Palam Factum
Saul locked his car and started up the sidewalk toward Trent’s place, thumb still hooked in his pocket around his phone. The street sat quiet in that lazy way afternoon did in their neighborhood.
The rumble rolled in behind him before he hit the gate.
It came low, under the regular sounds, thick enough that it touched his ribs. Saul slowed. The bass crawled up his spine. He stopped on the sidewalk and turned, his hand tightening around his phone.
A black Tahoe sat in the middle of the street, idling, chrome slick under the sun, windows dark enough to swallow faces. It hadn’t been there ten seconds ago. His pulse jumped. He had no idea how Kayjuan knew where he’d be.
The front passenger window eased down, glass sliding smooth into the door. The rear followed on that side. Saul watched the tint clear and resolve into shapes. Maine sat in the passenger seat, shoulders filling most of the space, a thin gold chain catching light at his throat. Two more shapes moved in the back, shadows at first, then the pale of a hand, the angle of a jaw.
The driver’s window rolled down last.
Kayjuan sat behind the wheel with his arm thrown across the console, body leaned toward the passenger side. The grin hit first, grill flashing on his teeth. “Come here, lil’ brudda.”
Saul’s chest pulled tight. His eyes flicked once to Trent’s house, to the open slats of the blinds, then back to the truck sitting dead center in the street. He didn’t decide to move. His feet just did. Sneakers scraped on the pavement as he stepped off the curb and crossed toward the Tahoe.
Maine watched him the whole way. His eyes didn’t blink much, just sat steady on Saul’s face. No smile. No frown. Nothing to read.
Saul stopped by the passenger door. His fingers flexed around the phone in his pocket. He swallowed, throat dry.
Maine still didn’t look away.
Kayjuan’s grin widened by degrees. “You still lookin’ to start movin’ some bud?”
Saul nodded. His tongue felt thick. “Yeah.” The sound came out high and cracked on the first syllable. One of the guys in the back snorted, a quick, ugly little laugh. Heat climbed up Saul’s neck. He cleared his throat, hard enough that it hurt. “Yeah,” he said again. “Nothin’ too serious, just a little here and there.”
Kayjuan shook his head slow. The friendliness dropped out of his face. “I don’t deal with niggas that just wanna move a little here or there. It ain’t worth the time for me to get outta bed. You gotta move pounds, nigga.”
The word sat heavy between them. Pounds. Saul’s stomach dropped. Ounces were the biggest thing he’d even heard Ethan talk about. This was something else entirely.
“I don’t know how to sell that much weed.” His voice came out smaller than he wanted.
Kayjuan turned his head toward the back seat. He didn’t say anything, just lifted his chin once. The rear window behind Maine slid the rest of the way down with the same slow mechanical hum.
One of the guys in the back leaned forward, forearm resting briefly on the door before he stuck it out the window. A gray canvas backpack hung from his hand by the straps, the fabric worn at one corner, black webbing cutting into his fingers. He held it there, arm straight, offering it out into the air.
Kayjuan’s eyes came back to Saul. “Well, you gon’ figure it out or we gon’ have some problems. You know what I’m sayin’, lil’ brudda?”
Saul stared at the bag. His hands stayed glued to his sides. He could feel the weight of it in his head before it ever touched him.
The guy in the back shoved the backpack closer, impatience showing only in the extra inch he pushed it out. The straps swung.
Saul’s arms came up without him thinking, catching the canvas before it smacked his chest. The bag thumped into his sternum. The weight of it settled into his arms, pulling on his shoulders. He wrapped both hands around the straps and adjusted his grip, taking a half step back from the truck.
“How I’m supposed to get in touch with you?” he asked. His mouth was so dry the words scraped.
Kayjuan jerked his chin at Maine. “Text Maine. Take down his number.”
Maine finally moved his eyes off Saul’s face long enough to glance at his hands. “You ready?” he asked, voice flat.
Saul fumbled for his phone with one hand, the other clamped around the backpack. He yanked it out of his pocket so fast it almost slipped from his fingers. He snatched it back before it hit the street, thumb shaking as he dragged up the keypad. Numbers came out of Maine’s mouth with no pauses. Saul punched them in as he heard them, trusting he’d gotten them all because he wasn’t about to ask this man to repeat himself.
