Scarlet
For as long as I can remember, there’s been an emptiness inside of me. The more I try to ignore it, the deeper it sets into my bones, seeping down, deep down, until it becomes part of me. It’s easy to blame the emptiness on my shitty upbringing. Having to give up my dreams of a future to take care of my brother and sister. Growing up with an addict for a mother and being the one who found her cold, stiff body after an overdose.
But I felt it before then, and sometimes I wonder if the emptiness isn’t empty at all. Maybe it’s darkness, and it’s always been a part of me. And when you have darkness inside of you, you have two choices: hate yourself for it or embrace it.
I chose the latter.
The bathroom door closes with a heavy thud, and I step up to the mirror, pulling out cherry red lipstick from my purse. I carefully apply it, fluff my hair, and stare at my reflection, avoiding the tiny bit of judgment my moral compass is giving me. That thing’s been broken for years anyway.
I close my eyes and think of homeless puppies, conjuring up images from those heartbreaking commercials I usually fast-forward through. It doesn’t take much to make myself cry fake tears. If my cards had been dealt a different way, I’d be one hell of an actress.
Fake crying? No problem.
Real crying? I haven’t done in years. Crying means feeling, and feeling isn’t a luxury I can afford. My life is such a mess that if I stopped and looked at it—really looked at it—I’d be a blubbering mess.
Tears well in my eyes, and I let a few fall, smearing my mascara, before heading back out to the bar. It’s a little after noon on a Tuesday, and the bar just opened up. It’s inside a swanky hotel, and I can afford exactly half a watered-down whiskey here.
Spotting my target, I take a seat at the bar and order a vodka tonic with top-shelf liquor. I’m getting cocky, perhaps, but I didn’t wear this uncomfortable-as-fuck pushup bra for nothing today.
I slowly sip my drink, crossing my legs and leaning back on the bar stool. I squeeze my eyes shut, and more tears roll down my cheeks. Setting the glass down, I angrily wipe them away, looking down at my phone and shaking my head.
“Excuse me, miss,” the man in the blue Armani suit says, striding over. He extends a designer monogrammed handkerchief, flashing his Rolex at the same time. “But I have to ask who made a pretty thing like yourself cry?”
I’m not a thing, asshole. I’m a human-fucking-being. “Thank you,” I sniffle, taking the handkerchief. I blot up my tears and turn to him, doe-eyed. “My boyfriend is here on business and I thought I’d surprise him. But when I got to the room…he wasn’t alone.” I turn away, waterworks in full force. I wish I could give myself an Emmy.
“He’s a damn fool,” Blue Suit says, taking a seat next to me. I can feel him eye-fucking me. “You’re exquisite.”
I shake my head. “Tell him that.” I pick up my drink and down it. “I just want to forget him.”
Blue Suit signals the bartender and orders us two martinis. “Here’s to forgetting,” he says, sliding the drink in front of me. I angle my body toward his and reach out, putting my hand on his bicep.
“Thank you,” I say slowly, giving his arm a little squeeze. Blue Suit narrows his eyes and grins.
“Drink,” he orders, eyes dropping to my cleavage. I know his type, and I can’t fucking stand them. Relatively young for making so much money, they usually hail from trust-fund families to begin with. I bet Blue Suit posts selfies with his Lamborghini at least twice a week on I*******m and has to constantly remind people of how much pussy he gets.
Overly full of himself, he thinks wearing that fitted suit makes him the living embodiment of Christian Grey. Sorry, buddy. I’m not going Fifty Shades on your cock today.
“I hardly ever drink,” I say, making my voice a little breathy after I take a big swig. “I’m such a lightweight.”
His thin lips pull into a grin again, and I wish I could take the toothpick from my drink and stab it into his dick. I’ll be doing all women a service from this snake in a suit.
“Well, sweet thing,” he starts, leaning in and brushing my blonde hair over my shoulder. “That’ll work in both our favors.”
I giggle, doing an impressive job of hiding my cringing on the inside. I sip at my drink again, purposely spilling it. A little stream of alcohol runs down my chest, and I make a show of wiping at my breasts.
