“Are you serious right now?” he asks. He has a half smirk on his face, like I just told him a shitty joke. “I can't walk away from this.”
“Why not?”
“Where did your balls go, little bro?” His thick brows drop in hard as he flares his nostrils. “Since when do you not stand up for our name? When did it become okay for someone to shit on a Ramon?”
“That's not what I mean. I don't think it's okay, I never said that.” Twisting in my seat to face him straight on, I bounce my hands in the air. “All I'm trying to make you see is the outcome. Is it worth the risk? What happens if you get caught? What happens if you fuck up parole?”
“I go back.” Harlow says it with such ease. Prison doesn't scare him, not anymore.
“And that's what you want? You want to live like a fucking zoo animal? Living behind a steel cage all to get revenge? You can't seriously want that. What about what we used to talk about when we were kids? What about getting the fuck out of here? You can't do that if you're in fucking jail.”
“Are we brothers, Max? Do we have the same blood flowing through our veins?” I don't answer, I just watch him. He knows it does, he knows I would never deny that. “Where does your loyalty lie; with me, or with that garbage you're spewing?” he asks, tilting his head into his shoulder.
“Harlow, you know I'll always back you, no matter what, but—”
Holding up his hand, he stops me from talking. “Then fucking back me, Max.”
With a single nod, I agree. I'll be there for my brother like I promised him I'd always be. I made that promise long before anything else. Long before Prairie, long before the fire that divided us. That promise is law, it has to be.
If I turn on him, if I allow someone else to come between us and break that promise, what kind of brother am I? I'm no better than all the people who let us down over the years.
“Good, now I need you to listen carefully.”
12
Prairie
Holding my hand above my eyes, I scan the beach. A few people are cleaning garbage at the edge of the waves, picking through the washed up seaweed. The rest of the group is spread up and down, cleaning the sand, and in the tall grass at the top of the dune.
Where the hell is he?
My feet sink into the sand as I make my way down to the officer. He spins his head over his shoulder as my shadow extends past his.
“Oh, it's you. I was expecting Max.” He turns all the way around, pulling his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. “He's late.”
Wait, he's not here. Seriously?
Why the hell is doing this?
What is going on with him?
“Actually, that's why I'm here. Max isn't feeling well, he's been sick the past few days.” Thinking quickly, I give him a soft smile. “He wanted me to come and let you know. He feels terrible he isn't here.”
I lie. I lie and I cover for Max Ramon. The boy who seemingly changes like a chameleon.
“Sick. . .” He drops the sunglasses lower, dipping his chin into his chest. “Really?”
“I told him not to eat the meatball grinder at school, but he refused to listen.” Shaking my head, I hold my hands to my stomach. “He wants to make up these hours, can he come next week?”
The officer grunts, pushing his glasses back into place. “Have him call me. We'll get it straightened out. He hasn't missed anything until today.” He turns back to the beach and checks on the group. “But, you let him know I said this is his one, free pass that's it, from here on out there can't be anymore missed days. This isn't a volunteer position.”
“Of course, absolutely, he knows that.” Cupping my hands together, I bow my head and start to walk backwards. “I'm going to go let him know he needs to call you, and I know he'll be super thankful.”
He waves a hand over his shoulder, twists his face to the left, and says, “You forgot cashews.”
Giving him a smile, I point in his direction. “Yes, totally, I didn't get the chance today, but you got some coming. I promise.”
Running back to my car, this intense fear and nervousness drapes over my body like a thick blanket. Max hasn't missed one community service date, not one, until today. It doesn't make any sense, he knows he has to do this, he knows he's so close to being done.
This is a risk he would never take. I know what he wants, I know he wants his life back, I know he has plans for the future.
If that's true, where the hell has he been?
First missing school, now this. I'm terrified for him, hoping he's all right. But, I want answers, I deserve answers, because he's been avoiding me too.
Pulling up to his house, there's a light on inside. Digging around in my purse, I get my phone and try to call him, but it goes to voicemail. I try again with no answer, so I send a text. Still, I get nothing.
I think I see movement inside, but it's hard to tell for sure. Tapping my thumb against the wheel, I try to call him one last time. Nothing.
Is he really avoiding me like this?
Mixing with my worry is anger. He's been leading me on, giving me little bites to nibble on to keep me dangling by the string.
I'm not going to be strung along. I'm not going to let him treat me like a pair of shoes he puts on once in a while.
Driving my car around the block, I park on the next street over. He's going to talk to me, even if I have to trick him to answer the door.
There's a car in the driveway, it's old and rusted, with a broken taillight, and a cracked rear bumper. Most of the house is dark, but there's a subtle glow of light in the picture window. The bulb outside the front door is missing completely, and tall grass tickles my calves as I climb the steps. Listening for a second, the house is silent.
Knock knock
No one answers. Holding my breath, my knuckles graze the outside of the wood as I knock again. Leaning in, I expect to hear footsteps, maybe some chatter, or someone moving around inside. But again I'm met with silence.
He doesn't answer his phone, his doesn't answer his texts, and now, he doesn't answer his door.
Pressing my face against the picture window by the door, I attempt to look inside. The window is covered by a thick set of curtains, or maybe it's a sheet, it's hard for me to tell from out here.
Walking around the side of the house, I tip-toe through the thick grass, and try the back door. It's locked.
Damn it. Now what?
Going back to the front, I see movement against the window, and hear the door crack open. “Who the fuck is there?” a man's voice shoots out into the darkness.
“Hi,” I say, slowly walking back up the steps. “Is, uh, is Max home?”
“Who the fuck is asking?” The man opens the door wider, and I'm smacked instantly with the strong scent of liquor. “What did that boy get himself into now?”
He sways on his heels, almost falling off balance. Grabbing the threshold, he steadies himself. This must be his father. I can see the resemblance. Same color hair, same facial structure, same deadpan stare.
“Oh, no, he's not in any trouble. My name's Prairie, I go to school with him.”