"I had something else to say but I didn't want to say it in front of all of them," he says.
"What is it?"
"You said something the other night about how you felt like an asshole after hearing my story."
I nod. "I did. And I still do."
He shakes his head. "It bothers me that you think that. You shouldn't compare your stress to mine. We all have different baselines."
I stare at him blankly. "What's that?"
He reaches to me and takes my hand, pulling it to his lap. He turns it palm-up and touches my wrist, drawing an imaginary line across it. "Let's pretend this is a normal stress level. Your baseline." He drags his finger up my palm until he reaches the tip of my middle finger. "And let's pretend this is your max stress level." He moves his fingers down and touches my wrist again. "Your baseline is where you are on a normal day. Not too much stress, everything is flowing smoothly. But say you break your leg." He runs his finger from the baseline at my wrist to the middle of my palm. "Your stress level would go up to like fifty percent because you've never broken your leg before."
He releases my hand and flips his own hand over. He looks up at me. "You know how many times I've broken a bone?"
I shrug. "Twice?"
"Six times," he says, smiling. "I was a rambunctious kid." He touches his wrist and makes an imaginary line across it. "So if I were to break my leg, it would be stressful, but I've been through it before. So it would only raise my stress level to like ten percent. Not fifty." He pauses. "You understand what I'm saying?"
I'm honestly not sure what point he's trying to make. "Are you saying you're tougher than me?"
He laughs. "No, Merit. That was only an example. What I'm saying is, the same two things could happen to two people, but that doesn't mean they would experience the exact same stress over it. We all have different levels of stress that we're accustomed to. You probably felt the same amount of stress over your family situation as I sometimes do about mine, even though they're on completely different levels. But that doesn't make you weaker. It doesn't make you an asshole. We're just two different people with two different sets of experiences." He takes my hand again, but it's not to prove a point. He just threads his fingers through mine and holds my hand. "It annoys me when people try to convince other people that their anger or stress isn't warranted if someone else in the world is worse off than them. It's bullshit. Your emotions and reactions are valid, Merit. Don't let anyone tell you any different. You're the only one who feels them."
He squeezes my hand, and I'm not sure at which point during this conversation I fell for him, but it happened. I may look like I'm casually sitting on a bed next to him, but metaphorically, I've melted at his feet.
Between Luck and Sagan, the last couple of hours have been eye-opening.
I don't even attempt to respond to all he just said to me. Instead, I rest my head on his shoulder as he wraps his arm around me. I think about what he said earlier when he told me I was really easy to like today. I find some comfort in that, because in the past twenty-four hours, he's probably seen the most authentic side of me he's ever seen. I close my eyes and readjust myself against him.
"You're easy to like every day," I whisper, right before I finally fall asleep.
Chapter Seventeen Even though it's Saturday--a day I finally don't have to pretend to wake up and go to school--I still wake up earlier than I want to. Sagan fell asleep in my room last night, so as soon as I open my eyes, I roll over to wake him up so my father won't catch him in here.
But he's not here anymore. On the pillow where he slept last night is a drawing. I smile and pick it up. On the back, Sagan has written, "I don't even know what this is, but I drew it while I watched you sleep. I thought you might like it."
I don't know what it is either, but I love it. It might even be my new favorite. I tack it to the wall.
I pull on some jeans and a tank top and then head to the kitchen, but I come to a halt when I look in Sagan's room. It's a mess. The drawers are open, his wall hangings are gone. My heart starts to beat wildly in my chest and I try to sustain the panic I feel coming. I turn to go to the kitchen and find out what happened, but I'm intercepted right outside Sagan's bedroom door by my father.
"Where's Sagan?"
"I kicked him out," my father says, matter-of-fact.
I bring my hands up to my head. "What?"
"He slept in your bed last night, Merit."
This is unbelievable. "So you kicked him out? Without even talking to me?" I spin around and look at the guest room again, hoping I'm dreaming. Almost everything is gone. "Do you not have a heart?" I spin back around to face my father. "Do you not know about his family? What he's been going through?"
