Claws & Crochet

Part 78

ZOEY

Cruising around to clear my head is difficult when I'm driving a stick shift and my right wrist is broken and my left ankle is bruised. After stalling out for the third time at a stop sign, I turn the headlights toward home.

Well, Grandma Minnie's cabin.

I don't feel like a have a home anymore.

Warner had started to take on the qualities of a home. When I was lost, I wanted to be where he was. When anxiety made my shoulders tense and my back ache, he was my comfort. When I hesitantly thought about the rest of my life, he was there.

Not anymore though.

When I pull up the drive, the house is lit up, the porch lights revealing my four brothers lounging in the rockers I've restored. Each one of them has a different instrument. They don't seem to be playing, yet. When I shut off the engine and step out into the cool night, I catch a few experimental twangs.

Tuning up.

They're all focused on their instruments until I step into the pool of porch light. Then, as if attached to the same puppet strings, each one tenses and leans forward.

"What's wrong, Zoey?" asks Donovan.

"You've been crying." Abram homes in on my face. I brush fingers along the tops of my cheeks, finding that he's correct. Bet my eyes are a puffy red mess.

"Was it Warner? Glitter or no, we'll go fuck his shit up." Carver is already standing, setting his fiddle to the side.

"Knew we were going to give him a beat down at some point," Byron says, as if compelled to add his voice to the barrage.

An uncomfortable wave of affection and resentment crashes over me.

I love my brothers. But sometimes the only thing I need is for them to shut up.

"Just leave it alone," I mutter, heading for the front door.

"Not going to happen. Tell us where he is." Abram steps toward me, all menacing and tall. As if I would ever give in to his intimidation tactics. Instead, my good hand slaps against his chest, attempting to shove him, but barely managing to make him rock.

"I don't need you to fight for me. I've done a good job of breaking him all on my own." I choke on the last bit, and whirl toward the front door, hoping to make it to the bedroom before the inevitable flood of tears returns.

But my way is blocked.

"Mom?"

She stands there, tall and steady, blonde hair braided away from her face, a sad smile on her lips.

"Hi, sweetheart."

The next thing I know I've got my arms wrapped around her waist, and she's hugging hard.

"I didn't think you'd ever come back here."

"For you, I'd walk naked through Hell." Her hold loosens, but only so her hands can pat over me, as if checking that each one of my limbs is still intact.

Despite being cracked in certain places, I'm still physically whole.

She heaves a sigh and steps back, dropping her arms to clutch my hands. "Let's go inside and talk. You boys stay out here. I need time alone with your sister."

They listen to Mom's command without question. Twenty-seven years and I still haven't figured out a way to get them to follow my orders like that.

In their minds, I'm still a helpless pre-teen.

Inside the cabin, Mom puts on a pot of water to boil while I pack up the crafting supplies that litter half the table.

As she carries our mugs over, I can't keep my mouth shut anymore.

"You came back."

She smiles wide, but her eyes tense as if she's in pain.

"Is that really so shocking?"

Even as she sets the tea down in front of me, I ignore it.

"It's been almost eight months since Minnie died. Plus, all the time since you left. Did you ever visit?"

My mother, normally the bright star glittering at the center of whatever room she's in, seems dim. She stares off to the side, eyes focused on nothing.

"No," she murmurs.

"Well then." I wrap my hands around the mug. "What changed your mind?"

Now she looks at me. "I came for you."

"Why? I mean, I know I got hurt, but it's not like I'm bedridden."

Mom studies me for a moment, and I shift in my seat. As if I have something to hide.

But I don't.

I don't.

"Abram called."

"To tell you about the accident." I already knew this.

"No. He called again, to talk about something else."

My teeth clench, grinding down hard, imagining what he must've gone running to our mom about.

"No, sweetheart. Don't be mad at him. He called because . . ." she hesitates, gaze flicking around the room. This version of my mother is strange. She's the most confident person I know. She never holds back. She lives life like it gave her lemons and she discovered that was her favorite fruit.

A quality I also admire in Warner.

Don't think about him.

"He called me to ask more about The Dark Moon Riders."