Like a hungry dog, Blue Suit has sunk his teeth into me, but it’s only a matter of time before I walk out of here as Best of Show.
“I’m such a mess right now.”
“You’re too sexy to be a mess.”
I mentally roll my eyes. You’re a beautiful mess was a much better line, dude. “I’m so embarrassed. It’s been one hell of a day, and I get a little flustered around attractive men. Oh—” I bring my hand to my face, and right on cue, my cheeks flush.
He chuckles and moves in. I rub my hands up and down my arms, shivering. Blue Suit takes off his jacket and drapes it around my shoulders, smoothing it out just so he has a reason to touch me.
“You’re such a gentleman,” I coo, pulling the jacket around my slender body. I can feel his wallet press into my side, and it only takes another few minutes of small talk for me to reach inside and pull out his cash. It’s not the first time I’ve done this, but I always get a little rush. I’m right there literally in front of him, picking his pocket under his nose. I’ve yet to be caught, but there’s a first time for everything, I suppose.
I fold the bills up in my hand and reach for my phone with my other. Sandwiching the money between my palm and my phone, I tell him I need to use the bathroom. I leave his suit jacket hanging on the back of the bar stool and slip right out of the bar, through the lobby of the Four Seasons and fall into step with the fast-paced Chicago foot traffic.
*
“This’ll cover what insurance doesn’t.” I hand over crisp one hundred dollar bills, silently cursing the woman behind the counter. She holds each bill up to the light, making sure they’re real, and proceeds to ring me up.
“You need to confirm the address for delivery.” She slides the paperwork to me, and I can feel her judgment digging into me like a knife hot out of the fire. I’m still in my strappy Valentino dress, still showing more cleavage than your average street-corner hooker, and still have mascara smeared across my cheeks. I wiped it up the best I could, but I really don’t give a damn right now. I changed out of my heels for two reasons: I’m down to one pair of designer shoes, and they’re not the most comfortable to be trekking along the south side of Chicago in.
I’m now wearing a pair of worn-out Nikes and have twisted my hair into a messy bun on the top of my head. I had to hurry to get to the medical supply store in time to put in the order and have it delivered with tomorrow’s shipment.
I’ve had this wheelchair on hold for weeks now, and after arguing with insurance for days on end, I knew it was either make my father suffer in his current ill-fitting chair that pinches his thighs and causes sores on his lower back or do whatever I can to get the money to get him this new one before the sores open up and turned into pressure ulcers. Again. We’ve been down this road before and it almost ended his life. The sores get infected and he’s too old and too weak to fight off another infection. It would take me weeks if not months to earn enough from my waitressing job to cover this expensive as fuck wheelchair.
I confirm everything, making double sure the wheelchair will get delivered to the nursing home and then the right patient tomorrow afternoon. The cashier throws out a catty, “Well, you could be there if you’re so worried,” that I respond to with a glare and a roll of my eyes. I don’t have time for her shit.
The wind picks up, carrying a cool fall breeze with it. It’s the end of September, and it’s been unseasonably warm all week. Not that I’m complaining, though. The lake-effect snow will be here before we know it, and I’ll be trudging through it to work and back.
But today, though it’s nice enough out to walk, I have enough leftover cash from Blue Suit to take public transportation and buy myself something for lunch. I put on my headphones and sit at the back of the bus, ignoring the world around me.
I get off a block away from the nursing home, intent on grabbing a taco from a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place. My stomach grumbles, and the last remaining twenty is burning a hole in my pocket. I round the corner a little too fast and almost step on a homeless woman sitting close to the side of a building. Her eyes are red and glossed over, but not because she’s high. It’s because she’s been crying.
A sleeping toddler is tucked under her arm, wearing dirty clothes. They’re both in desperate need of a bath, and suddenly tacos seem irrelevant. I come to a stop, digging the twenty out of my purse.
“There’s a church three blocks over that’ll take you in for the night,” I tell her. I know this because I stayed there before years ago, back when it was me, Heather, and Jason against the world. “They’ll have clothes for her too.”