“You got till next week,” Kayjuan said. “And don’t make me come lookin’ for your ass, nigga.”
“What?” The word came out sharp, too loud in the quiet street. “That’s not enough time.”
Kayjuan laughed. There wasn’t anything friendly in it. Maine’s hand shot out across the gap and hit Saul’s shoulder, heel of his palm slamming into the joint. Saul stumbled back a step, the backpack pulling him off balance. He clutched the straps tighter and caught himself before he went down.
Kayjuan leaned toward the open window again. The grin was gone this time. “You better make it enough time or I’m gon’ shoot you in your fuckin’ knee.”
The Tahoe’s engine revved, louder now, vibrating up through Saul’s shoes. Kayjuan didn’t wait for any answer. The truck lurched forward, then smoothed out as he hit the gas. Tires bit into the pavement. Bass punched once against Saul’s chest, then faded as the Tahoe picked up speed and rolled past Trent’s house, taillights blinking red at the corner before it turned and disappeared.
The street went quiet again. The only sounds left were a lawn mower droning faint from a yard over and the distant yip of that same dog.
Saul stood in the road with the backpack in his arms. His heart hammered against his ribs, pulse rushing loud in his ears. The straps dug into his fingers where he gripped them. The weight of the bag pulled at his shoulders, heavier now that the truck was gone. He looked down at the gray canvas pressed into his chest, then up the empty stretch of asphalt where the Tahoe had been, houses sitting still on both sides like nothing had happened at all.
~~~
The branch came down with a wet crack when Caine yanked it free from the flower bed. He dragged it across the grass toward the growing pile near the curb, sweat already soaking through the back of his shirt. The storm had blown through Statesboro the night before, one of those random May things that came out of nowhere, knocked shit around for twenty minutes, then disappeared and left half the trees on the church property looking like someone had gone at them with a machete.
Caine pulled his gloves tighter and bent for another branch. His airpods were in, some Kevin Gates track he wasn’t really listening to, just noise to crowd the inside of his head. His hands still remembered balling up when Laney told him what her daddy had done. His jaw still remembered locking when he heard the word Hadden had used for him.
The church’s side door opened.
Caine didn’t look up. He grabbed a thick limb that had come down from the oak near the fellowship hall and started hauling it toward the curb. His shoulders burned. Each pull dug through the knot sitting in his chest and gave it somewhere to go. The image of Laney bruised up kept cutting in around the edges of his vision and he yanked harder, bark scraping concrete as he crossed the sidewalk.
Footsteps on the concrete path. Two sets. Hushed voices, a man’s low rumble, a woman’s softer murmur. Caine kept his head down, kept moving. The branch scraped along the sidewalk and bumped the pile.
He heard them pause. More quiet conversation. Then the footsteps started up again, coming closer now. Coming toward him.
Caine’s jaw tightened. He let the branch drop on the pile and turned back toward the building, reaching for another one near the flower bed. His fingers closed around smaller twigs, buying himself a second, giving himself something to do besides turn around on command.
“Caine.”
Pastor Hadden’s voice. Clear. Deliberate.
Caine straightened slowly. For a beat he left the music in his ears and pretended he didn’t hear a thing. Then he reached up, plucked one airpod out, and thumbed his phone in his pocket to pause the track. He wiped his forearm across his face, dragging sweat off his brow, and yanked his work gloves off. When he turned around, Pastor Hadden was standing about ten feet away with Marianne set just off his shoulder. The pastor had his hands in his pockets. Marianne’s arms were crossed tight over her chest, feet planted.
Caine met the pastor’s eyes and said nothing.
“I assume you know by now.”
Caine raised an eyebrow. “What should I know by now?”
Pastor Hadden took a breath through his nose. Held it. Let it out. “We know about your sinful dalliances with Delaney.”
He let the words sit there like he was waiting on something from Caine. An apology. A flinch. Anything.
A laugh came out of Caine instead, sharp and humorless. “Can’t be sinful if I ain’t religious, pastor.”
Marianne’s mouth tightened. Her eyes cut away, then came right back to him with more heat in them.
