Fragile Little Things ✓

20 voice

song: perfect world — kodaline

TWO WEEKS LATER, we’re halfway into September, and I don’t feel any better. In fact, I feel worse. Turns out keeping tiny, rare flowers alive is way harder than I thought it’d be. The little shits are sensitive as fuck, and they start withering as soon as I give them a drop too much of water or keep them in the sun a second too long. It’s like having a child, and I didn’t plan on becoming a father so soon.

I’m still trying to adjust the angle of the fucking pot from the kitchen windowsill where I moved it so it could get better light, when there’s a knock at the door. And because Eli’s an annoying fuck who only gets up at noon, I have to walk over and open up myself.

I’m fully expecting it to be Logan or Ace, coming over because they’re bored. Instead, I’m attacked by two tiny blurs. “JEM!” Gianna shrieks.

Somewhere between it all, I briefly recognize Kendall’s grinning face and signature colorful plaid jacket. She thrifted that jacket a year ago—apparently it’s Yves Saint Laurent or some shit like that—and since then she wears it with everything.

Kendall’s a freshman year in college. We both got our father’s height and light hair and our mother’s tanned skin—she’s got soft brown eyes, and I’ve got grey ones. She got into art school back home, and I’m proud. At least one of us could be good role model for Gianna and Poppy.

I manage to grab Poppy, but Gianna’s whizzing around the apartment faster than the speed of fucking light. The kid learned how to run and never stopped since. I send a questioning glance Kendall’s way. “You could’ve said you were coming.”

She grins. “Then it wouldn’t have been a surprise, Jemmy.”

Gianna’s five and a fucking menace. She has mom’s darker skin and silver eyes. She’s currently drowning in my Led Zeppelin shirt from when I was in third grade. Her wardrobe consists of only my old worn-out clothes, and she refuses to wear any of the “girly” stuff Jo buys for her. Poppy’s the baby, only three, with dad’s light hair and brown eyes. She was clearly dressed by Jo this morning because she’s wearing a bright pink sweater.

Just then, I notice Gianna investigating Eli’s half empty beer can on the coffee table. That asshole always leaves his shit lying around. I walk over to pull the beer can away from Gi with Poppy still perched on my arm. She’s light enough—and quiet enough—that I can walk around without even noticing she’s on me. If Poppy’s the angel, Gianna’s her little demon counterpart. As soon as she no longer has the beer can, she starts running around again.

“So what, dad sent you here as a peace offering?” I call over my shoulder, emptying the can in the sink before chucking it into the trash. I haven’t been answering my dad’s calls after he sprung his engagement on me over the fucking phone.

Kendall gives me a pointed look from the couch.  “No, Jem, the girls wanted to see you. And you should give him a little credit—he has three daughters and he’s trying his best. And Jo—I can’t say anything bad about the woman. She’s an angel. You know it too, deep down.”

Technically, she’s right. My dad’s girlfriend—fiancé now, I guess—fell from fucking heaven. She didn’t have to do shit for my sisters, but she still does—lunches, homework, play dates, the whole fucking shebang. Sensing tension, Poppy cuddles deeper into the crook of my arm, her small fingers clutching onto the fabric of my shirt.

I sigh, holding her tighter. “Right. Yeah, I’m sorry. I’m just . . . I don’t know how to deal with all of this shit, Ken. I’m at the garage full time and ma, I don’t know whether she’s getting better. . .”

Her mood dulls. “I came to see her.”

“Where are you staying?”

She shrugs. “I was going to check us in to a hotel.”