Page 50 of Five Brothers
“Oh, Clay! You didn’t.”
“Hold up.” She rushes to defend herself. “She agrees with me. She says it has to be Iron.”
“She’s going to think I’m treating her brother’s bedrooms like musical chairs.”
Why would Clay tell her? Liv is my friend, but she’s their family first.
But Clay kind of mumbles. “That’s actually nothing she’s not used to, growing up in a house full of bachelors.”
“But I’m her friend. It’s different.” I rip off my apron and throw it in the laundry bag by the back door. “I’m not telling you anything ever again.”
She seems not to hear me. “She says Dallas wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole …”
I stop. “But he touched Amy last spring—”
“And she says it’s possible that it’s Army, but on the couch doesn’t sound like him. He prefers privacy.”
That’s probably true. I’ve never seen him go upstairs or come down with a woman. He always goes to their places. He shares a room with his infant son, so that’s understandable.
So, likely it was Iron, then. “Okay, so … what?” I ask her, grabbing my bag and heading out the door. “He surrenders at the jail in the morning. What am I supposed to do? Fall in love with him?”
“No. You go to that house, go up to Liv’s room, and pull out the Mad Hatter costume from her closet that she made in high school. Then you go up to him and pick a fight. Let him ravage the granddaughter of the man who’s sending him to prison.”
Jesus.
But I slow as I walk, feeling the breeze on my legs and hearing the sway of the fronds on the palms. We might get a storm tonight.
I want to see him one more time. How could he fuck up so badly? How could he be leaving? Macon is right to be angry.
Macon …
I raise my eyes, seeing light glowing from inside the garage down the street, a shadow passing in front of one of the windows.
“Krisjen?” Clay says when I don’t reply.
I take a second, but then I ask. “What did she say about Macon?”
My voice comes out smaller than it was.
She says nothing, but I hear something brush over the phone and muffled words in the background. After a few seconds, she comes back on.
“You don’t want it to be him.”
But it’s not Clay’s voice in my ear. It’s Liv’s.
“If you think it was,” Liv says, “I wouldn’t pursue it.”
Why?
“Besides,” she adds, “he would never screw my friends. It’s Iron or Army.”
But wouldn’t they have mentioned it? Or been more obvious?
“Keep the costume,” she tells me. “I’m guessing it’ll hold some memories for you after tonight.”
“Oh, it’ll get dirty,” I tease.
She expels some kind of disgusted sound, and I laugh as I continue walking. “Bye.”