The woman takes the twenty from me, bottom lip quivering. “Thank you. My boyfriend…he got arrested, and we’ve had nowhere to go.” She starts to get to her feet, struggling to keep her child nestled against her body and pick up her shit at the same time.
“Want some help?”
The woman eyes me suspiciously, and if you’re going off my looks, I can’t blame her. Two-bit whores aren’t known for their generosity.
“I’ve been in your shoes,” I offer.
“You have kids?” The woman gets to her feet and grabs a duffle bag full of baby clothes. She only has a backpack full of stuff for herself.
“Not my own, but I looked after my siblings for a few years.” I take the duffle from her and lead the way down the street. We walk in silence, and when we get in front of the church, the woman tells me a tearful and heartfelt thank you.
I hike back to the nursing home, sweating by the time I get there. Dammit. This dress is dry clean only. The smells of body odor, urine, and bleach hang heavy in the air, mixed together like some sort of stomach-churning perfume. I turn down the hall and head in the direction of my father’s room. I slow, seeing the curtain pulled around his bed.
The nursing assistant behind the curtain hums “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart,” and I hear him plunge a washcloth into a basin of water.
“Hey, Corbin,” I say, knowing who he is without having to look.
His shoes squeak on the tile as he steps over to peer at me. “You pulling tricks again, hooka?”
“Magic tricks,” I say, snapping my fingers. “And for my next act, watch that new wheelchair appear tomorrow.”
“You didn’t.”
I raise my eyebrows. “I did.”
He waggles a finger at me. “Girl, you are something else.”
“How’s he doing today?”
“We’ve had some good moments today, haven’t we, Mr. Cooper?”
I perch on the edge of the other bed in the room, not wanting to go behind the curtain. My father’s been in this shithole of a nursing home for the last several years, thanks to heavy drinking in his youth, a brain injury acquired during a bar fight, and most of all, early-onset Alzheimer’s.
“Good.”
“I’m going to take him down to Bingo after I get him cleaned up. He got a little messy during lunch.”
“How’d that happen?”
“New CNA. Let him alone with a bowl of soup.”
I let out a sigh. You can’t leave food out around Dad. He’ll try to feed himself and will end up spilling it everywhere. I pull my phone out of my purse, checking the time. I’m going to have to cut my visit with Dad short today if I want to make it over in time to see Heather, which I need to do. It’s been a few days, and I have to make sure she’s staying out of trouble.
Once Dad is up and dressed, I wheel him down into the cafeteria and sit him at a table along with a few other residents. I stay through one round of Bingo and then give him a kiss on the forehead and rush out, getting to the prison with only minutes left of visiting hours.
I’ve gone through the process of signing in and going through security so many times I could do it in my sleep.
“Hey, Scarlet,” C.O. Benson says as I pass through the metal detector. “Looking good.”
I flash him a smile and bat my eyelashes, just enough to keep him hanging on. “You too. Have you been working out?”
“I have,” he replies with a wide smile. “Starting some new supplements.”
“Keep it up. I can tell.” I grab my purse, holding the smile on my face until I turn away. He’s not a total loser but isn’t my type. And by that, I mean, I’m not into guys who live in their parents’ basement and find taxidermy a fun way to pass the time. But I know how helpful it can be to have that flirty relationship with someone in his position, and I never know when I’ll have to ask for a favor.
For my sister, that is.
I get seated in the visitor area and lean back while I wait. My mind starts to wander, and I quickly reel that fucker in. Don’t think. Don’t feel.
“Scar!”
I look up and see my sister quickly walking over.
“Jesus Christ, Heather.” My eyes widen, and I shake my head. “What the fuck did you do to your hair?”
She flops into the chair with a huff. “I knew you’d hate it.”
Reaching over, I run my fingers through the rough cut. A natural blonde like me, Heather has butchered her long locks into a terrible above-the-shoulders bob with streaks of black and red throughout.
“It looks like a prison haircut.”