The pastor’s face hardened. “Now is not the time to be a smart ass, boy.” He took a step closer. “You seem to forget that the only reason you’re here and not in prison is because I was doing a favor for an old friend.”
Caine sucked his teeth. He shifted his weight, rolled his shoulders back. “I’ll go sit down and do that lil’ time before I let you hold that shit over me.”
Pastor Hadden’s laugh was cold. Empty. “Why am I not surprised that you wouldn’t mind going to prison?”
Caine just shrugged, the movement small, shoulders lifting and dropping once.
The pastor stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. “I should fire you. I wanted to and I was going to, but my good wife pointed out that would invite scandal on my church and create confusion in my congregation.”
Caine tilted his head. “You mean when people start asking why I suddenly went back to Louisiana.”
“Precisely.” Pastor Hadden’s mouth was a thin line. “So, we’re going to make sure that you and Delaney don’t cross any more lines. I’ve already spoken to Mr. Bethel. You’ll only need to come in twice a week from now on due to your amazing work here for us.” His tone made it clear what he thought of that work. “And on those days, you’ll answer to Marianne.”
Caine looked at Marianne. She was watching him with something close to disgust now, chin lifted, lips pressed tight, like she smelled something bad she couldn’t move away from. He looked back at the pastor.
“Fine with me.”
Pastor Hadden held his gaze for another few seconds. Then he stepped closer, close enough that Caine could smell his cologne over the cut grass and wet dirt. The pastor dropped his voice.
“I meant what I said when I told you that I don’t agree with your kind with my daughters. Just because Rylee isn’t as entangled as Delaney doesn’t mean you should think that is an opportunity either.”
Caine’s jaw worked once, holding back another laugh. His fingers curled inside one of the gloves he was still holding, leather creasing under his grip, but his face stayed flat. “Whatever you say, pastor.”
Pastor Hadden stared at him. Something flickered in his eyes, frustration maybe, or anger that Caine wasn’t reacting the way he wanted. Then he turned sharply and started walking back toward the parking lot. Marianne followed, casting one more look over her shoulder, eyes trailing over him like a judgment before she turned away too.
Caine watched them disappear around the corner of the building. He stood there for a moment, the sun beating down on his neck, sweat rolling down his spine, the glove still bunched in his hand.
He put the airpod back in his ear and shoved it in until the rubber seal sat snug. The track picked back up in his head. He pulled his gloves on, flexing his fingers into them, then turned around, grabbed the next branch, and dragged it toward the pile.
~~~
The top was silk, deep burgundy with thin straps that would sit just right on her shoulders. Mireya pulled it off the rack, the hanger scraping against the metal bar. She turned toward the mirror mounted on the wall between two clothing displays, holding the top up against herself. The fabric caught the overhead lights, shimmering faintly.
She tilted her head, studying the way it would drape across her collarbone, the neckline, how much skin it would show. Easy to get out of. Easy to slide back on in a hurry. She caught a brief flash of herself in something softer and shut it down before it had any shape.
She slid the hanger off the hook, looping it over her forearm and moved down the aisle.
Behind her, Dez sucked his teeth.
Mireya looked over her shoulder, her expression already annoyed before she even turned all the way around. “Trell told you to drive me around, not to huff and puff like a fucking child while you follow behind me.” She turned back to the rack in front of her. “You’re the one that decided to get out of the fucking car.”
Dez shook his head. “You don’t have to act like such a bitch toward me.”
Mireya stopped at another rack, running her fingers over a black crop top with lace trim. The fabric felt cheap between her fingers, not built to last more than a few washes. She didn’t look at him. “Yes, I do.”
She moved past it without picking anything up. Her fingers trailed across hangers as she walked, burgundy silk swinging lightly against her forearm.
“It’s just the two of us here.” Dez’s voice was closer now. “You ain’t gotta hide that you fuck with me.”
Mireya turned toward him, raising an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”
“I hear how you be moaning and shit.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “C’mon now.”
Mireya’s expression went flat. She let the silence sit for a second, watching him. Then she opened her mouth. “Like this?” The moan that came out was breathy, theatrical, perfectly pitched, the kind of sound she’d perfected for men just like him. She rolled her eyes. “Didn’t take you as someone who thinks the fucking stripper likes you, Dez.”
