Blaine Sativa grows up in a family of hysteria. Her mother, a bitter woman who raised her in the remote woods of Colorado, dies shortly after Blaine's older brother Clarke is institutionalized. That fateful day after losing her family, Blaine lives...
Yesterday, a dreary snowy affair, Travis and Blaine fought. Following her Mother's funeral she moved next door and, with the chaos of preparations dying down, they argue about money. He barely gets home before seven p.m. these days picking up as many odd jobs as he can.
All the next morning, he quietly plays his video games while she cleans around the house. Noises from the race he plays blare so loudly she doesn't think he could hear if she tried talking with him.
Blaine wears headphones to drown out the the Tv, swaying and idly stirring sugar into Koolaide. The world is muted so she jumps when a hand rests on her hip. Travis loops his arm around her waist as she tenses.
He teases his fingers beneath her shirt until his palm rests flush against her stomach. Holding her against his stout chest he tilts his face in her hair. His breath tickles her neck, heat that spreads through her whole body, and he moves slow, sensual, as he slips the headphones from her ear.
"I love you." Travis's voice is hushed and she's certain she heard incorrectly. He hasn't said it before. Neither has she. "I love you so damn much," he repeats making it real.
The Koolaide is forgotten now. Blaine lets go of the spoon leaning against him. A feather light kiss below her jaw makes her knees buckle. If he wasn't pressed so close against her she might have had to lean against the counter for support.
It would be appropriate for her to reply with a similar statement, the feeling is mutual, but she doesn't get the chance. "I need to show you something."
"What?" He pulls her away, squeezing her hand tightly. "I'm trying to finish making Koolaide."
As he leads her down the hall a sense of dread sours her gut. "Travis, this isn't funny. What are you showing me?"
"Just trust me."
The bedroom door falls open its worn hinges creaking. A heavy blanket covers the window. The only light is cast from flickers of the Tv skittering blue across the walls.
Letting go of her hand, he rummages around in a doorless closet. Sliding aside one of the bulky metal boxes and sorting through a pile of clothes he eventually pulls a bulging trash-bag from the mess.
"C'mere." Travis tosses back the blanket piled at the foot of the bed to set the bag down.
Honestly how bad could it be?
Oddly, once he shows her the trash-bag the feeling of dread dims considerably. It's like their first meeting all over. She does trust Travis and can't assume the worst with him. When she looks inside she realizes his secret is a sack full of lush green buds of weed. Blaine bites back a smile.
"Pot?" Once she speaks she finally grins. "Travis, I grew up around this stuff. It doesn't bother me."
"Yeah?" He removes one of the buds, cupping it in his palm. "It's some good shit too."
She leans closer to him, taking a good whiff, then nods in approval.
"I've started selling it around town." He puts the bud back with the others and wipes his palm off on his jeans. "It's a good way to make extra money 'cause I have a connect that sells to my sister for half off. Hooks it up fat too."
She watches as he wraps the bag closed again before stuffing it back in his closet under a heap of clothes.
"Why did you tell me you loved me before you showed me?" The words spill out before Blaine could stop them.
"Because I do. And I didn't know how you would react."
"I love you too, Travis." She smiles wider almost unable to take him seriously. "And it's weed not heroine. I think it's a good idea."
Yet, she senses doubt tinging the relief of his expression. Travis is not an open book, often hiding his emotions, but his eyes are vulnerable. Open as the ocean and hinting at something much darker.
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After letting Blaine in on his secret, Travis takes her along to more of his jobs. The extra ones over the weekend he's accepting lately, mostly at houses across the river, a neighborhood she never visited growing up.
Their most frequent customer is Gloria Sweeney. She's an older lady with skin like aged shoe leather and long hair the color of overly peppered mashed potatoes.
Gloria's home is small and run-down. Travis has been repairing on it for months. Blaine always likes visits to Gloria's house mostly because she keeps Travis on his toes. Whenever he listens in on Blaine and her talking she'll shoo him away with her wooden cane.
One afternoon, Blaine stands in the living room admiring feathery dream catchers blanketing the walls. Every room is a constant state of clutter; newspapers laid out on the floor, laundry heaped on the furniture, and overflowing ashtrays set on tabletops.
Amazingly, one of the cats hasn't broken all her fairy figurines because they're usually jumping to any ledge they can find. Blaine thinks she takes such a keen interest in the place because it bears a resemblance to the house she was raised in.
Leaning heavily on her cane, Gloria hobbles into the front room from the kitchen. She holds two steaming mugs in her free hand shaking so badly the glass rattles together. Quickly taking both cups from her, Blaine sets them on the coffee-table atop a precarious stack of papers.
"Thank you for the tea, Gloria."
"You're always welcome, sweetie." Her weathered voice is similar to that of Grandmother Willow's on Pochahantas.
"Buying any buds today?"
"Of course." She points with the end of her gnarled wooden cane. "My purse is on the arm of the couch."
They both sit and Blaine ignores the mountain of clothes at her back. She twirls a string on the dreamcatcher over her head, listening to the hammering on the roof. Gloria has been complaining of leeks and, immediately after his cup of hot tea, Travis was sent to start patching up.
"Here you go, dear." After rummaging through her purse, the size of it comparable to a gallon bucket, she hands over two twenties. Blaine accepts the money then exchanges it for a sealed container filled with weed. While Gloria examines the product Blaine sips her tea.
"And what about the other?"
Blaine nearly chokes on her drink. "What do you mean the other?"
"You know." The old woman's eyes are wide with urgency. "The other."
It's possible she's only delusional but Blaine's stomach twists with unease. Before she can make further inquiries the front door opens and Travis enters the room. A sheen of sweat glimmers off his tanned skin and his clothes are dusted with dirt and dry brown leaves.
Wiping his hand across his grimy forehead he says, "Gloria, your roof is a mess. I'm going to be here for days. Weeks. Months."
"I've been telling you." She uses her cane to stand. "Come with me into the kitchen and I'll make you a sandwich for lunch." Gloria wobbles back through the living room without waiting for him.
"Hey baby." Travis says brightly, oblivious to Blaine's quietness. He pulls her into a hug then kisses the crown of her head. "Come in here and eat a sandwich with me if you want. Then we'll go home."
She nods. Too confused to do or say anything else. It isn't difficult for her to dismiss Gloria's odd behavior. She's a nice old lady but she's always saying crazy things. Yet, she'd been so serious and so urgent about it. The other, Blaine wonders silently to herself before joining her love in the kitchen for sandwiches.