“Well, it is a prison haircut. I’m in fucking prison, Scar,” she spits out, nostrils flaring. We glare at each other for a few seconds and then burst out laughing. She reaches over the table and gives me a quick hug, ignoring the C.O. telling us not to touch.
“How are things?” she asks.
“As good as they can be,” I say with a shrug. “I got Dad the new chair, and Jason was able to call home a few days ago.”
Heather’s face lights up. “God, I miss that little shit.”
“Me too.” Two years ago, our younger brother shipped off to the Middle East with the Army. I hate that he’s away, but I’m proud of him for making something of himself. He’s the only Cooper to do so…so far. We’re a dysfunctional family, but we care about each other something fierce.
“Hey,” she says, lowering her voice and leaning over. “I was talking to one of the girls in here.”
I raise my eyebrows, knowing what comes next. It’s usually a harebrained idea like all of her ideas are and never ends well for her. Hence why I’m visiting my baby sister in prison.
“And?”
Her lips curve into a smile. “I have a job opportunity for you.”
Weston“Dad, catch!”I make a wild dive, over-exaggerating everything to humor my son. He throws the football, which only makes it a few feet before hitting the ground. I slide on the grass, making Jackson laugh.“I won! I won!” Jackson chants, jumping up and down.“Ouch!” Owen shouts from the patio. “Did you break something, old man?”With a dramatic roll on the grass that makes Jackson laugh even more, I grab the football, pop up, and throw it at my younger brother. He’s holding a beer in one hand and lazily reaches out with the other to catch it and misses. Luckily our sister, Quinn, is standing next to him and catches it before it crashes into the house.“Seriously, guys?” She laughs and tosses the ball to Jackson. Shaking her head, she goes back to her fiancé, who’s holding their sleeping baby. Emma looks so small in Archer’s arms, reminding me of when Jackson was that little.They really grow up so fast.“Try to catch me!” Jackson shouts and takes off through the yard. I don’t k
ScarletI pinch the bridge of my nose, gripping my phone so tight in my other hand I think it might break. I sink down on a creaky kitchen chair, looking at the bills laid out on the table. I’m behind on everything, like usual, and I don’t have enough to cover the bare minimum this time.Trying to get Heather the best outcome possible, I skipped the public defender and hired a lawyer, who was able to cut her sentence in half. But the lawyer fees weren’t cheap, and I’ve been without TV or internet all month, making me go over on my data plan, but hey—that bill’s not due until next month. The next to go will be my electric and water, though not by choice.And now I’m dealing with insurance, who randomly decided to stop covering several of Dad’s medications that he’s been taking for the last three years. I’ve been on the phone for over an hour, mostly on hold, of course. I rest my head in my hands, zoning out as I continue to listen to crappy elevator music through the speakers on my pho
WestonScarlet stands on the front porch, vivid blue eyes wide. Her blonde hair falls in waves around her face, and I can’t help but notice how beautiful she is. Everything about her is soft and delicate, but there’s a hardness to her I immediately recognize. Blinking, I sweep my hand up and over my hair, pushing it out of my face.I don’t know what I expected—Mrs. Doubtfire perhaps?—but I certainly didn’t expect a blonde bombshell. Though really, Owen got the final say in who Quinn interviewed after she narrowed it down to her top five choices. Still…this woman before me belongs on the pages of a magazine, not living in someone else’s house looking after strangers’ children.She freezes, looking around as if she has no idea what the fuck is going on, and then recovers fast. She blinks, puts on a smile, and comes up the porch steps. Scarlet is the definition of a hot nanny, even in that stupid fuzzy sweater. Perky round tits bounce underneath it as she walks, and it doesn’t look like