My father sighs. "Merit, calm down." He grabs my wrist and pulls me down the hallway, through the kitchen and to the back door. Sagan is almost to the other side of the yard, carrying a thirty-gallon trash bag over his shoulder. "He's moving into our old house."
I watch Sagan as he opens the gate and carries the trash bag to the back porch of our old house. "Oh."
"I told Sagan he could live in this house as long as he wasn't involved with either of you girls. He broke that rule."
"We aren't involved, Dad. We didn't even do anything last night. We just fell asleep talking."
My father raises an eyebrow. "Then why did he agree to move when I told him that was his only option if he wanted to date you?"
I press my lips together and look back out the door just in time to see Sagan disappear inside the house. "He agreed to move?" I ask quietly.
"Yep," my father says.
Oh. That somehow changes my whole attitude. "Can I go over there?"
"No. You're grounded."
I spin around again. "Why?"
"Let's see. For having a guy in your room. For stealing your mother's medicine. For painting my fence purple. For . . ."
I hold up my hand. "Okay. That's fair."
"For dropping out of school," he adds.
I scrunch up my nose and take a step back. "Oh. You know about that?"
"Your mother told me she's been getting phone calls from the school." My father walks into the kitchen and opens the dishwasher. He points at it, letting me know I'm getting all the chores while I'm grounded. He then turns to make himself a cup of coffee. I walk to the dishwasher and pull out a couple of plates.
"I met with your principal yesterday," my father says. "He's willing to work with you on catching up on missed assignments, but you can't miss another day of school for the rest of the year. I'll be taking you to school on Monday. And then I'll pick you up after and we'll go see Dr. Criss."
I reach for a pan and open another cabinet. "We'll go see Dr. Criss?" I say. "Does that mean you're also going to therapy?"
I'm half-kidding, so when he says, "We're all going to therapy," I'm shocked.
I turn and face him. "All of us?"
He nods. "Me, you, Honor, Utah, Victoria." He sets his coffee cup down. "I think it's a few years overdue."
I smile, because I'm relieved. So relieved. I've already decided I'd go to therapy, especially after that stupid crumpled-up piece of paper on my bedroom floor and the cheesy conversation it led to last night. But I really did think it was a little unfair that no one else in this family was being required to go. My father is right. This family is long overdue. "What about Mom? Will she be going to therapy?"
His face is sullen. "I'll try my best with her. I promise."
"You promise what?" Utah asks. He's walking through the back door with Honor.
My father stands up straight and clears his throat. "Clear your schedules after school Monday. We're going to family therapy."
Honor groans. "That sounds terrible."
"Is it too late to be emancipated from you?" Utah asks.
My father laughs. "You're eighteen, you're already an adult." He starts to walk out of the kitchen, but stops short and takes a step back. "Merit? What the hell is on your back?" I feel my fa
ther's fingers brush my back and I immediately freeze. Crap. I pulled on jeans and a tank top when I got out of bed, which doesn't fully cover my skin. The tattoo.
"Um . . ." I hear the screen door slam and look up to see Sagan standing there.
Honor leans around me and looks at the tattoo. "Uh . . . I drew it. It's only temporary."
"Yeah," I quickly agree. "It's . . . like henna."
"Honor doesn't draw that well," my father says.
I turn around and face him so he'll stop looking at it. "Dad, of course she does. Sagan's been teaching her." I look to Sagan for backup and he's immediately nodding his head.
"Yeah, Honor wants to be an artist. She's really good."
"I'm so good," Honor says.
My father watches all three of us, but then decides he can't tell who's lying. He gives up and walks away.
"Thank you," I mouth to Honor.
She winks at me and then says, "Feel like cooking breakfast?"
We're almost finished with the eggs when Victoria walks out of her bedroom.
"What's going on?" She's looking at us suspiciously.
Honor takes over the eggs while I start with the rest of the stuff. "Giving you a break," Honor says.
"Is this a trick?" Victoria asks.
"No trick." I pour water into the pancake batter. "Just making you breakfast."
