“None taken,” Travis said.
Kevin turned to Travis and cocked an eyebrow behind his heavy-framed, black glasses. “Speaking of, you don’t have a girlfriend, do you?” He folded his skinny arms across his t-shirt that said I can’t. I have gymnastics.
“Yeah,” Travis answered, looking around the room.
Roe tensed.
Kevin smirked. “Is she hot?”
“As a matter of fact, yeah. She is. Why do you ask?” Travis asked with a hint of confusion in his voice.
Dean sighed. He wasn’t ashamed, and he wasn’t proud, but he was tired of talking about it.
“Full disclosure.” Kevin pushed his glasses up his hawkish nose. “There have been … let’s call them ‘issues’ of the carnal nature between our dear Professor Panty Dropper and girlfriends of drummers past.”
“Oh. I’m not really worried about that.” Travis shrugged.
Kevin’s fingers disappeared into his curly hair as he scratched his head, and his eyebrows arched. “Seriously, man? Because that’s why Elliot bailed. Casanova here gave his girl the business and it was curtains.”
“Ah. Wow, man.” Travis smiled warmly at Dean, and Dean was caught off guard, only able to smile back. “That’s cold.” He turned back to Roe. “Look, I trust Lex.”
Roe’s lips were a flat line. “It’s not her we’re worried about.”
Travis laughed, and Roe paused for a moment before he shook his head.
“Well, you’ve been warned. Let’s get started.”
Everyone moved for their instruments. Kevin walked by on his way to his keyboard and punched Dean in the shoulder. Dean was pretty sure he was playing.
“Don’t be an asshole,” Kevin said with narrow eyes.
“Don’t worry, man.”
“Yeah, right.” Kevin rolled his eyes, and Dean gave him a crooked smile as he reached for his guitar.
He glanced at Roe, whose head was bent down as he tuned his bass, and knew he had to keep his shit together. He could say no, he just didn’t say no. But as he looked at Roe, he knew things had to be different with Travis. He owed it to all of them, and especially to Roe, who had been there for him always, even when he had no one else.
Dean was eight years old again with his alarm blaring in his ear. He slapped the button and stretched in bed, lying there for a minute, listening for his mom. Everything was quiet, so either she was drunk, asleep, or she still wasn’t back. He hoped she was still gone as he threw the covers off and slipped out of bed in the near-dark.
The living room was quiet when he walked in, his mom’s door open, and the room dark. He flipped on the kitchen light and climbed on the counter to get out the Froot Loops and a bowl. The box was almost gone, and he wondered when she would come back. It had been over a week since she’d been shopping, three days since she’d been home, and they were almost out of everything. He climbed down and took his bowl to the fridge, setting it on the shelf while he opened the milk, but as soon as he took the lid off, he knew it was bad.
Dean sighed and emptied the milk out in the sink, then sat down at the table to eat his cereal plain, not able to hear anything past the crunching. He jumped when the door opened, and his mother almost fell into the room, giggling.
Her black hair fell down her back, her green eyes ringed with shadows, and the man behind her grabbed her arm to stop her from falling.
“Whoa there, Susie. I think you’ve had too much to drink. We should get you to bed.” He smiled down at her and nuzzled his face in her neck. She giggled again and squirmed against him.
When he pulled away, he noticed Dean for the first time, and his smile fell off his face and onto the floor.
“Uh, who’s this?”
She glanced at Dean and rolled her eyes. “That’s just my kid. Don’t mind him, he’s on his way to school in a bit. Aren’t you?” She shot a look at him that let him know exactly where he stood.
“Yeah.” Dean pushed his bowl away, his appetite gone.
“Let me just go freshen up, okay, Joey?”
“Sure thing, baby.”
She made a face at Dean as she walked by. All he wanted to do was get out of there, and he wished she had just waited a little longer before coming home. His stomach twisted into knots as he picked up the bowl and poured the cereal back into the box. If she didn’t go shopping, he could at least eat it the next day.