ScarletA cop.I’m a con artist posing as a nanny for a fucking cop. What the hell did I get myself into? I can feel the blood leave my face at a dizzying rate. Stay calm. Freaking out won’t do me any good now. I need to hold it the fuck together.I squeeze my eyes shut. How did I get things so wrong? I wasn’t paying attention, but how did I miss this? Surely that Quinn chick mentioned she was hiring me for her brother.Her apparently-single brother who just happens to be irritatingly sexy with that whole dark and brooding thing going on. I can tell he doesn’t want me here, that he’s reluctant to accept help, and I’m trying really hard not to find that attractive.“Have you always been a nanny?” he asks after a beat of awkward silence passes between us. Sweat rolls down between my breasts.“No,” I say with a shake of my head. “I was a waitress for a while.” I swallow hard, carefully calculating my next move. It’s not too late to back out and find a family that has money to blow. I cou
WestonI sit back at my desk and pull out my phone, logging onto the security company’s app and checking the cameras inside the house again. For the fifth time. This hour. It’s not that I don’t trust Scarlet, it’s just…I don’t trust Scarlet.She’s well aware of all the security measures I have in place at our house, and I haven’t given her the codes just yet. The only place she’s going today is the backyard with Jackson, and there’s no need to arm the house just to be outside.The cameras aren’t at all nanny-cams and show the front, back, and side door, as well as one looking down the steps with a view of the foyer. I can just barely see Scarlet and Jackson in the backyard. She’s chasing him around with her arms outstretched, dragging one leg as she stumbles through the grass.I can’t help but smile, knowing exactly what she’s doing. Jackson is currently obsessed with zombies and loves to be chased by them.“Who are you sexting?” Officer John Wilson asks me as he passes by my desk on
ScarletCome on, get it together. I inhale and open the fridge, trying to find something to make for dinner. My first day as Jackson’s nanny is almost over, and it did not go as planned at all.Today wasn’t miserable. Time didn’t crawl, and I didn’t want to claw my eyes out or drown myself in a bottle of wine. Instead—dare I say it—I had fun. I didn’t expect to like Jackson. I hoped to mildly tolerate him while I formulated a plan on how to con his dad out of a large sum of money, but events unfolded differently.Jackson isn’t a spoiled and entitled brat. I can tell teaching Jackson manners is important to Wes, and even though he comes off as a mean old grump, I sense he’s a gentleman at heart. After only a day, the kid is growing on me, and I need to press pause—if not rewind—on this whole situation and go back to not giving a shit.But, dammit, I can’t.“Do you want help making dinner?” Jackson asks, little feet slapping against the hardwood floor behind me.“Uh, sure. What do you w
Weston“Daddy!”Jackson comes running, throwing his arms around me. Coming home to my son is the best part of my day. I never realize how much I miss this kid until his skinny little arms are wrapped around my neck. Scooping him up with one hand, I stand, pretending to drop him.Jackson lets out a dramatic yell and then laughs hysterically. I do it again and get the same reaction.“We made dinner!” he tells me excitedly, taking my hand as soon as his feet hit the floor. “Come eat!”“Give me one minute, and I’ll join you.”“It’s just nuggets and mac and cheese,” Scarlet says almost apologetically. She’s still wearing the denim shorts she had on earlier but has added a button-up flannel shirt over her tank top. Her blonde hair is in a messy braid, with loose strands hanging around her face. Even a blind man would notice how gorgeous she is.“Some of our favorites,” I say and take off my shoes. I’m still in uniform with my gun strapped to my utility belt around my waist. I go upstairs to
ScarletI pull the blankets tighter around my shoulders and bring my legs up under myself. It started raining not long after we got back from the park, and it dropped the temperature by twenty degrees. A damp chill took hold of the house, and while the heater is on and running, I haven’t warmed up yet.Which has nothing to do with my cold heart, I’m sure.Wes put Jackson to bed, and knowing that he actually wants to spend time with his son is charming. Wait, no it’s not. There’s nothing charming about him. Nope. Not at all. And he certainly didn’t look good in those gray sweatpants. And offering me his jacket wasn’t a smooth move or anything. And putting my arms in the sleeves of said jacket and feeling the heat from his body was a turn-off. Big time.He’s closed off but not socially inept, and his charm isn’t lost on the people of this town. Ms. Soccer Mom at the park was flirting with him, and we got stopped three times on the short walk home. Two more single women just “wanted to s
