No, no, no.
Tate’s eyes are trained on mine and a small wave of rage shudders through my body. I hide my bashed up hand behind my back and narrow my eyes at him in displeasure.
I’m planted in the doorway and I’m emitting serial killer vibes. Undeterred Tate steps in front of me, albeit cautiously, and he inhales deeply before swallowing hard. I watch as his thick Adam’s apple rolls up and down in his throat.
“River,” he says. His eyes sparkle as he outstretches his hand to me. His right hand. Ha. As if I’m going to let him see the terrorised state of my right hand after the other night’s incident. I offer him my left one instead.
The corners of his lips twitch and I drop my hand completely.
“How’s the other one?” he asks.
“Amazing,” I lie. My hand is so swollen that I might actually lose it.
“Did you get it checked?”
“No,” I admit in a rare moment of honesty. This seems to irritate him, which makes me perk up a little. I spot the silver crucifix hanging over his shirt and say, “I have been praying though.”
My mom has gone into the kitchen so I turn my attention to Mitch, but my expression glitches when I realise that he has been watching our entire exchange. Scrambling, I gesture to the dining area with my thumb and ask, “D’you want me to set it up for you?”
Mitch cocks an eyebrow at me, and I see the exact same squint in his eyes that was in Tate’s a moment ago. He too is holding back on some dark little joke.
“You’re our guest,” he scolds, taking the coat that I had half-shrugged off my shoulders before I had my step-brother-sized seizure. “Take a seat. I’ll pour you a drink.”
My head is spinning because I can’t believe that this is happening. We manoeuvre to the table and Mitch hands me one of the glasses before working on opening a bottle of soda. I stay standing as I take in the room. He has in fact already set up the table, a detail which I had not observed whilst my insides began unravelling like linguini. The furnishings are dark wood and the accents are wine red. No clutter and innately primitive. Sexy. I brush one finger across the polished tabletop and the oil from my print mars the surface.
When I look back up at Mitch he’s watching me very cautiously. I have a horrible feeling that he is somehow in my head, and not just in the conscious surface. He’s submerged in the dark and nasty stuff that I want to keep repressed. He’s looking at the thoughts that I’m not even allowing myself to look at.
“I’m glad that I’m finally meeting you,” he says, pulling the bottle away from the lip of my glass. “Obviously your mom has told me a lot about you, but I’m sure that you’ll be even better in person.”
He gives me a guarded smile but from the look in his eyes I think he means it. Only I don’t understand why he is the one putting his guard up. He’s acting like he’s hiding something and it’s putting me on edge.
I hear Tate leave the vicinity as he walks back inside the kitchen.
I put the drink down and stare at Mitch as I purposefully shove my glasses back up my nose. It’s a gesture that says, Look at how innocent I am. So small and inoffensive. Then I fold my arms across my chest because I mean business. “Thanks. I just want whatever is best for my mom. If that’s you, then good.”
Mitch rocks on the back of his heels and observes me with a slow nod. Suddenly I decide that I’m being too nice. I’ve hard-wired myself to never be nice to a guy again, so I elect to throw him off a bit.
“And if not,” I continue conspiratorially, thinking back to his garage, “I’ve already seen where you keep the murder tools.”
Mitch’s eyes widen and then he throws his head back in a dazzling laugh, one hand clutching his wide muscled stomach. I literally can’t believe that my mom has pulled this guy. When he drops his head forward again he sighs with a lazy smile, basking in my threat.
I know that smile.
“I knew you’d be even better in person,” he says and he gives me another winning grin as he leaves the dining area. I let out a shaky breath as he disappears. It’s amazing that now that he thinks I’m unhinged – even in jest – the air is suddenly clear. He’s real smiles and belly laughs.
Men.
In a desperate bid to recoup my brain cells I keep to myself at the back of the house, looking through the window into the back garden. It looks like the guys have almost finished building themselves a pool. I don’t let myself think about that for too long.
It takes three minutes for Mitch and – Jesus Christ – Tate to put the dishes on the table, and then Mitch is summoning me like the demon that I am back to the dining area.
I sit down and force a smile at Mitch. “Thank you,” I say to him, well aware that I should be saying this to Tate. My least favourite person in the world. My future step brother.
There’s a dangerous slosh in my stomach.
Mitch points to my right hand with the serving spoon. “So what happened to your hand?”
I shovel a forkful of mashed potatoes into my mouth. They’re really tasty, which is annoying.
I glance over the table and a shiver ripples up through my neck, prickling my cheeks. I don’t feel too guilty staring though, because Tate’s eyes aren’t on my face – they’re on my hand, too.
I turn to Mitch and give him a light-hearted, would-you-believe-it shrug. “I knocked it on something.”