She shifted the burgundy top higher on her arm and walked off to another rack near the dressing rooms, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. Behind her, his footsteps quickened, sneakers squeaking slightly on the polished floor.
“You know they killed Boogie, right?”
Mireya’s hand stopped on a hanger. Her fingers tightened around the metal until the cold bit into her palm. For a second, her chest stuttered, the memory of Trell saying it in his kitchen cutting across the rows of clothes. She swallowed it down and looked around, scanning the store carefully. A sales associate near the front, folding something on the display table. No one else close enough to hear.
She turned her head slightly, keeping her voice low but sharp. “Are you fucking stupid? Do I know? Yes. He told me. But that seems like some dumb shit to talk about in a clothes store, Dez.”
Dez shrugged, hands in his pockets. “You ain’t built to be around this. That’s all I’m saying.”
Mireya went back to the clothes, pulling out a white button-down and checking the size tag. Medium. She put it back and reached for a small, then put that back too. “Whatever opinion of me you got in your head, it’s got nothing to do with who I am.” She moved to the next hanger. “And I’m tired of having this conversation.”
“We keep having this conversation because you ain’t seeing it.” He moved to stand at the end of the rack, forcing her to look at him when she reached for another hanger. His arms crossed over his chest. “I can tell you been upset lately. Trell ask you anything about why that is? Or he just tell you to keep doing what he tell you to do?”
Her hand stilled for a beat on the hanger. She flicked the hanger forward and let it clack back into place.
“I ain’t so delicate that I need my man to give me a shoulder to cry on.” She shifted the weight of the burgundy top and started moving again. “He doesn’t need to ask me about my moods.”
Dez’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “Your man? The nigga who let all kinds of niggas fuck you? That’s who you calling your man?”
Mireya looked up at him, still moving down the aisle. She pulled another hanger forward, a skimpy tank she barely glanced at, and let it slide back. “Instead of what? The man trying to be my man when another man has me and makes you sit around while he fucks me?”
She sucked her teeth without waiting for him to answer, shaking her head, moving past him to the next section. “Be for fucking real, Dez. If you want to save a woman so bad, they got plenty of them out there but I ain’t looking to be saved.” She stopped, turned to face him fully. “Now, shut the fuck up so I can shop in peace or go sit your fucking ass in the car.”
Dez stared at her for a long moment. Something moved across his face, anger maybe, or frustration that couldn’t find anywhere to land. His jaw worked. He shook his head. “You gon’ see I been right about that nigga this whole time.”
Mireya turned back to the rack in front of her, pulling out a cropped sweater in soft gray. The knit felt nice under her thumb, warm. She looked at it for a second then put it back on the rack.
Her hand went straight to the next piece, a black mesh top. She checked the tag, quick and efficient, then draped it over her other arm with the burgundy silk.
Dez stood there for another few seconds, waiting for something. A look, a word, anything. When nothing came, he turned and walked back toward the entrance of the store, shoulders tight, hands still shoved in his pockets.
Mireya shifted the weight of the tops on her arm and moved to another rack near the dressing rooms, eyes already on the next row of clothes.
~~~
E.J. lay stretched across the king bed with the remote in one hand and his phone in the other. The mattress had more give than the ones he was used to, his weight sinking in just enough that it hugged his back. The air conditioner clicked on and pushed a steady breath of cold air across the room, fighting the leftover heat that pressed in from the bay outside.
The curtains were only half drawn. Through the gap, he could see the water cut in long stripes of orange and pink as the sun slid down. Boats moved slow out on the bay, little white shapes against the darker water. The window glass dimmed some of the glare but not all of it. Light still laid across the carpet and the edge of the bed.
He scrolled with his thumb, barely seeing whatever app was open, letting his body settle, muscles loose in a way they rarely were back home. Notifications blurred past. Group chat. Instagram. A news alert he ignored. He flicked his wrist and switched over to CashApp without thinking about it.
The green numbers made his eyes focus.
The balance sat lower than it had last week. Lower than it had the week before he picked Tessa up and pointed the car out of Louisiana. Room. Gas. Food. The little extras she didn’t even ask for but he paid for anyway. It all added up.
He exhaled once through his nose.