ScarletSeven months later…“Thank you so much,” Quinn says, pushing her messy hair out of her face and taking Emma from my arms. “With Archer’s parents up in Michigan visiting Bobby and my own consumed with construction on the hospital, I’m dying.”“It’s no big deal.” I look down at Jackson. “We had fun. Emma was perfect.”Quinn raises an eyebrow in disbelief. Now that she’s over a year and is walking, Emma is a handful. And poor Quinn has been puking nonstop pretty much since the day she conceived her second child. She said she went through the same thing with Emma, making me question her sanity on getting pregnant again.“Is Archer going to be home soon?”“Yeah, thankfully.” We move into Quinn’s house, which is far from neat and tidy like it usually is. I hope when I’m finally pregnant I don’t get hit with morning sickness like this.Right after Wes proposed we started trying in a sense. I knew it would take a miracle to knock me up, but I was hopeful. We had a small but beautiful
WestonI put my arm around Scarlet, smiling as we watch Jackson tear into his Christmas presents. The three of us are wearing matching pajamas, which was Scarlet’s idea. Not mine. She said she bought them as a joke, but was rather insistent on all of us wearing them and taking a picture together last night on Christmas Eve.No sooner than Scarlet gets comfortable against me, she jumps up.“Salsa, get out of the tree.” She grabs the black kitten and brings him to the couch with her. He stays for half a second and jumps down, pouncing on the pile of discarded wrapping paper.Midnight, the mother cat to all the kittens, curiously walks over, batting a plastic bow across the living room. We were only going to take the kitten, but the mama cat really likes me for some reason. She’s a bit annoying, really, and rubs her head all over me purring almost every night when I go to sleep.Scarlet laughs, watching the cats have almost as much fun as Jackson with the presents. I take her in my arms
Scarlet“I think Salsa is a good name.” I give Jackson an encouraging nod.“It is cute,” Quinn agrees.“Do you think Daddy will let Salsa come home with us?” Jackson picks up the kitten and kisses her head. Wes got a little nervous around the time he was supposed to go into work. Instead of having Jackson come back here, I went over to Quinn’s. Jackson and I are staying the night here, and Wes is coming by in the morning.Even though Daisy was arrested and released with potential charges, we have no idea if she knows I’m back. And once she finds out her plans to sabotage the race, drive me out of town, and get Wes back didn’t work, she’ll be pissed. She might do something crazy.Though if she’s smart, she’ll be on her perfect behavior so she can try to convince a judge that she’s worthy of any sort of visitation rights with Jackson, which seem unlikely considering she basically tried to kidnap him.Still, I’m worried. Worried she’ll hurt Jackson and worried she’ll ruin Weston’s career
Weston“Hey, buddy!” I step past the dogs, holding the bag of takeout a little higher to keep Rufus from sniffing at it.“Daddy!” Jackson comes running. “We have to be quiet,” he says loudly. “Emma just fell asleep.”“Okay,” I whisper back, shuffling into the kitchen. Archer got called in for surgery, so Quinn and the kids came over to our parents, just to be safe.“Hey, Jackson.” Scarlet takes her coat off, smiling down at him.“Are you still sick?” he asks her, taking her hand. Both Scarlet and I pause for a moment until I remember telling Jackson Scarlet wasn’t feeling well and that’s why she wasn’t home.“She’s better now,” I tell him. “Are you hungry?”Mom is sitting at the island counter, which is covered in blueprints. “You didn’t have to bring fast food.” She raises her eyebrows. “I could have cooked.”“I thought Jackson would like a Happy Meal,” I say, and Jackson gets excited. “I got one for Quinn too.”Mom laughs. “She’ll like that I’m sure.”I hand the bag of food to Scar