I see Tate shift in his seat out of my peripheral vision. “I’ll take off the bandage and check it out after dinner for you, if you don’t mind,” Mitch says, pouring himself a drink.
I do mind, but I think that it’s getting worse by the hour, so I silently concede and get back to my annoyingly good potatoes. Over the next hour I focus on psychoanalysing Mitch’s interior décor. He’s very woodsy, which makes sense considering his job. I wonder if he made this table. I wonder if Tate made this table. My cheek’s heat up as I picture him rubbing down the dark oak top.
Get me out of this house.
When everyone finishes eating Mitch insists on inspecting my hand, so I sit on the couch as he undoes the bandages and he lets out a little hiss once my hand is bare.
“How long ago did you do this?” he asks, already rummaging in his first aid kit for something. Hopefully an axe.
Tate is standing over us looking incensed with his arms folded across his chest. I bask delightedly in his discomfort. “A few days ago,” I reply, with a nonchalant shrug. When Tate’s gaze moves from my hand to my eyes I do a sort of self-satisfied smile. His eyes narrow.
“Dad, she needs to go to the doctor’s.”
What’s it to you, Tate?
Mitch doesn’t look up at his son but he nods in agreement. “The cuts aren’t deep but there are multiple, and it’s swelling because one of them must’ve become infected. Hopefully only one of them. We’ll get you antibiotics tomorrow.”
I shake my head at Mitch. “I can go on my own – I don’t need you to come with me.”
Mitch looks up at me once he finishes applying some sort of gel. “Your mom said you don’t drive,” he responds.
That’s kind of embarrassing, especially since I kind of like cars, but I brush it off. “I don’t, but she can take me some time. I’m not putting you out.”
Mitch frowns. “Your mom’s going to be pretty busy at the storage unit tomorrow.”
Now it’s my turn to frown. “My mom doesn’t even have a storage unit. What are you talking about?”
Mitch folds his lips in on themselves. My mom sits down on the free armchair like an Angel of Doom. I glance up at her and she gives me an unnervingly innocent smile.
“River, I’m sure that you’re wondering why you’re meeting Mitch today,” she begins calmly. I sit back a little so that I have enough vantage to look at her fully. “As I mentioned, Mitch is an amazing joiner.” Her pause makes me prickle with nerves. “So I wanted you to meet him before I let you know that he will be doing the refurb on our house.”
My brow creases in confusion. What? I don’t know why she would want our house refurbished, but that doesn’t seem like an issue, regardless. Why are they acting like this is an issue? Am I that hostile?
I shrug my shoulders and say, “Okay.”
No-one says anything else. Mitch is staring at my mom. My mom is staring at me. I want to stare at Tate and find out if he knew about our parents, but my gut tells me that this is a freshly unveiled nightmare for him too.
I look back at my mom, my suspicions rising by the second. “Aaaaand…?” I prompt.
“Well, obviously he’s going to be in the kitchen to do the cabinets, because the whole thing is going to be coming out. And he might also do a shelving-unit in the living room, for the TV and some displays – you know the sort,” she says casually.
I don’t know where she’s going with this.
“So because he’s going to be doing all of that, we thought, why not spruce up the upstairs too? Maybe matching cabinets in the master bedroom and then, um-” she pauses momentarily. Then she starts speaking a mile a minute. “We thought it might be beneficial to knock through the office wall so that we have three large upper rooms, instead of just two large, two small.”
I blink at her like an extraterrestrial. Why would I care about any of this? I mull over her words for a moment.
Then I look back up at her.
“But if you knock through the office wall, you’ll-”
You’ll be in my bedroom.
I’m not going to be able to stay in my bedroom.
Which means-
“So whilst Mitch and Tate and the boys on the team help out at our house, he thought it might be handy if we just… stay with them. Here.” She smiles.
The last particles of air leave my lungs.
“Well,” Mitch interjects, “Tate doesn’t technically live here – he has his own place – but obviously he can crash here anytime.” Mitch is looking pointedly at Tate, who has turned slightly in our direction now, as he makes that last point.
WHAT?
Then Mitch faces me. “It’s just temporary, and it won’t be too long. But during the time that the team and I are working on your room,” he lifts his hands in a sorry defeat. “You won’t be able to stay there whilst we’re doing that.”
There are a lot of thoughts going through my head right now. Firstly, why the hell is my mom renovating our house in the first place? It’s been the same way since forever and I didn’t think she cared about splashing out on fancy interiors.
Secondly, if I can no longer use my room, and we’re going to be bunking here-
“So where am I going to be sleeping?” I ask.
My mom and Mitch look at each other. Then their eyes flicker to Tate.
Right.
I shouldn’t have even asked.
I know exactly which room I’m going to be sleeping in.
