Thanks to Uncle Dusty, I’m not a complete novice when it comes to common car drama. For instance, I’m not some desperate, lost cause when I need to re-attach tires after some asshole thinks it’s cute to remove them.
I was mildly impressed Dane and Sterling had taken it upon themselves to have the rear two on when I came back from … whatever that was with West. However, I screamed at them as soon as I realized what they were doing. Because if they wanted to do the right thing, they should’ve spoken up when their idiot brother started messing with my car in the first place.
So, as much as I would have loved to let someone else finish the work, I wouldn’t allow it. If they feel guilty, then let them. They deserve it.
I’m still pondering their weak attempt at righting their wrongs when I pull into my driveway. Lucky for me, Mike’s car isn’t parked on the street where it usually is, which means he’s at his real home.
The bar.
As much as I hate his drinking, I much rather he be there than here. With the last few weeks I’ve had, a little smidge of peace goes a long way.
I reach to grab my bag from the floor on the passenger side and the sharp pain that shoots through my shoulder serves as a reminder of my last encounter with that man. The bruise had faded to a sickening yellow, green, and brown stain on my skin, but West had given up asking about it. Thank God.
I hate this weird dual personality thing he has going on. Ninety-nine percent of the time, he’s a nightmare, but those moments are punctuated by instances of the weird savior complex he has when it comes to me. His mood swings are impossible to keep up with, and I never bother trying.
The motion sensor Uncle Dusty installed over the back door signals the porch light to kick on and I turn my key in the lock. My first instinct is to listen out for Scar, but I hear nothing. She’s known to nap after her homework is done, so I’m careful to keep quiet as I stop at the sink for a glass of water.
There’s a fleeting temptation to grab one of Mike’s beers—one of the few things we actually have in the fridge—but shouldering one parent’s bad habit is bad enough. I don’t need to add my father’s vice as well.
Resisting, I drop my things into one of the kitchen chairs and take a sip before heading down the hall to check in on Scar.
Soft music seeps beneath her door and I smile at how much she’s like me. Music helps me sleep, too. Still being quiet to keep from waking her, I push the door open. What I expect to find is my adorable, pink-haired sister drooling on her pillow like I always tease her about, but instead, I’m horrified by what I see.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Two completely naked bodies hop out of her bed, scrambling across the floor for their clothes. I’m in total shock, and feeling so many emotions bubbling in my gut, I can hardly decide how to react to finding my fourteen-year-old sister in bed with a boy she’s sworn is only a friend.
“I’m so sorry. I swear it’ll never happen again,” Shane pleads as he slips past me and into the hallway. He’s holding a pair of jeans and a t-shirt over his crotch, providing a clear view of the bird chest that reminds me just how young they are.
Too young to be doing this.
Way too young.
Tears well in my eyes and I’m panting like I’m the one who’s been caught. I’ve had my heart broken before, but none of those breakups or letdowns felt like this. What I just witnessed has absolutely gutted me.
This is my fault. I’m gone all the time. Knowing what a shit parent Mike is, I should have been here to keep an eye on Scar. She’s been lonely and I know that. It’s the reason she wants Shane here all the time, to make this house feel a little less empty with Mom, Hunter, and me being absent.
This is my fault.
It’s on me.
The back door closes after Shane hops into his clothes and bolts.
I still haven’t completely processed the fact that I just walked in on my little sister having sex, but my back hits the wall as I try to make sense of it. Scar hasn’t said a word. She slips into her t-shirt and shorts and then lowers to the edge of her bed. After a few seconds, I can only guess shame has set in, because her hands come up to cover her face. I’m aware of the quiet sobs she releases behind them, but don’t quite have it in me to go to her.
I study her—the tousled ponytail on top of her head. The chipped polish on her nails. The studded earrings I passed down to her as a Christmas gift last year because I didn’t have the funds to spring for anything new. All I see when I look at her is my baby sister. She has no idea what she’s getting herself into, and as much as I blame myself for her growing up way too soon, I blame the other members of this family as well.
Sniffling, I push tears from my cheeks and set my emotions aside. I can deal with them later, on my own, behind my bedroom door. But for now, I have to step in and be the mother neither of us ever had.
“Did you use protection?” I ask, feeling sick to my stomach that I had to form my lips to string those words together into a sentence.
She takes a moment to answer, but nods eventually. “Yes.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, grateful at least for that.
“Was this the first time?” This time, I hold my breath, unsure I’m ready to hear just how hard I failed her. For all I know, this has been going on for months.
She takes a deep breath and finally lowers her hands to her lap. “No,” she answers, ripping my heart from my chest. “The third.”
Bile rises in my throat and I’m suddenly more exhausted than before, at the idea of having to be present more, while also keeping up with the many other responsibilities that have been dropped on my shoulders.
Still, among all those things, Scar is the most important.
“Three times,” I force out. “The other two times, were you careful as well? Did he wear a condom?”
“God, Blue!” she snaps, still choking back tears. “Is this really necessary?”