Victoria doesn't stop with her suspicion. She walks slowly to an already made pot of coffee and pours herself a cup, never taking her eyes off us. "The eggs should be cooked last."
I smile. "We're learning. It's our first time."
Victoria takes a seat at the bar. "I'm enjoying this too much to stop watching."
I'm still stirring the pancake batter when I decide to lay things out in the open for Victoria. "Listen," I tell her. "I'm Moby's big sister. And sometimes big sisters do things like sneak donuts to their little brother. I'm not going to stop doing that because that's mine and Moby's thing. But . . ." I look up at her. "I'll cut it down to like once a week. If that's okay with you."
Victoria looks at me like I've been possessed. Then she nods. "I would appreciate that, Merit. Thank you."
And just like that, we come to an understanding that's been long overdue.
I turn around and pour the first pancake into the pan, just as Sagan walks in from another trip to the old house. He stops in his tracks and takes in the scene. Me and Honor cooking breakfast. Victoria standing by with a smile on her face. He soaks it up and then walks over to Honor and kisses her on her cheek. "Good morning, beautiful."
When he reaches me, he wraps his arms around me from behind in a much more intimate gesture than how he just said hello to Honor. He kisses the back of my head and then rests his chin on my shoulder as he looks down at the pancake I'm trying to make. "You win beauty pageants, bowling tournaments, track meets, and now I find out you're a chef? I think I might keep you, Merit."
"If I let you," I deadpan. I would absolutely let him.
"Sagan, look!" Moby says, barreling into the kitchen. Sagan picks him up and sets him down on the bar. Moby hands him a drawing.
"Oh. Wow," Sagan says, folding it in half. He immediately shoves it in his pocket.
"What is it?" Victoria asks.
Sagan shakes his head, obviously hiding something. "Nothing. Nothing at all."
"I drew all the dead bodies the king shoved inside the mountain!" Moby says excitedly.
Victoria looks at Sagan. Sagan just laughs and pulls Moby off the bar. "Maybe we should practice drawing plants before we move on to dead bodies."
Utah intercepts Sagan and Moby and he grabs Moby and plops him into a chair at the table. "Are you excited about today, Moby?"
"Yes!"
"How excited?"
"So excited!" Moby giggles.
"How excited?"
"The most excited!"
Honor leans over me and looks down at the two pancakes I've managed to burn. "We're gonna need some practice. I think I just ruined the eggs."
Half an hour later, almost everything is done and I'm working on the last pancake when Luck walks into the kitchen. He's wearing his regulation Starbucks shirt . . . but he's paired it with his green kilt.
I hear Utah laugh from the table. "Are you trying to get fired?"
Luck grabs a cup from the cabinet. "If they don't let me wear my kilt to work, I'll sue for religious discrimination."
I take the last pancake out and flip it onto the plate. Honor has just finished putting the rest of the food on the kitchen table when I set the pancakes down and take a seat between Sagan and Moby.
Moby takes a bite of a pancake and, with a mouthful, says, "Are you gay, Utah?"
We all immediately look at Moby. Utah spatters laughter.
Victoria clears her throat and says, "Where did you hear that word, Moby?"
Moby shrugs. "I heard it like ten years ago. Somebody said Utah is gay. Is that like a bastard?"
Utah laughs and says, "Being gay just means a guy might like to marry another guy instead of a girl."
Victoria adds, "Or a girl might marry a girl."
Luck nods. "And some people like guys and girls."
"I like Legos," Moby says.
"You can't marry a Lego," Victoria says to him.
Moby's face drops in disappointment. "Why not?"
My father points his fork at Moby. "It's not a living thing, son."
"So it has to be alive?" Moby asks my father. "Like the puppies you showed me last night?"
My father immediately shakes his head. "You have to stick with your own species. You have to marry a human."
Moby pouts. "That's not fair. I want to marry the puppies."
I laugh. "You're learning early that life isn't fair. Took me seventeen years."
Victoria forks another pancake onto her plate. "This is really good, girls."
"It is," my father agrees.
