Birthday Girl

Meadow Lakes. I want to laugh. There’s no meadows or lakes, and there’s certainly no lake on a meadow. It’s a sixty-year-old trailer park full of dumps propped up on cinder blocks.

Did she actually grow up here?

I’m starting to think Cole didn’t have it so bad, after all. I look around, taking in the ancient silver Airstreams mixed in with some double-wides from the 80s, broken blinds barely visible behind muddy windows, and termite-rotted exteriors, green with mildew and exposed insulation. This whole fucking place is a fire hazard waiting to happen. I don’t want her here. She doesn’t have to stay at my house, but just…not here.

Jordan sits in the seat next to me, slowly running her palms across each other and staring down blankly, lost in thought. I can’t shake the feeling that she’s trying to put off looking out the window as long as possible.

It’s not dark yet, but the sun has set, and a couple kids race out from between two mobile homes, chasing a ball. I slow down in case they run into the street.

“Right there,” Jordan says.

I glance over, seeing her gesture to my left and follow her gaze to a trailer with filthy, lime green siding, and I clench my teeth.

An AC unit protrudes from the front window, a rickety, old wooden fence wraps around the bottom, parts of it laying broken on the ground or sections just plain missing, and the porch is crowded with random junk, clothes, and a couple of loaded trash bags. Three young guys stand on the porch, smoking and talking.

“Here?” I turn and ask her.

But she just unfastens her seatbelt, preparing to get out.

“Who are those guys?” I say.

She glances up for only a moment before averting her eyes again, taking her bag. “It’s probably my stepbrother and a couple of his friends.”

I pull up in front of the trailer, since the small driveway is full, and turn off the engine.

“You have a stepbrother?” She hasn’t mentioned him.

She just shrugs. “In the technical sense,” she says, quirking a smile. “I don’t talk to him much.”

“But he lives here,” I say, trying to get clarification.

She nods and before I can say anything else, she climbs out of the truck, taking her purse with her.

Well, how many rooms can this place have if there’s another kid living here? Does she even have a bed?

She pulls a suitcase out of the back, swings her bag over her head, and leads the way. I grab a box and follow, grinding my teeth to keep my fucking mouth in check. I don’t know if I’m angry or worried or what, and I don’t know if I have a right to feel those things or if any concern is justified. She’ll probably be fine. This is her family. I just…

I feel like I’m going to explode at any second.

We walk up the few steps to the front door, and Jordan barely looks at her stepbrother and his friends as she opens the door.

“Ryan, this is Cole’s dad,” she mumbles. “Pike, this is my stepbrother, Ryan.”

I turn to the kid, and he straightens, holding out his hand. “Hey, man.”

I shift the box in my arms and manage to shake his hand. “Hi.”

He’s stocky and short for a guy, about Jordan’s height, but he tries to make up for it with a neck tattoo and a black leather jacket.

In summer.

“So, you home now?” he says to her, taking a swig from his beer.

“Yeah.”

One of Ryan’s buddies nudges him. “Is this the one who’s a stripper?”

I tighten my fingers around the box.

He snorts, nearly spitting up his beer. “Nah, man. That’s the other one.” But then his eyes take Jordan in, moving up and down her with a smirk. “This one can dance a little, too, though.”

They all laugh, and I feel a lump push up my throat like a growl. Steeling myself, I turn and push the door open for Jordan, forcing her inside.

I should be more forgiving. It’s not like I wasn’t the occasional little prick from time to time growing up.

How the hell does he know how she dances?

I give myself a mental shake and take a deep breath. Drop off her shit and go home. She’s not my concern. This is her choice. And if I were her, I’d do the same thing.

I’m actually proud of myself. She’s no stranger to my outbursts or pushy demands, and I’m keeping amazingly quiet given the fact that I hate this neighborhood, and this entire situation is grinding my gears. I can hang on for five more minutes, right?

And if I do, then maybe I’ll treat myself to Dairy Queen on the way home for keeping my mouth shut for once.

Her father, Chip, is passed out on a recliner to the left, the TV playing some sitcom at a dulled volume, while a couple of ladies sit at the kitchen table to the right. They smoke cigarettes with cans of beer in front of them. A car stereo blares in the distance, and a few firecrackers go off around us outside.

“Need any help?” a lady with dark hair asks from the table. She lifts up her beer, taking a drink and barely giving me any notice.

