Shelby Bradford.
Why is my sister calling? My mind flashes back to that night all those years ago after Lara told me to leave. When I asked my sister to come with me. After she’d seen how Dad violently broke into my room and went through all my things.
“Hey, what can I get for you?” The guy hanging out of the truck looks at me impatiently, and I switch the phone to silent, stuffing it back into my pocket before placing my order.
The tacos are perfect, and I finish them off in just a few bites, wandering aimlessly down the street. Once they’re gone and I’ve tossed the napkin in the garbage, I look up and see a swinging green sign in front of me.
Micky’s Pub.
A drink sounds like exactly what I need right now.
CHAPTER 11
LARA
“Icould totally lead a safari,” Zachery says.
He sits at the breakfast bar, his elbows against the counter, while I cut cantaloupe into little stars. I should have prepped my fruit shapes at the start of the week, but I was too busy studying for my pediatrics development final.
It’s early in the morning, much earlier than Zachery would normally be awake, but he got here yesterday and isn’t back on US time just yet. Even with his recent red-eye flight, he looks amazing — bright, tight skin, smiling, his hands moving animatedly along with his descriptions. His hair is bright blue now, but he’s talking about doing a split die.
And he hasn’t even had a cup of coffee yet.
“You could,” I say, though I’m only halfway invested in the conversation. Since arriving yesterday, Zachery has told me all about how nightclubs differ in other countries, how difficult it is to work as a tour guide when everyone just wants to film you the entire time and, more specifically, how he was recently rejected for a safari guide position.
“He said he didn’t think I’d belevelheadedunderpressure.” Zachery looks at me with a bugged-out expression that says,isn’t that stupid? and I nod while secretly agreeing with the interviewer. Zachery is not good under pressure.
It’s best that he’s not trying to direct a group in the midst of a rhinoceros attack.
I’m thinking about what that would look like and listening to Zachery talk about his future plans in France, when my almost five-year-old son Aster comes stumbling into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing at his eyes.
Like always, when I see him, it makes my body light up, joy exploding out in my chest like a firework, stretching through to the rest of my limbs and gathering up at the ends of my fingertips.
“Hey, Aster,” Zachery says, reaching out and holding his fist out for a fist bump. Aster slowly raises his fist to Zachery’s, then turns to come to me. I watch the moment he realizes.
“Uncle Zach!” he says, turning, his eyes widening as he runs for his makeshift uncle, who crashes with us once or twice a year and always comes with gifts.
“Hey, buddy,” Zachery says, squeezing Aster in his arms and closing his eyes. I keep working on the fruit and watch them, thinking about the first time Zachery held Aster in his arms and how scared he had been to drop or hurt him. “You’re getting sobig!”
Now, Zachery stands up, lifting Aster right up with him, so my son lets out a little squeal and laughs, his voice muffled against Zachery’s shoulder.
Another voice sounds from the doorway, “Zachery?”
We turn to see Chrys standing there, eyes wide like she’s found Santa Claus leaving presents under the tree. She says his name likeZach-ry, and holds a pink teddy bear loosely in her right hand, where it brushes against the skirt of her pink nightgown.
“Uncle Zach is here?” a little voice shouts from another room.
“Watch out!” Aster says to Zachery, laughing with delight as Daffy comes barreling into the room, wearing her green alligator pajamas and launching herself at Zachery with the iconic lack of consideration for personal space she’s had since she was an infant.
If someone was going to roll off a changing table or grab your boob for stability, it was Daffy, running gleefully through life without ever considering that she might trip. Not quite understanding that other bodies feel things, and still thinking hers capable of anything.
Zachery catches her in his arms and tosses her in the air once before letting her back down. She throws her arms around his thigh and squeezes, laughing as he tries to free himself from her grip.
“The whole gang is here,” Zachery says once the three of them are sitting at the table, each kicking their feet. I move quickly, depositing fruit and tiny pancakes for each, fetching little sausages from the microwave and adding them to their plates while they cheer.
There are many ways I’ve been lucky throughout the years, and one of them is that none of my babies are picky eaters.
Without thinking, I put a plate down in front of Zachery, too, and he laughs, shaking his head and diving, good-naturedly, into the tiny breakfast.
