The Best I Could (16 page)

“I know,” she replied.

I looked at her, my dry, reddened eyes
blurring her face. I’d gone way too long without blinking enough.
“Maybe that’s not so bad, huh? Maybe that’s what you need.”

Deena gripped the door. “How do you
figure?”

There’d been a lot of cursing my dad the
night before. A lot of pain. Somewhere during all of the swearing
and needles against my palms, I’d realized something. “Maybe you
just need to hate me. So you can feel better about where you are
now.”

My sister took a step back into the hall. “I
don’t hate you.”

A small smile stole across my face. “Maybe.
Maybe not.”

“You look terrible,” she muttered, changing
the subject.

My skin felt tight and sore, my stomach
queasy, and I winced. “Yeah, well, it’ll teach me to wear
sunscreen.”

She studied me, her head down so that her
hair hid her expression. “You should take something for fever.
Drink lots of water. You know, like you told me to do that time I
spent the day at Daisy McFlintock’s pool.”

“I will.”

My promise hung between us, awkward and
heavy, and a hollow feeling invaded my gut. Homesickness. At home,
I knew who I was. There I’d been Tansy Griffin, authority figure
and caretaker. I’d known where everything was and where it needed
to go. My room, the TV, the living room couch—where I spent every
afternoon waiting for Deena to come home and Dad to call me—my
knitting, my plants, and the permanent smell of burnt toast.
Because no matter how often I cooked, I still managed to burn
bread.

“What are you working on?” Deena asked,
shaking me out of my thoughts.

I glanced at the pastel blue project in my
lap. “I don’t know.” It was too large to be a scarf and too small
yet to be a blanket.

“Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it.”

“Okay,” I responded, not bothering to watch
her go. “A sail.” Snorting, I lifted my needles and yarn and threw
Snow an incredulous look. “I think I’m making a sail.”

The dog’s head rose, a small whimper
escaping.

“Not good, huh?” I asked, sighing. Shoving it
aside, I grabbed my pillow, stuffed my face into the fluff, and
screamed.

I screamed and screamed.

Snow jumped up, threw herself at me, and
nudged me with her nose, howling softly. My fingers found her fur,
stroking gently. Soothing her.

“It’s okay,” I gasped, pulling my head out of
the pillow. “Sometimes you just need to scream.”

She continued to howl, and I stroked her
until she finally calmed, plopping herself down so that her head
rested in my lap. My crisscrossed legs were stiff and tingly, but I
didn’t move because, as much as I hated to admit it, Snow’s
affection was the most love I’d felt in a long time. I soaked it in
greedily, like a woman who’d been too long without water.

Eli

That afternoon, I avoided the main house for
as long as I could, my wrapped hands and boxing gloves hitting the
punching bag in the cottage.

Tap, tap. Tap, tap. Tap, tap. One, two.

My eyes skirted the words
scrawled in front of me, focusing on one.
Tansy
.

Tap, tap. Tap, tap. Tap, tap. One, two.

I wanted inside of her head, wanted to know
exactly how far she’d gone in her mind to that dark place, the one
that was hard as hell to come back from. I’d been there. Too
often.

There’d been too many years chasing trouble,
from my elementary school years forward. Too many pranks, too many
friends with anger issues, and too many talented buddies with
grudges on their shoulders. My first stint in juvie had followed a
night of tagging neighborhoods, spray paint in hand with a group of
guys who were actually good at it. My only contribution had been
spray painting every vulgar word my preteen brain could come up
with. The graffiti cuss word dictionary. I’d been so cool.

Later, when I’d been forced to clean the
paint off of the buildings we’d tagged, I’d found myself standing
outside a boxing club. My fist clenched a soapy rag, lines of
crying suds leaving colored streaks down a glass window, my gaze
riveted on what was happening on the other side. Men and women were
dancing in a ring, fists pounding bags, jump ropes flying, and
determined foreheads creased in concentration.

Something about it called to
me. As if every
thap, thap
was really
Eli,
Eli
.

My problems didn’t go away. My anger either,
but I’d found something I was good at, something I could go to when
everything else got to be too much.

I was sixteen when my
trainer, Casey Horace, handed me two permanent markers, looked at
me, and said, “You’ve got to quit bringing just one emotion into
the ring. Anger only takes you so far. You’ve got to bring what
you
want
into the
ring, too. Not just what you want to destroy, but also what you
want to save.”