Jordan shakes her head and veers into the kitchen, around the ladies at the table. She doesn’t introduce us, and I certainly don’t care if this lady doesn’t. Your daughter—or stepdaughter—comes home with a guy you’ve never seen, and it doesn’t prompt a question, at least?

I assume it’s her stepmom, anyway, since she has the same small brown eyes as the guy outside.

I inhale the smell of Lysol mixed with a tinge of burritos and wet soil, like something got rained on or there’s rot somewhere. We make our way down the hallway, our footfalls creating a hollow thud as we come to the first door on the left.

“There might be some laundry we tossed in there,” the lady at the table calls back. “Gather it up and toss it in the washer, would ya?”

I take another deep breath. She’ll be fine.

She pushes the bedroom door open, and I look into her old bedroom. My jaw flexes.

“Where’s my bed?” Jordan calls out, sighing.

But no one answers her.

The room is littered with fucking junk. She has a dresser that’s missing drawers, a beach towel hanging over her window, and cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling. I can smell the pile of dirty laundry that her room now houses and narrow my eyes at the hole in the wall.

No.

Jordan sets down her suitcase and turns to me, grabbing at the box. “Don’t worry,” she says, smiling at whatever look I have on my face. “I’ll be fine. You know me. I’ll have this place spic and span by tomorrow.”

But I won’t let her have the box, keeping it secure in my arms.

I tear my eyes away from the mouse trap sitting next to the heating vent with no grate over it to keep rodents out and jerk my hard stare down to her. “Hell, no,” I growl. “I’m done with this conversation. We’re leaving now.”

Holding the box in the crook of one arm, I reach down and grab her suitcase with the other hand and immediately turn, barreling back out of the house.

“Excuse me?” she burst out behind me, dumbfounded.

But I’m already gone. I ignore the women in the kitchen and don’t even turn to see if her father has woken up before I push through the front door and past the guys still loitering on the porch.

“Pike!” she yells after me.

I ignore her. I know she’ll follow me. I have all of her stuff.

Dropping the box and suitcase back into the bed of the truck, I dig out my keys and climb into the driver’s seat. She charges around the front of the truck and opens the passenger-side door.

She glares at me. “What the hell are you doing?”

“You’re not staying here.” I start the engine.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” she blurts out.

I glance through my window, seeing the guys on the porch looking at us curiously. “Has that stepbrother tried anything with you?” I ask her.

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“And his friends?”

She inhales a breath, and I can tell she’s trying to stay calm. She’s impatient with my concerns. “I’ll be okay,” she maintains. “I’m not your kid. My dad is here.”

“Your dad isn’t…” I bark but stop.

Insulting her won’t get us anywhere.

I press my back into the seat and grind my fist over the wheel.

Her father isn’t a bad guy. From what I know of him anyway. We’ve even talked a few times in passing.

But he’s weak.

He’s a drunk, and he’s a loser. He’s the type who does the bare minimum in life and puts up with scraps, because he’s too lazy to fight for better. He can’t be there for her.

“This is stupid,” I say. “You’re not trading in a perfectly good home, in a nice, safe neighborhood, for this. Swallow your pride, Jordan.”

“I don’t belong at your house!” Fury burns in her eyes. “And this is where I come from, thank you. Cole is going to be back, eventually, and he’s your son. How do you think that’s going to work out with both of us there? I have no right.”

“We’ll deal with it.”

“No,” she fires back. “This isn’t any of your business. This is my home.”

“It’s not a home! You don’t…”

I open my mouth to finish, but my heart is pounding so hard, and I’m afraid of what I was going to say.

I breathe shallow and fast, turning my eyes forward again and away from her. I lower my voice. “You don’t have anyone who cares about you in this shithole.”

“And I do at your house?”

I shoot my eyes to her, the answer to that question coming so easily and so heavy on the tip of my tongue that I want to tell her.

But I don’t.

And she stares at me, my unsaid reply hanging between us. She falters, realization softening her eyes.

“Just get in the truck,” I grit out, “and let’s go home.”

“But—”

“Now, Jordan!” I slam the steering wheel with my palm.

She sucks in a breath, her eyes flaring. I don’t know if I scared her, or if she’s worried about making a scene, but she quickly pulls herself into the truck and slams her door. She’s tense and pissed and probably thinks she’ll deal with me away from prying eyes later, but I don’t care. I’ve got her, and we’re out of here.