Joey leaned up against the wall by the door and watched him with a friendly smile. “Hey, kid.”
“Hey.” Dean put the bowl in the sink and made his way around the kitchen collecting bread and peanut butter for his lunch.
“You need some help?”
“I got it, thanks.”
“You’re pretty good, you get yourself up and everything? How old are you?”
“Eight.”
Joey’s face fell. “Wow. I’m impressed. That’s very grown-up of you. Are you sure you don’t want a hand? I’d like to help.”
Dean looked up at him, wishing Joey really could help. He imagined for a split second living in a world where someone wanted to take care of him. A place where he was tucked in tight by someone who loved him, a world where movies with popcorn or cocoa on cold winter nights existed. But Joey would soon be gone, and his mom would bring a new guy home. Or, she would leave, and he’d be all alone again. Joey couldn’t help him, and his mother didn’t want to.
“I always do it by myself, but thanks anyway.” Dean turned for his room, leaving the bewildered man in the kitchen.
He tried not to listen to what was going on behind his mother’s door as he dressed and brushed his teeth as fast as he could. He pushed his shaggy hair out of his face as he locked the door, but it wouldn’t stay put, since it hadn’t been cut in months. He considered cutting it himself, but the last time he’d done it, it looked stupid, and he’d been made fun of for weeks at school.
He walked the three blocks to his elementary school and sat on the steps in the chilly morning, waiting for the doors to open with a composition book open in his lap. His teacher gave it to him with permission to keep it to write about whatever he’d like. He’d had it for a week, and it was almost full. He drew a little, but he wasn’t very good, and he found what he really loved was to write poems. He flipped through the last blank pages. There weren’t many left, and he worried over what would happen when he was out of space. It didn’t feel right to ask for another book, and he didn’t have any money for one. There was no way he could ask his mom for one either, and he chewed on his lip, wondering how he could stretch the pages to last as long as possible.
Dean was so deep in thought that he didn’t see James McCoy coming. He slapped Dean’s open notebook, and it fell down the stairs along with Dean’s pencil.
“Hey, Monroe. Are you writing some more stupid girl poems?”
“Hey, McCoy. I saw you munching your mom’s butt earlier. Need a breath mint?”
“Yeah, you got any in your purse?”
“Is that the best you’ve got?”
“You’re such a girl, Monroe. You sure you don’t have boobs under there, dickbreath?” He hooked a finger in Dean’s collar and tugged.
Dean slapped his hand away. “Whatever, fatass.” He stood and took a step toward his notebook, but McCoy pushed him hard enough to land Dean back on the step.
“I don’t have a fat ass, shit for brains.”
Dean stood again, and his fists clenched. “Fuck you, McCoy. Get out of my way.”
“You gonna make me?”
Dean was so focused on keeping himself from hitting James that he didn’t see the blond kid pick up his notebook and pencil until McCoy turned to him.
“Who are you?”
“I’m the kid that’s about to stick my foot in your craphole if you don’t walk away.”
McCoy turned to Dean. “Who’s this, your girlfriend?” He flailed his hands and rolled his eyes.
Dean pulled back his fist, but before he had a chance to throw the punch, the blond kid kicked the b
ack of McCoy’s knee, and he crumpled on the step whimpering.
“I’m telling!” McCoy hobbled off, and the blond kid laughed.
“That guy’s a real winner.” He turned to Dean. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Roe. What’s your name?”
“I’m Dean. Thanks, by the way.”
“No problem. I hate choads like that.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “We just moved here, and I don’t know anybody yet.”
“Well, now you know me.” Dean smiled, and they were inseparable ever after.
Roe had given him everything, and Dean would never be able to pay him back. But he could try.
———— Olympus ————
Dita’s radio was up way too loud as a moody song rolled out of her speakers. She always turned it up until her ears almost hurt, wishing sometimes she could climb inside the music and live there. She almost got up to put on headphones, wanting to shoot the music directly into her brain with as little distance as possible, but she was too lazy.