He tapped into the history and watched the outgoing list stack up. Grand Hotel. Some sandwich spot in town. The liquor store run they’d made when they got in. The numbers pulled at him, but underneath the dent there was still plenty.
He could build it back up when they got home. A few extra plays.
He backed out of the app and let the phone drop onto his chest.
The water cut off in the bathroom. Steam spilled out first when the door cracked, a soft white cloud that curled toward the ceiling before the AC grabbed it. Tessa stepped out wearing the hotel robe tied at her waist, white cotton against damp skin. Her hair sat wrapped in a towel, twisted high and heavy on her head.
She padded barefoot across the carpet toward the desk, the little paper slippers still untouched near the trash can.
“How about we go to Destin tomorrow?” she asked, still looking down into the bag.
E.J. snorted, a short laugh that pulled from his chest. He shifted onto one elbow and looked over at her. “You ain’t ready to go back home?”
Tessa dug deeper for the brush, her mouth twisting. “I’m not in any rush to get back to Louisiana,” she said. She found the brush and straightened, dragging the drawer on the desk open with her hip so she could set her makeup bag inside.
“Basically you practicing moving out the city without having to do it,” he said. His voice stayed light, but his eyes tracked her face.
She shrugged one shoulder, the robe gaping a little at her chest. “Pretty much.”
Her phone lit up on the corner of the desk, screen buzzing against the wood. She glanced at it. The name on the screen made her jaw flex.
She picked it up. “Hey, Mom.” Her voice shifted automatically, softer. She turned a little toward the window, toes curling into the carpet.
E.J. watched the tension land in her body before the words caught up.
Her eyebrows pinched. “Why are you just telling me?” she asked. “No. I know I’ve been out of town but you could’ve called before.”
He pushed himself up until he was sitting, feet planted on the floor. “What’s up?” he asked.
She flicked a look at him and held a finger up without breaking stride in the call. Her hand hovered in the air between them, palm out. “No, you could’ve called me,” she said into the phone. “I’m with him. No, I’ll tell him. Yeah, tomorrow. Okay, I’ll call you later.”
She ended the call and let the phone hang from her fingers for a second. Then she set it down on the desk a little harder than she needed to. Her other hand found the edge of the wood. She braced herself there, weight forward, head dropping so her towel-wrapped hair pointed at the carpet.
The room went quiet except for the AC and the faint slap of water against the seawall outside.
E.J. stood up off the bed. The carpet pressed soft under his feet as he crossed to her. He stopped close enough that he could see the damp patch where the robe clung at the small of her back.
“You good, bae?” he asked.
She lifted her head, eyes redder than they had been a minute ago. “Fucking child porn,” she said. The words came out rough. “Y’all put child porn on his phone.”
His jaw moved once before he could catch it. He crossed his arms over his chest, then let them drop. “Yeah,” he said. “Some shit that’s gonna get him fired.”
“He got arrested, Eric.” Her voice cracked on his name. She turned away from him, shoulder catching his chest, putting her back almost fully to him as she faced the window. Her hand dragged across her cheek and caught on the edge of the towel before she shoved it back up. “I think that’s a little more than fucking fired.”
He reached out and rested his hand on the center of her back, fingers spread, feeling the steady rise and fall under his palm. “Bae, he’s gonna beat the case,” he said. “They always do.”
She shrugged his hand off. The towel on her head wobbled and stayed. She took a step away, rubbing both hands hard over her face now, palms moving from cheeks to forehead and back down. Her breath came louder in the small room.
“And y’all got me in this shit,” she said.
He opened his mouth, ready to tell her again that nobody could tie anything to her. None of that left his throat. The words felt thin standing up next to “child porn” and “arrested.”
Tessa grabbed the end of the towel and yanked it free from her hair. Wet blond strands fell around her shoulders and stuck to the collar of the robe. She threw the towel at the floor, the heavy bundle landing in a damp heap near his foot.
“I want to go home tomorrow,” she said.
He watched her circle the foot of the bed, robe swaying against her calves as she moved. She didn’t look at him as she climbed onto the mattress and folded onto her side, back to him, knees coming up toward her chest. She tugged at the comforter until it covered her, even though her skin was still warm from the shower.