I shift the truck into gear and pull ahead, swinging around and then reversing to do a U-turn. Finally facing back the way I came, I lay on the gas and get us out of there, driving back down the lane and pulling onto the road leading back into town.

I have no idea what her stepbrother or stepmother were probably thinking, and I really don’t care about that either. Let them think what they want for the next five minutes, because that’s exactly how long it will take them to forget she exists again.

No wonder she moved out there in the first place. I don’t think she was abused or anything—I never heard talk like that about her father—but she was definitely neglected. She deserves better.

The trees loom on both sides of the dark highway, and I roll my window down for some much-needed fresh air.

She doesn’t say anything, just sits there frozen, and I could kick myself, because I should’ve just talked to her at the house instead of going through all this. I knew how this was going to end. There was no way she was staying in Meadow Lakes. I wasn’t seriously helping her move tonight. I was finding my mettle.

But what if she wanted to move in with her sister? Or stay with a friend? I still would’ve fought her. I know I would’ve.

It’s not that she can’t take care of herself. I know very well she can.

I just don’t want her to have to. Somewhere along the line I got invested.

No one else in her life can give her what she deserves, and until she can provide it for herself, then I’m taking that responsibility. Screw it. She deserves the best. She’s getting the best.

I stare ahead and lean my elbow on the door, running my hand through my hair. It’s not my decision, though. Is it? Pushing her around doesn’t make me any better than anyone else in her life.

And I don’t want to be someone else who stifles her. She’ll end up resenting me, too. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about relationships—any relationship—is that no one should wear the pants. You have to know when to come in strong and when to back off. Both of you.

Give and take. Share the power.

I ease on the brake and slowly veer to the right side of the road, coming to a stop as a car speeds past me.

Her eyes shift, but she still won’t look at me.

God, what she must be thinking.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my tone quieter and calmer now. “I didn’t mean to command you like that.” I drop my hands from the wheel and try to slow down my heart a little.

“Cole is staying with…” I trail off, knowing she knows who he’s staying with. “For the time being,” I finish. “You’ll have space, and you can have the other spare room. It’s your space. You like my house, right?”

She takes in a breath, searching for words. “Yes, but…”

“I like having help around the place,” I explain. “And it’s nice to come home and not have to make dinner every night. We keep the same arrangement.”

She pauses, and fear creeps up. Maybe I read her wrong, after all. Maybe she’s just trying to find a way to get me off her back. Maybe she really doesn’t want to stay at my house.

“Will you be happy? At my house? Honestly?” I ask. “Happier than back there?”

The silence stretches between us, and I’m beginning to feel stupid. Like I misread everything and she wasn’t getting comfortable under my roof.

But all the times I caught glimpses of her this week—lighting her candles, working in the garden, having a morning swim, or cooking in the kitchen and bobbing her head to whatever awful hair band she’s listening to this week—it seemed like she was at home, you know? She was smiling so much, we’d gotten comfortable enough to joke around, and she was even getting mischievous on me, adding stupid sprouts and avocado to the turkey sandwich in my lunch the other day.

I smile a little, thinking about it.

I don’t want her to trade down because she thinks she’s unwanted at my house or she’s imposing. I want to make sure she knows that she doesn’t have to leave.

I blink long and hard, suddenly weary. And I fucking hate the idea of her in that shithole with no one there who’s going to appreciate anything she does.

I drop my eyes and my voice. “Please don’t make me leave you there.”

I see her head turn in my direction, and I know how I must sound.

“Please,” I whisper again.

She’s staring at me, but I refuse to look at her, because I’m afraid my eyes will say something more or give away something teetering on the edge of my brain that I don’t want to face yet.

She’s happy at my house, she’s safe there, she has a bed, and there’s no fucking mice. It’s that simple.

Yeah. It’s that simple.

After a moment, I hear her draw in a calm breath as she reaches over and grabs her seatbelt, fastening it.

I swallow.

“Fright Night is streaming on Netflix,” she says. “Half pepperoni and half taco?”

I break into a smile. Turning to her, I see her blue eyes looking at me with the same easy humor she had when we were cutting watermelon the other night.

I shift the car into gear again and nod. “Call it in,” I tell her. “We’ll pick it up on the way home.”