t really sweet anymore. Joel was living in a memory tonight.

You groaned, your eyelids squinting open.

 "Joel...?"

"You want a shirt and some shorts to sleep in? You can't sleep in that heavy skirt."

"Yeah," you yawned. "Yes, please."

Joel walked over to his dresser, pulling out an old grey t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts, pulling the drawstring loose so they wouldn't pinch your waist. He walked back to the bed and set them down beside you.

 "Alright. I'm turning around. Change your clothes."

He turned his back to the bed, standing completely still as he faced the wall, trying hard not to envision what you looked like changing into his shirt. This isn’t real he kept telling himself. Tomorrow the real you will come out.

"Done," you whispered even though it was just the two of you.

Joel turned back around. You were swallowed whole by his t-shirt, the fabric hanging past your knees, looking tiny in the middle of his bed. He leaned over, pulling the heavy quilt all the way up to your shoulders, tucking the edges around you like he did for Sarah when she had a nightmare.

He walked out to the kitchen to get some water and placed them on the nightstand right next to your head. He placed a plastic trash bag on the floor right by the edge of the mattress, just in case your stomach turned.

And finally, he knelt down by the side of the bed. He was holding a washcloth he had run under the bathroom tap with warm water, squeezing out the excess until it was just damp.

"Hold still.”

He brought the cloth to your face, wipingn the smudged mascara and foundation from your skin. He was careful around your eyes, his thumb resting lightly against your cheekbone to steady his hand. He traced the slope of your nose, cleaning your face the exact way he used to do when you’d stay up until 3 in the morning writing and couldn't keep your eyes open.

It was so quiet he heard you swallow before whispering.

“Joel?”

“Mhm?”

“I’m glad it’s you…I know it’s you this time. Don’t worry.”

ongoing