Ana’s eyes are wide. “Myka!”
“Oh get over it, Ana.” She waves a hand in dismissal; Ana huffs and walks away, climbing into the van.
I hesitate, look down at Myka.“The hell you ever see in him?”
Myka gazes at me. “The more I’m with you, the more I wonder that same thing, honey.”
That makes me feel about a hundred feet tall. I tip my lips in a half-grin. “Sweet of you to say.” I touch her lips, wanting to kiss her, not ready to do that in front of her rather disapproving sister.
“It’s the truth.” We’re off the elevator, at the main doors; she stops, turns into me, lifts up on her toes, and does what I was too chicken to do…kisses me. Not a peck, either. “That was pretty hot, I gotta say,” she whispers.
“More where that came from,” I mutter.
She laughs and pulls me toward the van—and the staring occupants inside it. “NowthisI know. I think we’re good for now.” She yanks open the van’s sliding door and moves in—I let her go first, mainly so I can get a look at her ass in those jeans. “But if he shows up again, which knowing Darren he will, I might let you handle him again.”
“All you gotta do is look at me, babe,” I say,babefeeling weird in my mouth, strange on my tongue.
Stranger still that she lets me call her that, more yet that she likes it—evidenced by the way she smiles at me.
Feels strange, but I can’t say I don’t like it. I do. I more than like it.
* * *
Her family is huge,loud, chaotic…and loving. Friendly. Everyone seems to like each other, genuinely. No one argues, not once, not about anything. Men laugh and talk sports and jokingly shove each other, women sit in clusters and gossip—and laugh. When a woman passes by her man, or vice versa, there’s always some kind of touch—a twining of fingers, a kiss, a moment where she perches on his knee with an arm around his neck. Kids are everywhere, running a mile a minute, snagging snacks on the go. Even the kids get along—there’s a squabble here and there, a tiff over a toy or someone refusing to die in their game of pretend or whatever, but it’s always quickly squashed by a nearby adult, and always with a quiet word, a touch, and a hug, a tousle of hair.
I watch the kids more than anything. They’re so…happy.
All they gotta do is play, and they play like the world’s gonna end tomorrow so they gotta get the fun in now. And even the kids are affectionate, with each other and with adults. Parents scoop up the kids and tickle them, tease them, kiss them. Aunts or uncles or older cousins crouch and have a chat.
Fuckin’ alien, this world of Myka’s. Everyone so happy, everyone laughing.
Makes my chest hurt, for wishing I’d had this.
I don’t know what to do with myself. Myka is everywhere, talking to everyone—she’s been gone so everyone wants a piece of her, time with her. I don’t begrudge them that, because I get it. She’s magnetic. She’s more alive and comfortable here than I’ve seen her. She’s always laughing, head thrown back, hair moving, pretty red mouth curved, partly open. I just won’t follow her around like a lost puppy, so I find myself standing by the island, nursing a glass of tea, watching.
At some point, she finds me. Pokes my ribs. “You’re not security here, honey. You can sit.” She points at the screen, at a baseball game that’s on. “Watch the game. Talk to the guys.” She shakes my arm a little. “You know—relax.”
I shrug. “Didn’t get programmed with that setting.”
She just smiles at me. “Well, I’ll teach you.”
She pulls me through the back door—the sliding glass door is open, just the screen closed; the front door is open too, and a constant breeze blows through, cooling the house and ruffling napkins held down with little rocks that have been painted by kids’ fingers, seeming for the purpose.
The back deck is huge, the covered front and side meeting the back at a large hot tub, and here the roof ends, just past the hot tub; beyond that, it’s acres of herringbone-pattern decking, vertical cables and flat-top railings where you can lounge and rest a drink. There’s wicker furniture galore arranged in a variety of seating areas, some around free-standing firepits. There’s a massive barrel grill by the back door, and since I’ve been here I’ve seen someone manning it at all times, grilling burgers, dogs, chops, barbecue chicken, even some thick steaks.
The amount of food these people are consuming is mind-boggling. It’s not escaped my notice that there’s no alcohol, not even beer, yet it doesn’t seem like anyone minds. And weirdly to my mind, they’re all having just as much fun.
The yard behind the house is literally acres of open field. The forest runs along the right side of the yard as you’re standing on the back deck looking out, the field rolling away as far as the eye can see. Off to the left about a hundred yards away, there’s a huge red barn, and it looks every second of a hundred and eighty-two years old. Near it, there’s another newer pole barn. Fence runs away from the barns, closing in much of the field beyond the house—I see a small herd of horses grazing in the distance, and some cows further on yet.
Nearer the house in the direct backyard, there’s a horseshoes game in progress, being played by teams of two husbands against their wives. Never played horseshoes, but watching them play it, they make it look like the most fun anyone could ever have, the way they’re laughing and carrying on.
Myka plops me down on a wicker couch near the grill, angling my back to the corner and lounging back against my chest, arranging my arm over her shoulder and tangling her fingers in mine. She effortlessly enters an ongoing conversation with four other women all seated nearby, while the men are standing near me, discussing batting averages and which pitcher is better.
I keep my mouth shut, just listen. Eventually, the other men—an uncle, I think he is, and two cousins from different sides of the family, somehow manage to angle themselves to include me without being obvious about it, and it comes up that I played baseball in a loose pickup league on base in Kandahar, and then, somehow…I’m talking to them.
Having a conversation with these men I don’t know, Myka’s family…and I’m enjoying it. Feels weird. She’s resting her head on my chest and shoulder, occasionally leaning forward to take a drink or snag some chips from the bowl on the little table in the center of the seating area.
One of her uncles comes by with a huge platter of meat just off the grill, a woman who’s clearly his wife following with plates and a wicker basket of old, battered, scratched silverware and a folding cardboard six-pack holder full of condiments—the six-pack once held root beer, and judging by the weathered appearance of the thing, it’s clear it’s been used for this for decades. As people around us descend on the food, Myka rests her head on my shoulder blade and tilts it around to look at me from up close, her lips grazing my ear.