Tap, tap. Tap, tap. Tap, tap. One, two.

The cottage door opened. “Eli!” my brother
called. “They’re here.”

I froze, hands up. “All of them?” I called
back.

“Yeah.”

My gaze flicked over the bag, over familiar
words and dark emotions. “Okay, I’ll be there in a second.”

The cottage door clicked shut.

Tap, tap. Tap, tap. Tap, tap. One, two.

Breathing hard, I pulled the Velcro on the
hook and loop gloves, slowly removing them, one by one before
unwrapping my hands. Car doors slammed outside, and I stiffened,
going on the defensive. I lived my life that way, hands up,
protecting myself.

Protection was better than running. I’d tried
that, too, and it seemed the harder I ran, the harder I slammed
into what I was trying to leave behind.

Grabbing a T-shirt, I pulled it over my head,
gave myself a cursory look in the bathroom mirror, and left the
cottage. Head high. Stepping lightly.

Tansy

“Was this really necessary?” I asked, staring
at the colonial house looming outside the van window.

Hetty glanced at me. “Eli Lockston is working
at the rescue, will be training your sister at the boxing club, and
is fraternizing with my granddaughter on his off time. I say it’s
necessary.”

“I’m not feeling the tension at all,” Deena
groused from the back. She tapped my seat. “No worries, sis.
They’ll kick us out before we make it through the meal, so eat as
much as you can right off the bat.”

Hetty threw her a glare, but I’d quit
listening. My eyes were on the side mirror, on the male figure
slipping out of a cottage behind us. His hands were in his pockets,
causing the hem of his black T-shirt to ride up on his stomach,
exposing a sliver of skin.

“And you wanted us to try?” Deena asked. She
was turned in her seat, her gaze on the same guy. On Eli. “He looks
like he stepped out of his laundry basket.”

“I don’t have any say over what he wears,”
Hetty pointed out.

She’d been worried more
about Deena than me. My attire was fairly one dimensional. Lots of
black, lots of earrings, and lots of color splotches. Hair dye, a
purple bracelet here, and a gaudy ring there. I
had
managed a shower, and a decent
amount of makeup despite the sunburn.

Smoothing my sweaty palms down shorts patched
in checkered black and white plaid, I climbed out of the van, my
gaze swinging to the house.

“It bites. Hard,” Eli assured, coming up
beside me. Hetty’s door slammed, and he glanced up, nodding. “Mrs.
Anderson.”

Deena jumped out, throwing him a thin grin.
“Greetings, asshole.”

“Your mouth, Deena,” Hetty reprimanded.

Eli winked. “Greetings, fighter.”

Their banter was easy and
light despite Deena’s
I hate Eli
campaign, and a wave of jealousy washed over me.
He didn’t get to have that with my sister. That belonged to
me.

“Hey, save the frown for dinner, okay?” Eli
whispered, nudging me. “You’ll have plenty of chances to use
it.”

Closer to the house, a well-dressed man
climbed out of a silver Aston Martin, his head high as he walked
around the car to assist his passenger. The late afternoon sun
chased him, catching on perfectly pleated black slacks and a royal
blue button-up shirt. A belt hugged his waist. Gelled brown hair,
the same color as Eli’s, dared the wind to touch it.

A delicate, manicured hand slid into the
man’s proffered palm. Black fishnet stockings and heels too high
for a gravel driveway dropped into view, mascara-enhanced hazel
eyes widening as a pretty young woman rose from the car, long, dark
blonde hair falling over her shoulders. She was wrapped, for lack
of a better word, in a deep blue dress, the fabric a second skin
against pale flesh.

“Family?” I asked.

“Cousin,” Eli answered. “The guy. The girl is
his fiancée.”

My gaze fell to her stomach,
softly rounded beneath the dress, and my lips parted. “Oh.” Sudden
understanding slammed into me, and then,
“Oh!”
My gaze shot to Eli’s face. “Are
you shitting me? Is that—”

“My former fiancée. Yeah.”

“This is like a sad, affluent family reality
show, right? Predictable. Money-grabbing men and women looking for
a cut.”

Eli grunted. “You assume we’ve always been
rich. It’s worse when you’re newer money. People think you’re
easier to take advantage of.”

“And are you?”