“You sure?” he asked.
“Yes.” The answer popped out fast. She stared at the wall, lashes still wet at the tips. “You might want to call the front desk and ask for a pullout.”
The words landed between them. E.J. felt his jaw tighten again. He looked at the empty half of the bed, the robe hanging off her shoulder, the space that had been theirs the last few nights closing up without anything loud happening.
He opened his mouth, ready with three different responses. A joke to smooth it over. A protest. Something nasty said out of his own frustration. None of them felt worth what they would cost. He closed his mouth, the muscle in his cheek ticking once.
He shook his head and turned away. The armchair in the corner sat angled toward the window, cushion neat, throw pillow untouched. He walked over and lowered himself into it, the fabric cool against the backs of his legs as he sat down in the corner of the room.
~~~
Laney’s palms pressed into the cool granite until her wrists ached. The island took her weight better than her legs did. Her head hung low, hair loose around her face, catching against the edge of the counter each time she breathed.
Behind her, forks clicked against plates and went quiet. Knox, Braxton, and Hunter sat at the table with their shoulders pulled in, the way they had for weeks now. Whatever joke had passed between the older two hit late. A short, smothered laugh popped out, then another, sharp and quick and low.
Laney didn’t lift her head. “Y’all done?”
The room flattened for a second. The same held breath they all took every time she used that tone. The AC hummed through the vent. The porch light buzzed outside.
“Yeah, Mama. We done,” Knox said.
She heard him reach across the table. A small smack landed on Braxton’s arm, followed by a rushed whisper that she couldn’t make out. Chair legs scraped across the tile, one after the other, not as loud as they could have been. Three sets of feet carried those plates to the trash can. Food scraped against plastic. The lid thunked shut soft. Plates tapped once against the rim of the sink as they set them in, careful now, no clatter.
“Go on,” Laney said, voice low.
Knox and Braxton’s footsteps angled down the hall at once, socks sliding a little on the floor. They didn’t push or jostle the way they used to. They moved with the same steady rush to the bathroom, the same need to get out of her way. Hunter’s smaller steps stayed behind.
He came around the side of the island slow, the way he did when he was checking the weather of her face. When he was close enough, he wrapped his arms around her waist, cheek pressing into her side. His fingers bunched the fabric of her shirt.
“Love you, Mama,” he said into her.
Laney’s hand left the counter. She put it on his head and slid her palm over his hair, smoothing it down from crown to neck. She kept her eyes closed. The movement was practiced, easy. “Love you, too, baby.”
He squeezed once and let go. She felt the reluctance in the way his hands loosened. Then his arms dropped. His footsteps padded away across the tile and picked up speed as he turned into the hall to catch his brothers. Their voices echoed low and blurred, bathroom door opening and closing, water starting up a moment later.
Laney stayed where she was. She lifted one hand from the granite and pushed it back through her hair, fingers dragging from her scalp to the ends, catching on a tangle she yanked free. Her eyes stayed closed. The muscles around them burned from holding tight. She worked her jaw once and let her hand fall back to the counter.
The house settled into its usual sounds. The hum of the fridge. The wash of the AC. The faint rush of the boys’ voices fighting over the sink and the towel. Somewhere outside a truck downshifted on the road, engine low and rough, then faded.
The side door opened.
The sound cracked through the quiet and bounced down the hall. Hinges sighed, then the heavier thump of the outer door followed. Laney didn’t move. Tommy’s keys didn’t jingle. His step didn’t come with that familiar weight of boots from the mudroom toward the kitchen, but her body still read it as him. She kept her head down, palms flattening again against the stone.
Perfume hit her first. Sweet and high and too strong for a house this small at night.
Rylee’s steps came across the tile, not sure at first, then more certain when she cleared the doorway and knew Laney was there. Laney’s eyes stayed shut. Her knuckles whitened against the granite.
Rylee stopped beside her. The paper edge of something nudged close to Laney’s left hand and then settled with a soft slap against the countertop. A small stack of envelopes, corners uneven, sat touching the side of her palm.
“Mama said you left this at the church,” Rylee said.
Laney didn’t answer. She could feel the weight of her sister’s stare at the side of her face. She counted her breaths, in through her nose until her chest hurt, out through her mouth in slow pushes.