WestonI reach over and take Scarlet’s hand. We’re headed back to Eastwood, and though I should probably be a dozen other things, I’m happy. Scarlet is coming home with me.“Why did you start conning people?” I ask, giving her hand a squeeze.“I realized I could,” she confesses. “It wasn’t like a dream I had when I was a little girl to grow up and be a con artist.”“What did you want to be when you grew up?”She shakes her head. “I don’t know. For a while there, I wanted to work at a zoo, but then things changed and I realized I didn’t have options. Especially after I dropped out of high school to take care of Heather and Jason.”“You did go back, right?”“Right. My dad showed up again and was able to look after them. Luckily, because our mom died shortly after.” She looks out the window, and it hits me how different our childhoods were. “I’ve always worked. I had to. Hell, someone had to, and it sure wasn’t Mom. I busted my ass for my family, and when I realized I could get more mone
ScarletI sit up, eyes waking up before my mind. I’m uncomfortable with stiff legs and an aching back, and for a split second, I think I fell asleep sitting up on the couch. Then I blink and realize my eyes are still sore and swollen from crying.Yes, crying.The room is dark, and I sit up, stretching my arms over my head. I didn’t mean to fall asleep in the stiff armchair next to my father’s bed at the nursing home. After leaving Weston’s house, I walked into town, took Eastwood’s only taxi to Newport, and was able to get an Uber to drive me up to Chicago.I didn’t know where else to go other than the nursing home. Dad was having a bad day and just sat in his chair not really paying attention to anything. So, for the first time in my entire life, I spilled my guts. Said everything I ever wanted to say. Confessed the bad things I’ve done as well as admit just how deep my love for Weston goes.And Dad just sat there, staring blankly in my general direction. A little empathy would have
WestonI can’t move. Not yet, not while my mind is going a million miles an hour. Scarlet wouldn’t steal them. She’s not a bad person. She’s not a con artist or a thief. She’s Scarlet, a quirky girl from Chicago who likes paranormal romance, drinking tea, and looking at the stars.She’s the woman I love.But the boxes…I shake my head and move through the small foyer, going to the other side of the house. The boxes came from the basement, and maybe she put them back. I run down the stairs, getting hit with cool, musty air, and pull the string light at the bottom of the stairs. The basement is cold and damp most of the time, typical of older houses in this area. We use it for storage, and the washer and dryer are down here too. I go around the stairs to the storage section and see the boxes neatly put away. I pull one out and open it. Everything is inside.And now I’m feeling bad for even doubting her. I put my head in my hands and let out a breath. What the hell am I doing?“Daddy?” Ja
Weston“What about this one?” I ask Jackson, picking up a pink teapot with little purple flowers painted along the base.Jackson shakes his head. “Scarlet isn’t really a girly girl, Dad.”“Good point. It’s too pink for her. Too bad I didn’t think of this around Halloween.” I push the cart forward, browsing the shelves of a home decor store. We needed to go grocery shopping, and Scarlet said she wasn’t feeling well. Telling her to stay home and rest, Jackson and I set out.Something is off with her, and I’m sure it has to do with Daisy showing back up. I don’t want Scarlet to think that old feelings came back the moment I saw my wife. It did the opposite, and if there was any good that came out of this, it’s knowing that I can look at Daisy and feel absolutely nothing.Scarlet is the only one I want.“That one!” Jackson leans out of the cart and narrowly avoids knocking a glass candle holder off the shelf. “It has a skull on it.”Smiling, I carefully move things out of the way and find
Scarlet“What’s all this?” I ask, looking at the papers and boxes cluttering the living room. We just got back to Weston’s house. In the daylight, things never seen as scary as they do in the dark. And the more I think about the universe wanting me to meet Weston, the better I feel about this whole situation.“Family heirlooms. Jackson, don’t touch them,” he adds quickly.“Why are they out?” I take off my coat and move to the couch, curiously picking up an old book.“You-know-who wore her mother’s wedding dress at our wedding.” He looks uncomfortable talking about it. “She wanted it back and I wasn’t sure what box it was in.”“Oh. This stuff is cool.”“You like Civil War history?” he asks, looking a little amused.“If I’m being honest, I don’t know much about it. But I love antiques. Wait, all this stuff is from the Civil War?”“Some of it is. Not all is that old. It’s been in the Dawson family for years and gets passed down to the oldest son. Jackson will get it someday.”“Can I see