Tucking my hands in my pockets, I turn to face the house and see all the lights are out, except for one.
That light shouldn't be on.
Furrowing my brows, I open the front door and step inside. The light is coming from my brother's room, and the only reason I imagine it could be on is because my father has gone in there searching for hidden money, loose change, or anything he might be able to sell for a quick buck.
He’s already sold off everything valuable a long time ago. Which is why we don't have a television, or any decent furniture, and I eat off paper plates. He even tried to sell my radio a few months back, but it's so old no one wanted it.
Moving through the house with ease, I know my father isn't home because his car is gone. I'm actually surprised he hasn't tried to sell that yet, but it's a piece of shit, and he knows it.
Relaxing my shoulders, I open the fridge and poke around inside. There isn't much. Half a loaf of bread, a few slices of government cheese, a bottle of mustard, and a couple beers are the only things inside.
Pulling out a slice of processed cheese, and a partially stale slice of bread, I lay the cheese inside and fold it in half. It isn't a real meal, but it's enough.
Taking a big bite, I shut the fridge, and grab a cup from the cupboard. Filling it with water from the tap, I take the cup down the hall toward my room. I feel good, like actually good for once. Things in my life aren't so bad right now.
Prairie fills this empty hole I've had since I was a kid, a hole that has never been filled by anyone or anything else. Even basketball never touched this emptiness—but she has. I'm smiling to myself as I move through the dark house, and I can't stop it. Her eyes ignite a heat in my gut, like gasoline poured on a fire.
I can't stop thinking about touching, licking, tasting her, over and over. The past weekend isn't enough, not now, not since she gave herself to me.
That girl is doing things to me. And I don't want her to stop. She's making me see color, when all I've been able to see is gray. She's taken the sorrow and anger I've used to keep people away and twisted it into a warmth that's been slowly seeping through my body.
Taking a bite of my cheese sandwich, I look down at the light spilling into the hall from under my brother's door. Stopping, I pop the door open slightly, and slip my hand inside to turn it off.
“Hey, what the fuck! I'm in here.”
Wait. . . What? Was that. . .
No, it can't be, it's too soon.
The door flies open, and Harlow is standing in the threshold. He looks bigger than I remember, thicker, more muscular. Even having seen him recently, the orange jump suit was enough to hide his size. My brother has always been bigger, but he definitely bulked up in jail.
“Little bro!” he yells with a grin. “Where the hell you been?” He leans against the door frame, rubbing his jaw as he eyes me. “Dad's down at Gully's Tavern, saw his car there when I was walking home from the bus stop. I guess he's decided to keep living as if I was never gone.”
I force a smile, pretending like I'm happy he's here, but inside that's not what I feel. It feels like I suddenly swallowed a rock. My stomach hurts, it's heavy and curdling, and I'm not sure, but I feel like I might throw up.
He isn't supposed to get out for another five months—five. My palms start sweating as I think about Prairie and how the hell this is going to work. I'll have to be cautious, watching my every move so my brother doesn't find out about us.
The last thing he'll ever want to hear is that I'm falling for our enemy. But she's not my enemy, she's his enemy. By default, that makes her mine.
There's an expectation on my shoulders. I'm supposed to stand behind him, to stand up for him, to move with him. Because we're brothers. That's all the reason I need to see the side of the line I should be on.
Only I feel like I'm standing with a foot on each, getting pulled between two worlds. The devil and the angel each have an arm, and neither want to let go.
“Harlow, what are you doing here?” I ask, swallowing the acid that's sitting in the back of my throat.
“Uh, I live here, dick.” His eyes dart back and forth over mine as his brows crawl across his forehead. “Fuck, Max, I thought you of all people would be happy to see me.”
“I am, I am,” I quickly blurt out, trying to recover from the shock I know he sees on my face. “I mean, you just surprised me. I didn't know you were getting out so soon. I was there last week, and you didn't say shit.”
“I didn't know either. The judge let me out on good behavior.”
Harlow is wearing the same outfit he had on that day. The dark blue t-shirt with a giant middle finger in the center in yellow dye, and a pair of worn jeans. I can still see the dirt and soot on his thighs from where he wiped his hands.
He pushes past me and starts down the hall and I'm hit with the smell of gasoline and burning plastic. I remember that smell vividly, the way it filled the air, and bursts of it would hit me as we waited, handcuffed to the bench in the station.
The urge to gag teases the back of my throat, but I hold it in, forcing my stomach to settle as I follow him to the kitchen. Harlow opens the fridge, and the light casts an eerie shadow across his face. “There ain't shit to eat. Who does the food shopping here? I know it ain't dickhead dad.”
I ignore him, too focused on the fact he's actually home long before he's supposed to be. “So, the judge just let you go, just like that?” Leaning back against the counter, I wrap my arms around my ribs.
“Pretty much.” Closing the fridge, he opens a beer, and sits at the kitchen table. “I mean, I didn't get off totally free. I'm on probation for the next six months, and I have to pay restitution. . .” He pauses, looking up at the ceiling, as tiny muscles in his face tense and relax. “Something like two thousand and change, but that shit is nothing.”
“Does Dad know you’re home?”
Harlow shrugs, taking a sip of his beer. “I don't know, and I don't really give a flying fuck. He didn't make any attempt to come see me, so why the fuck would I go out of my way to let him know I'm home?” He isn't really looking for an answer, so I stay quiet. Slouching deeper into the chair, he points at the seat across from him with his beer, directing me to sit without speaking. Pulling out the chair, he watches me as I sit, his eyes trying to read me. “So, where the hell were you? I've been home for hours.”
“Community service. I have to go three days a week after school.”
“That sounds fucking horrible,” he says with a chuckle. “They got you picking up dog shit at the parks or something?”
“Trash on the beach. It isn't fun, but it could be worse, I guess.”
“You want one?” he asks, indicating the beer with his eyes. I shake my head no, and he shrugs like it's my loss. Taking another long chug of his beer, he slams it down on the table so hard it fizzles up and spills little bubbles from the top. “Yeah, you would have become jail pussy with that feminine frame of yours. Trash pick-up suits you better.” He lets out an over exaggerated laugh as he slaps the top of the table.
I laugh with him, but not because I think it's funny, it's because I don't want him to think something's different about me. “What are you going to do to pay your restitution? Get a job?”