Her feet were propped on the coffee table, and her head was stuck between the fluffy cushions of her couch. The competition was moving along, and she had done what she could to get Dean and Lex in the same place. It was only a matter of time until that happened, and when it did, the game would really be on.
Dita thought of Apollo’s face, so full of pain. She’d seen the look before in shades and versions throughout the many years, though that wasn’t nearly the most shattered she’d seen him. That look was on the day Daphne was cursed.
Aphrodite had appeared behind Eros, who looked down from the cloud in horror as Apollo fell to his knees at Daphne’s feet.
Eros turned to her. “I … I did not know. I must set this right.” He pulled a dove arrow from his quiver, but Aphrodite laid a hand on his shoulder before he could knock it.
“Leave him.”
“But—”
“Let him know my pain.”
He looked down at Apollo, his face lined with sadness. “Yes, Aphrodite.”
Looking back on that day always left her heart heavy and cold in her chest. After thousands of years, the feud seemed petty and cruel, no matter how much pain she had been through. She had mended, healed as best she could. But she couldn’t just end the fight with Apollo. It wasn’t that simple.
The elevator dinged, and Dita sighed as she picked herself up and strode toward the foyer.
“Dita?” Heff looked around cautiously as she strolled into the entryway.
“Hello, Husband,” she said, smiling.
“Hello, Wife.” Heff’s dark hair was tousled, his eyes blue and bright. His lips bent in a smile, lined by his thick, dark beard. The white tank that stretched across his wide chest was smudged with grime, and his broad shoulders glinted with sweat, likely from working on gadgets or tinkering with his cars.
“Thanks for coming up. Let me show you the problem with my closet.” She turned with a smile, swinging her arm in invitation for him to follow her. He limped after her, his mangled leg oddly weak, the contrast stark against his strong body.
Hephaestus had always been an outsider, preferring his workshop and automatons to social gatherings. For ages he lived underground with his cyclopes in relative solitude. Some of the gods didn’t take him seriously, though they were happy to use his beautiful mind when it suited them. He was the only one among them with physical flaws.
Hera conceived him on her own, jealous after Zeus impregnated one of his mistresses, but realized before he was born that it was a mistake. She feared retribution from Zeus, and when Hephaestus was born, she threw him out of Olympus and down to Earth, into the ocean, damaging his leg in the process. Thetis, a nymph, found him and raised him in Poseidon’s domain, where he learned smithing and cultivated his passion for the craft. Years later, he exacted revenge by creating a golden throne for Hera that imprisoned her the second she sat her proud ass on it. From that moment on, he’d earned respect from almost everyone, alongside earning his way back into Olympus.
Dita and Heff walked through her bedroom and to the infinity closet that he made for her. The keypad mounted on the wall outside of the closet door beeped and booped as Dita tapped a series of numbers, then stepped back as the door whirred and clicked. When she opened it, an immense dressing room lay in front of them.
Lights shown down on racks of shoes that lined one wall, all displayed on custom shelves that Heff built. On the back wall hung an ornate mirror the size of a Buick, flanked by drawers of negligee and lingerie below hundreds of shirts, blouses and jackets. A floor-to-ceiling cabinet system displayed her jewelry, scarves, and purses on the other long wall of the room. A round, orange Dupioni silk bench sat in the center of the room under clusters of brightly colored paper lanterns in pinks, reds, and oranges.
“It looks okay now,” she said, “but watch this … ” The keypad beeped again as she hit the numbers. “Now, it should pull up 1500 AD, but instead—”
They stepped back as the closet whirred, and rooms spun around behind the portal of the doorway like a cracked out carousel. It came to rest in what was obviously 1500 BC.
The room made her regular closet look like a shoebox. It was at least three times the size, full of a century’s haul of keepsakes and clothes from the time. There were robes of deep purple, royal blue, shining gold. Sandals made of calfskin, embellished in gold, were shelved next to dozens of ornate necklaces and crowns, arm cuffs and rings. Pottery was displayed on shelves throughout the room, as well as ancient tomes, all created for her.