Everyone else kind of mutters the same with mouthfuls of food, but we're all distracted by a sudden banging on the front door. I look out the window and see a cop car in our driveway. "Oh, no."
My dad scans all of us. None of us look him in the eye. "Why do you all look guilty?" None of us speak. In fact, we all fork bites of food into our mouths at the same time, making us look even more suspicious. My father shakes his head and scoots back from the table.
No one else gets up when he opens the door. We all just listen quietly.
"Morning, Barnaby," the officer says.
"Morning. What's the problem?"
"Well . . . after we buried Pastor Brian's dog at the church last night, his grave was tampered with. As was Pastor Brian's. Seems that someone moved the dog."
"Is that right?"
The officer sighs sharply. "Cut the shit, Barnaby. Did you dig up the dog again after we already arrested you for it?"
My father laughs and says, "Of course not. I came straight home and went to bed." The officer begins to speak again, but my father cuts him off. "With all due respect, you're wasting your time. The dog is dead and it sounds to me like she's right where Pastor Brian would want her to be. Don't you guys have more important things to focus on?"
The officer once again tries to get a word in, but my father says, "Do you have a warrant?"
"Well, no. We just came to speak with you about . . ."
"Good. You spoke to me about it. I'd like to get back to my breakfast now. Have a great day, crime fighter." Our father slams the door. I watch as he makes his way back to the table. It's hard to tell if he's angry or not. He scoots his chair forward and picks up his fork. He stabs at a couple of pieces of pancake and then looks up at all of us. "You're all a bunch of heathens."
Chapter Eighteen
What should we name them?" Moby asks. He's sitting with me in the backyard. Dad didn't say if I was grounded from the backyard or not.
"I don't know. Why don't you name one of them and I'll name the other one?"
"Okay," Moby says excitedly. He holds up the one in his hands and say
s, "I'm naming this one Dick."
I laugh. "I'm not sure your mom will go for that."
He frowns. "Why not? She named me Moby. I want to name my puppy Dick so we can be brothers."
"As long as you use that argument," I tell him. Sagan walks out the back door of his new house and heads toward us. He sits down in the grass next to me. I hold up the nameless puppy. "We get to name this one. Got any suggestions?"
Sagan doesn't even hesitate. "Tuqburni. We could call him Tuck."
I smile. You bury me. I lift the puppy up to my face and kiss his nose. "I like that. Tuqburni." Moby stands up and grabs Tuck out of my hands. "Be careful with them, Moby."
"I will. I just wanna show Mom Tuck and Dick." He cradles both puppies in his arms and heads toward the back door.
Tuck and Dick? If I could be a fly on the wall when he tells her those names . . .
Moby disappears inside the house and Sagan looks at me. "Want to check out my new digs?"
I laugh and fall back onto the grass. "I can't. I'm grounded. And please don't ever refer to that place as your digs again."
"You're grounded? For how long?"
"He hasn't decided yet."
Sagan lies down beside me, and we're both staring up at the sky. "But didn't he leave earlier to go run errands? He's not even home."
I face him with a grin. I like this rebellious side of him. "You're right. Let's go check out your new digs." We push ourselves up off the ground and walk over to the old house. I haven't even been inside in over six months, since Utah started redoing the floors. It sat empty for so long, I kind of felt bad that Sagan was having to live in these conditions, but when I walk through the back door I'm pleasantly surprised. I mean, it needs a lot of work. But it's come a long way in six months.
"Wow. Utah has really put a lot of work into this place." The floors are almost complete. He just lacks the living room floors and then it looks like it'll be mostly finished. I follow Sagan down the hallway and he points to Utah's old bedroom.
"Utah is taking that room." He turns around and walks backward, pointing at Honor's old bedroom. "And if he can talk your mom into moving in over here, she'll take Honor's old room." He faces forward again and stops at my old bedroom door. "And your old room . . . is now my room." He opens the door and it's a complete mess. All of his stuff is still in trash bags and his mattress doesn't have sheets yet. Some of my old stuff is still in boxes on the floor.