In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(110)

Then there’s a large presence at my shoulder and Rex peels Colin off me. His expression is neutral, but when he speaks his voice is murderously calm.

“Don’t. Fucking. Touch him,” Rex says, and you would have to be out of your goddamned mind to start anything with that voice. Colin, though I’ve wondered over the years, is not out of his mind.

The tension in the room is thick. Sam has half risen from the recliner and Brian is standing in front of the TV as if he might be able to change the channel and end up in some other living room in some other house, with some other family. He looks anxious. Brian is always anxious when Colin isn’t in control.

“Um, so, who are you?” he asks Rex again.

“Rex,” Rex says, glancing at me as if to check what he should say.

“He’s my boyfriend,” I say. I feel a flash of elation at saying it for the first time, followed by a deep pang of shame, the only emotion I’ve ever associated with desire for men inside these walls.

Sam looks at the floor and Colin sinks back onto the couch.

“Well, I guess it’s obvious who the girl is, Danielle,” Colin says, using his old nickname for me.

It doesn’t matter that years of studying gender theory have given me the ability to reject the gender binary outright. It doesn’t matter that I understand my negative reaction to being called the girl is due to a whole lot of entrenched cultural misogyny and not my own feelings about women. It doesn’t matter that I love when Rex f*cks me, which is, of course, basically what Colin’s accusing me of.

All that matters in this moment is launching myself across the pathetic pressboard coffee table cluttered with beer cans and junk mail, and beating the shit out of Colin, which is what I’m attempting to do when Rex grabs me. At least he let me get in a couple of good punches, but I’m still vibrating with fury.

“Fuck!” I yell, and I’m actually glad when Rex grabs me this time, because I was about to punch the television, and god knows if I’d broken that, all three of my brothers would have jumped on me and murdered me before Rex could do a thing about it.

I slam out the front door and turn into the alley where Rex’s truck is. I’m leaning against it when Rex joins me.

“Well,” I say. But I have nothing to add.

Rex fixes me with a look that manages to be incredibly sympathetic without pissing me off.

“I don’t care for your brothers,” he says, jaw clenched.

I laugh.

“Fuck, me neither. Let’s get out of here.”




I FEEL better after the fight with Colin, actually. My anger for him is familiar; I know it’ll fade. It feels better than the creeping numbness I’ve felt the last few days.

It’s about nine when we get to Ginger’s shop, and I have a huge grin on my face as the door chimes tinkle their customary welcome. Ginger is in the back of the shop, doing inventory. She’s wearing these hideous purple overalls that she loves and a black bandeau top that shows off the tattoos on her arms, chest, back, and neck. Her curly black hair is shaved on one side and she’s wearing her usual tangle of thin silver chains around her neck.

She’s pretty but not beautiful, with a pale, heart-shaped face and intelligent brown eyes. But when she looks up and sees me, she cracks a grin that turns her into the most beautiful girl in the world. Her eyes flash and her nose crinkles and she squeals and rushes toward me, jumping on me in joy.

“You came back early!”

She smells like Ginger. Like baby powder deodorant, eucalyptus shampoo, jasmine perfume, and, over it all, the metallic tang of ink.

“My f*cking father died,” I say, as she untangles herself from me and her boots hit the floor.

“Oh shit, babycakes,” she says. Then she looks behind me. “Is this Rex?” she asks.

Rex steps forward and holds out his hand.

“Ginger?” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

She scoffs at his hand and hugs him too, though it’s considerably harder, since he has about a foot on her.

“Come upstairs,” she says. “You’re staying with me, right?”

“If it’s okay,” I say.

“Obviously,” she says, rolling her eyes at me. Fuck, I’ve missed her. “Hey, guys,” she calls into the private tattooing rooms, “close up for me?”

“Yeah, I got it,” a voice calls back.

“Hey, Marcus,” I call.

“Hi, Daniel,” he calls back.




I SINK down on Ginger’s purple velvet couch, which, despite all the shit I give her about how ugly it is, is actually quite comfortable. I love Ginger’s apartment. It’s a perfect reflection of her. The wood back of the couch is painted gold and it and a leather armchair flank the wagon wheel coffee table. Hung above the doors and windows are animal skulls encrusted in black glitter. She painted the ceiling so it looks like it’s cracking, and the cracks run from a spot near the window where she’s painted it to look like a realistic skeleton hand has broken through the ceiling and is reaching down. The walls are hung with friends’ art and her own. There are paintings by her friend, Jonah, which are Day of the Dead animals; collages of outer space by some woman who traded them for a tattoo years ago; a gorgeous nude of a man covered in tattoos that she traded two of her own paintings for.