It was an archaeologist’s wet dream.
Heff looked down at the keypad and furrowed his brows. “Seems like there’s a problem with the algorithm. Let me see what I can do.”
“Okay.” She turned to her room of treasures. “Is it safe to go in? It’s been forever since I’ve been in here.”
“Yup,” he said with a sideways smile as he knelt down. “I’ll let you know when I have it fixed.”
Her stomach fluttered as she stepped onto the white marble floor, feeling the cold, gold veined stone under her feet. She made her way across the room, running her hands through her robes as she walked by, pausing at a silk lavender robe embroidered with an intricate pattern of roses in gold thread. Most didn’t know that the thread was actual gold.
Every single piece in the room had a story. She stopped at the turquoise robe she wore when she gave her blessing to Pygmalion. He carved a beautiful statue and fell in love with it, then prayed to Aphrodite, asking that she make his creation real. His face was the picture of love in the moment that she gave the statue life. They fell into each other’s arms, the creator and his creation, perfect for one another.
Dita smiled to herself as she made her way to the palette of black cowhides on the floor, piled with blood red silk pillows. They were a small showing of sacrifices to Aphrodite out of the hundreds of thousands she had received in her hey-day.
She could never throw anything away and loved to come into her hidden rooms to remember. Only two others knew her little secret.
Perry knew, since she knew everything about Dita, and didn’t think it was a big deal. If it doesn’t have dust on it, you’re not a hoarder, she’d say. And of course Heff knew, but he would never tell anyone.
She lay down on the pillows and propped her head on her hand as she ran her eyes over her things, coming to rest on Hephaestus as he worked. Heff had always been there for her, even when she was cruel to him. It wasn’t his fault that he had been tapped to marry her, but that hadn’t stopped her from taking it out on him.
Dita didn’t believe in marriage. She was all about the present. Things that required long-term responsibility, like marriage and motherhood, didn’t interest her.
But Zeus thought he knew better and policed all of them as he saw fit. His word was law, and his decisions were never up for discussion. So when the in-fighting over Dita became a problem, Zeus forced her to marry Hephaestus, and it was something she never forgave eithe
r god for.
Aphrodite tightened the last strap on her high, leather sandals and stood. She smoothed a hand over her sky blue robes and stepped before the looking glass, her gold-lined silk train dragging behind her. She reached for a crown of blush roses on the stand beside the glass and placed it in her golden hair.
Ares had been fighting with Hermes over her again, and that time Ares succeeded in provoking a true fight. Fists and blood flew by the time Zeus intervened, and he had not been happy.
Neither had Aphrodite. She was not a toy, not a thing they could fight over, not an object, though every god only thought of her as such.
Well, there is one, she thought as she pushed her long hair behind her shoulder. Hephaestus was one of the only gods who didn’t treat her so, which was a comfort, though they spoke little. There were times when she believed men could only behave as small children, bickering and fighting over things that they believed they owned, though they had no rights at all. But Hephaestus always renewed her faith that perhaps some men were more evolved than the masses.
She hadn’t allowed Ares into her bed since, though that state was temporary, as it always was.
Aphrodite sighed and left her chambers, making her way through the wide halls into the throne room. A soft breeze blew through the open space, the deep, blue sea sparkling in the distance past the marble columns, and cypress trees swayed, tall and slender all around. She was the last to arrive that day, and all of the Olympians had already taken their thrones. Zeus sat in the tallest throne in the center of the room with his fist propped under his chin, his mouth bent in a frown as he stared off at nothing.
Something is amiss, she realized as she looked around the room. All eyes were on her, and a few gods whispered to each other. Ares’ eyes were dark, his jaw set, and Hera looked pleased, which was a bad omen. Her eyes found Hephaestus’, blue and bright in his tan face, and her heart jumped when she realized his expression was one of apology.
Zeus straightened up. “Aphrodite,” he called, his voice echoing in the expansive, marble space.