Birthday Girl(66)

“Jordan,” he calls again. “That car’s not ready to go. It’ll stall every time you stop.”

I give him a shaky smile. “I’ll deal with it. Really, I’m all panicked out. I don’t think much will upset me anymore. I’ll be fine.”

Pulling out my keys, I climb in. “Thanks for all the work you did on it already. You definitely didn’t need to do all that.”

“Wait,” he blurts out, sounding urgent.

I stop, unable to look at him, but I feel him take a step forward. He hesitates like he’s searching for words.

I glance up.

“Just…” He shakes his head, looking exasperated. “Move the stuff into the back of my truck. I’ll take you.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off.

“I need to finish the VW,” he says. “It needs to stay here for a couple more days. And don’t give me attitude about it. Can you all of a sudden afford a mechanic?”





Pike



Meadow Lakes. I want to laugh. There’s no meadows or lakes, and there’s certainly no lake on a meadow. It’s a sixty-year-old trailer park full of dumps propped up on cinder blocks.

Did she actually grow up here?

I’m starting to think Cole didn’t have it so bad, after all. I look around, taking in the ancient silver Airstreams mixed in with some double-wides from the 80s, broken blinds barely visible behind muddy windows, and termite-rotted exteriors, green with mildew and exposed insulation. This whole fucking place is a fire hazard waiting to happen. I don’t want her here. She doesn’t have to stay at my house, but just…not here.

Jordan sits in the seat next to me, slowly running her palms across each other and staring down blankly, lost in thought. I can’t shake the feeling that she’s trying to put off looking out the window as long as possible.

It’s not dark yet, but the sun has set, and a couple kids race out from between two mobile homes, chasing a ball. I slow down in case they run into the street.

“Right there,” Jordan says.

I glance over, seeing her gesture to my left and follow her gaze to a trailer with filthy, lime green siding, and I clench my teeth.

An AC unit protrudes from the front window, a rickety, old wooden fence wraps around the bottom, parts of it laying broken on the ground or sections just plain missing, and the porch is crowded with random junk, clothes, and a couple of loaded trash bags. Three young guys stand on the porch, smoking and talking.

“Here?” I turn and ask her.

But she just unfastens her seatbelt, preparing to get out.

“Who are those guys?” I say.

She glances up for only a moment before averting her eyes again, taking her bag. “It’s probably my stepbrother and a couple of his friends.”

I pull up in front of the trailer, since the small driveway is full, and turn off the engine.

“You have a stepbrother?” She hasn’t mentioned him.

She just shrugs. “In the technical sense,” she says, quirking a smile. “I don’t talk to him much.”

“But he lives here,” I say, trying to get clarification.

She nods and before I can say anything else, she climbs out of the truck, taking her purse with her.

Well, how many rooms can this place have if there’s another kid living here? Does she even have a bed?

She pulls a suitcase out of the back, swings her bag over her head, and leads the way. I grab a box and follow, grinding my teeth to keep my fucking mouth in check. I don’t know if I’m angry or worried or what, and I don’t know if I have a right to feel those things or if any concern is justified. She’ll probably be fine. This is her family. I just…

I feel like I’m going to explode at any second.

We walk up the few steps to the front door, and Jordan barely looks at her stepbrother and his friends as she opens the door.

“Ryan, this is Cole’s dad,” she mumbles. “Pike, this is my stepbrother, Ryan.”

I turn to the kid, and he straightens, holding out his hand. “Hey, man.”

I shift the box in my arms and manage to shake his hand. “Hi.”

He’s stocky and short for a guy, about Jordan’s height, but he tries to make up for it with a neck tattoo and a black leather jacket.

In summer.

“So, you home now?” he says to her, taking a swig from his beer.

“Yeah.”

One of Ryan’s buddies nudges him. “Is this the one who’s a stripper?”

I tighten my fingers around the box.

He snorts, nearly spitting up his beer. “Nah, man. That’s the other one.” But then his eyes take Jordan in, moving up and down her with a smirk. “This one can dance a little, too, though.”

They all laugh, and I feel a lump push up my throat like a growl. Steeling myself, I turn and push the door open for Jordan, forcing her inside.

I should be more forgiving. It’s not like I wasn’t the occasional little prick from time to time growing up.

How the hell does he know how she dances?

I give myself a mental shake and take a deep breath. Drop off her shit and go home. She’s not my concern. This is her choice. And if I were her, I’d do the same thing.

I’m actually proud of myself. She’s no stranger to my outbursts or pushy demands, and I’m keeping amazingly quiet given the fact that I hate this neighborhood, and this entire situation is grinding my gears. I can hang on for five more minutes, right?