He grimaced, his gaze meeting mine.
“Obviously I am, if the pregnant woman with my cousin is any
indication, but you haven’t met my grandfather yet.”

“Not so gullible, huh?”

“I’m not either. Anymore.”

Hetty joined us, her eyes narrowing on the
space separating Eli and me, as if she were subconsciously trying
to push us farther apart. As if we were a thing, a couple instead
of who we really were: random roof buddies. “I met your grandfather
when I moved here a few years back,” she told Eli. “He seems like a
good man.”

“Depends on who you ask,” Eli replied. “That
works for anyone really.”

Hetty shot him a curious look, her gaze
flicking from his face to mine. “I suppose it does.”

Frowning, she sauntered to the house. Deena
crossed her eyes, sent her middle finger flying at us, and followed
Hetty.

“That sister of yours,” Eli chuckled. “She’s
got a sparkling personality.”

I half-smiled, half-grimaced. “I think her
attitude is an armor she wears. Like you with your assholery.”

Eli’s brows rose. “Assholery? That’s
new.”

“Yeah, you know, the whole jerkitude thing
you’ve got going. To protect yourself. Defense mechanism. That’s
what you called it, right?” I asked, turning to face him. Walking
backwards, I teased, “Bask in the glory, sir asshole. It isn’t
every day you inspire a new word.”

“Two of them,” he corrected, eyes crinkling.
“Jerkitude and assholery.” He stalked me. “Wait for it, roof girl.
My family inspires a litany of new words. All of them warm and
fuzzy.”

Gravel crunched beneath our feet. A screen
door creaked open, and then slammed shut, the house’s mouth
swallowing people whole.

A distinguished older gentleman lingered on
the porch, his stance authoritative yet somehow unassuming. The
younger couple were gone, eaten by the house, leaving only Hetty
and Deena undigested on the veranda. Waiting.

A smile. A handshake. Hetty’s lips moving,
her discerning gaze finding me as she spoke. The man’s eyes
followed hers, grazing my face before retreating. For once, Deena
remained silent.

My eyes fell to the man’s left hand, to the
way his fingers slid into his pocket, the thumb hooked over the
edge. “He stands like you do,” I hissed.

Eli grunted, his reaction urging me
forward.

“You must be Tansy,” our host greeted when we
approached. “I’m Carson Lockston. Pops to most people.”

He extended his hand, and I grasped it, his
larger palm consuming my smaller one. His hand was soft and warm,
like a quilt in winter. Comforting despite his grip. His gaze
searched mine, and I fidgeted under his stare. Like his grandson,
it felt like he saw too much. As if I was suddenly naked, layers
and layers of emotional skin peeled back, uncovering things I
wanted to hide.

He could have said something more then—his
eyes suggested he wanted to—but he didn’t.

We kept moving, a blur of motion. It was all
so frustratingly typical.

The screen door creaked, banging behind us as
we entered the residence. Gleaming wood impressed the eyes,
polished floors stretching out before us. Within the foyer, stairs
climbed to a second story, separating a pristine living area from a
large dining room and kitchen.

Tasty smells tickled the nose, and we
followed the scent to a long mahogany table. Platters and
lid-covered dishes littered the surface. Guests shuffled behind
high-backed chairs, awkward silence stretching.

Pops marched into the room, swept a hand down
the table, and commanded, “Sit.”

Chairs scraped against the floor, a flurry of
rustling fabric proceeding us. Eli took a seat next to me, my
grandmother and Deena across from us.

“We’re usually less formal than this,”
Jonathan informed me, sliding into the empty space separating me
from the people who belonged here. He offered me a smile, and his
freckles danced.

“Feeding time at the zoo,” Eli grumbled. He’d
chosen to sit isolated from his family, my body shielding him from
their side of the table.

Pops stood at the head of the table, his
hands resting on the back of his chair. He spoke, his voice booming
along the walls, offering a prayer before presenting the table’s
occupants.

Names danced around us.

Ivy Lockston came first, an elegant brunette
in a collared silk blouse with a black bow accent and black
designer dress pants. She smiled demurely, and I stared at her.
There were more introductions, a Mandy Touchstone and Lincoln
Lockston being the only other strangers, but I didn’t spare them a
glance, my gaze locked on Ivy. A porcelain doll looked less
breakable than she did, her pale, smooth skin glazed in artful
makeup, her shoulders back and chin up. She commanded attention in
a delicate but brutal way.