Split(11)

We eat in silence and I shovel bites into my mouth, chew, and swallow all while scanning the cramped room in search of some semblance of life. Instead, everywhere I look I see death. Momma hunched over the dinner table in her wheelchair, her spine protruding beneath her thin nightgown while strings of drool soak her chest. My dad sitting exactly where he is now, his head in one hand and a mostly empty bottle of bourbon in the other while my momma sat, staring at nothing, and her mind understood everything.

I force myself to banish those memories in favor of good ones. My brother and I racing around my mom’s legs, hiding in her apron while she made fried bread and the best refried beans I’d ever tasted. Just as the scent of her Native American cooking hung in the air, so did the love she had for her family. She was the thread that held us together, and once she was gone, we all fell apart. My dad retreated into his work, my brother retreated into himself, and I couldn’t get away from it all fast enough.

Couldn’t get out of this house fast enough.

Because as much as I love her, the memories of her last days are all that seem to remain here. Just a few waking hours in this house and my skin is practically crawling for me to escape.

“Wanna tell me what happened?”

“Not really.” I shovel a bite into my mouth, hoping he doesn’t press.

“Saw the newscast, Shy.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. That’s because they cut the feed before I broke Leaf’s eye. “You froze. Happens. Don’t see what it’s worth firing you for.”

Pushing food around my plate, I avoid his eyes. “Yeah, well . . . personal feelings don’t mix with news reporting. I blew it.”

The room falls silent except for the sounds of our eating. I study the kitchen, trying to avoid seeing what might be disappointment on his face.

The clank of his fork on his plate calls my attention from a row of colorful kachina dolls that line the windowsill above the sink. “You got a plan?”

I nod. “I’ll call some old friends, see if any of them know of someplace that’s hiring.”

He laughs, but it’s far from the ha-ha funny kind. “Never was good enough for you,” he mumbles.

Well that didn’t take long.

I wipe my mouth and take a sip of water, then lean back, clearing my throat. “Suppose I should be impressed that it took you all of five minutes to bring that shit up.”

“Mouth.”

“I’m twenty-three years old. My mouth and how I use it are no longer your business.”

“In my house, you bet your ass it is.”

I cross my arms over my chest, my blood firing with irritation. “Oh, so ass is okay, yeah? Mind passing me along the list of approved curse words so I can keep from offending your delicate sensitivities during my short stay here?”

He growls and drops his chin, Nash Jennings’s universal body language for “this conversation is over.” His chest expands with a deep breath, causing me a twinge of regret.

Hell, all we’ve ever done is fight. Mom used to say it was because we were so much alike, which would just infuriate us both and we’d fight more.

He sits back, breathes deep, and shovels a heaping forkful of baked potato into his mouth, chews, and swallows. “Talk to the girls but know your job at Jennings is always open.”

“Thanks. I . . .” I’d rather slap myself in the face until I pass out. “We’ll see.”

He nods and tosses his napkin onto the table, then pushes out his seat enough to prop a heavy-booted foot on one knee. “Office could use you back. Shit’s gone to shit since you left.”

My jaw drops at his blatant cussing, but he doesn’t respond to my shock. Typical.

“I’ve sent out close to fifty résumés. Might get a bite here soon.” Probably not, but he doesn’t need to know that. I sent my résumé to every broadcasting station in the country that’s hiring and haven’t heard a word in response yet.

He tilts his head. “Been gone for five years, Shy. How long do we get you before you take off again?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t plan on living here long if that’s what you’re asking.”

His expression is impassive, but his eyes register the blow and reflect pain.

“Dad, it’s nothing personal.” That’s a lie. It’s always been personal. You’re nothing like your momma. “I could crash with Cody.”

“He’s living in a trailer down by Kohls Ranch.”

Damn, that won’t work. I love my brother, but I’m not cramming into a trailer and sleeping on a couch.

That leaves one other option. I hate bringing it up. Dad hasn’t been rational about it since momma died, but I have to try.

My teeth run along my top lip as nerves prick my gut. I shrug and pick at the worn edge of the rustic kitchen table. “What about the river house?”

I expect the air between us to string tight with tension, to feel the power of his glare on the top of my head like a physical touch, but instead there’s nothing.

I peek up to find his expression blank.

The river house was my mom and dad’s dream cottage. They’d started building it together a few years before mom got sick: the plan to move down there once my brother and I were out of the house. Unfortunately, the construction was halted when she lost the ability to use her hands, walk, and eventually became paralyzed. Since then my dad has all but pretended the place doesn’t exist. Last I checked, it wasn’t totally livable yet, but it has walls, running water, and electricity, and it’s not crawling with memories of her death.