Rylee shifted her weight, one heel scuffing the tile. Silence stretched between them thick as the heat that still clung to the house. “I ain’t know Daddy would do that,” she said finally, words coming out careful, “but I ain’t gon’ act like you wasn’t in the wrong neither.”
Laney’s fingers twitched against the granite, then went still again. She kept her head down. The skin along her cheek prickled with an old memory. She let the prickle pass.
Rylee let out a breath through her nose, louder this time. “You already got everythin’,” she said. “Everyone already love you, Laney. It ain’t even ‘bout Caine. It’s ‘bout you gettin’ what you wanted again.”
Laney’s throat worked once. Her eyes stayed closed. “You think I want this?” she asked.
The question hung there.
Rylee frowned. Laney heard the little hitch of it. “What?”
“You think I want this fuckin’ life?” Laney said.
Rylee’s bracelets clinked when she folded her arms. “You keep livin’ it so I’m guessin’ you do.”
Laney shook her head. The motion was small at first, then sharper, hair sliding against her cheeks. She pulled in a breath that hurt and opened her eyes. The kitchen swam into focus in pieces. The sink with the plates stacked crooked. The stove light. The hallway where the bathroom door now sat cracked, light spilling under it.
Then Rylee.
Laney lifted her chin and looked straight at her sister. Her mouth sat in that stubborn line Laney knew better than anyone.
“If it wasn’t for my boys,” Laney said, her voice rough, “I would’ve done some Jodi Arias shit by now, you hear me?”
Her hands came off the counter. One hand cut the air between them in a short, sharp slice.
“I don’t want this shit. Fuck this shit.” Her eyes didn’t leave Rylee’s. “You ain’t got enough sense in your head to make a dollar, Rylee. You got a lot of growin’ up to do if you look at me and think I want this.”
Rylee’s mouth fell open, then snapped shut. Color climbed her neck. She threw her hands up, bracelets sliding down her arms with the motion. “So what? You was fuckin’ Caine ‘cause you unhappy? They got therapy for that.”
Laney huffed out something that could’ve been a laugh if there had been anything funny in it. She reached up and rubbed at the bridge of her nose, thumb pressing hard. “It’s complicated in a way you ain’t gon’ understand,” she said, dropping her hand, “and I cain’t be bothered to explain it to you.”
Rylee’s scoff cut across the space. She shifted her weight to one hip, chin tipping up. “Even now, you still bein’ selfish,” she said. “I’m nineteen. Old as you was by the time you was married and had Knox.”
Laney looked at her and let the words sit. Hunter laughed from down the hall at something the older boys said, the sound muffled by the wall. The faucet squeaked off. The house held all of it at once.
“Old as I was,” Laney said finally, “and twice as fuckin’ stupid.”
Rylee’s jaw clenched. “I ain—”
Laney’s hand was already up. She stepped in, closing the space between them until she could feel Rylee’s breath on her face, and jabbed a finger at her sister’s forehead hard enough that it pushed her back a fraction.
“Just so you know,” she said, voice low and tight, “the reason you ain’t never faced the wrath of Pastor Franklin Hadden when you be out here suckin’ and fuckin’ every farm boy and frat boy from here to Augusta who look your fuckin’ way is ‘cause of me.”
Rylee blinked fast. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
Laney didn’t stop. Her finger dropped but her shoulders stayed squared. “So spare me the woe is me act,” she said. “I caught a beatin’ for what you said. What he did to you? Not a fuckin’ thing.”
Rylee’s throat bobbed. She opened her mouth once more, then closed it. Her eyes cut away first, landing on the stack of envelopes on the counter, then on the hallway, then back toward the side door.
She turned without another word. Her shoes clicked once on the tile, then again. The side door opened. Night air pushed in, carrying the sound of crickets and the distant hum of a passing car. The door shut behind her with a blunt finality that sent a small tremor through the frame.
Laney stayed standing in the middle of the kitchen until the vibrations died. Her chest rose and fell, breath louder now that there was no one else in the room to hear it. She looked at the envelopes, then past them to the sink.
After a beat, she moved. She crossed to the counter, picked up the first plate from the stack in the basin, and turned on the water.