“If you’re not mature enough to have this conversation, you sure as hell aren’t mature enough to be having sex.”
She rolls her eyes when I say that word. “You act like you’re an angel, but you’re not,” she shoots off, passing a hateful glare toward me.
“And I’ve never claimed to be, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re not old enough to handle this, Scar.”
A frustrated growl leaves her mouth. “Yes, we were careful all three times. Are you happy? Can we stop talking about this now?”
“No,” I shoot back. “Did he force you into doing this?”
She gets to her feet and starts pacing when my line of questioning makes her more uncomfortable than she already was.
“You cannot be serious,” she grumbles to herself.
“I am serious. Now answer the question.”
Another hateful glare passes my way. “No, I wasn’t forced. It’s something we talked about all summer, so it wasn’t just some snap decision. And we didn’t do anything until we were both ready,” she hisses. “And for the record, I’m not a child.”
We clearly disagree on that point, but it won’t help anything to start an argument.
“What happened to you two just being friends?” I ask.
I feel wounded, like I’ve been lied to by the person I love and trust most in this world.
“We are just friends,” she insists. “This is just … something we wanted to do. Lots of kids in our grade have already done it, so we decided our first time should be with someone we trust.”
My head is spinning. While I believe this makes perfect sense in her mind, I can’t understand it.
“Your first time shouldn’t be because you want to get losing your virginity out of the way.”
She’s quiet and, as a change of pace, she’s actually listening. There’s a long stretch of time that she simply paces back and forth across her floor, but some of the fight seems to leave her and she sits again.
It isn’t lost on me how uncomfortable this must be, but it’s uncomfortable for me, too.
There’s something she wants to ask. I can tell by how she lowers her gaze to her nails as she fidgets with them.
“I’m listening,” I remind her, hoping to make it easier for her to speak openly.
She hesitates a few seconds longer, but eventually softens.
“How old were you your first time?”
I glance down at the floor, unable to hold back images of that night.
“Sixteen and a half,” I answer. “Nearly two years ago.”
She nods and some of the tension leaves her shoulders. “And … have you done it with a lot of guys since then?”
A small laugh slips out despite the tears still falling from my eyes. “Nope. Just the one guy.”
Finally, her gaze wanders to meet mine. “Ricky?”
I nod thoughtfully. “Yep.”
She nods, too, when my answer seems to confirm what she already knew. “Did you love him?”
A sharp breath puffs from my lips.
“I did,” I admit, “but it will never work between us. He’s set in his ways, in his lifestyle, and I’m not willing to accept that. Not after seeing how quickly things turned bad for Hunter.”
Instead of firing off another question, Scar just sits and thinks for a moment, giving me a chance to brace myself for the next one.
“What about West?”
Her tone always softens when she mentions him. It’s innocent and mostly harmless that she seems to think the world of him, but it does concern me that she’s not a better judge of character.
“What about him?” I fire back.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Do you think you guys might … you know?”
There’s no hint of laughter in her tone, only genuine concern and curiosity. We don’t talk about stuff like this often, so she seems to be feeling me out.
“Things with West are … complicated,” I answer honestly. “So, I can safely say the answer to your question is no.”
When I smile at her, she smiles back. Answering questions about me and Ricky was not how I wanted to spend my evening, but if being transparent with my sister makes it easier for her to open up, then I’ll do it.
“What about you?” I ask. “Do you think you love Shane?”
There’s a long pause and I’m not surprised she doesn’t have an immediate answer.
“We’ve been friends so long, sometimes it’s hard to tell what I feel for him,” she admits. “I do know I care about him. And that I’d feel weird if he decided to be with some other girl.”
I watch her as she sorts through her feelings.
“That’s normal,” I assure her. “Sometimes, the traits that draw us to a guy as friends blur the lines a bit. That’s kind of what happened with me and Ricky.”
She seems to understand, and I hope she does. I don’t want her to feel ashamed about this, but there is definitely a lesson to be learned.
“You know this can’t happen again, don’t you Scar? Not until you’re much, much older.”
The messy ponytail bobs when she nods. “I know.”
“Because having sex is more than just the physical. It’s emotional and can really screw you up inside if you aren’t careful,” I warn gently. “What feels right today can feel like the biggest mistake in the world tomorrow.”
While I don’t regret Ricky, I’ve known enough girls who have regretted their first to know there’s truth in that statement.
“And you can always talk to me,” I remind her. “About anything. Whenever you need to.”
Her head bobs again and I smile at her. When I stand, she does too.
“Not sure about you, but I could use a hug,” I admit with a quiet laugh.
She meets me in the middle of her room and wraps both arms tight around me. I kiss the top of her hair and question whether I said enough, whether she believes she can come to me about anything, and imagine this is what parenting always feels like.
“I love you. You know that don’t you?” I ask.
She nods against my shoulder. “More than anyone.”
Those words break my heart a little, because I wish she had more than just me—a barely making it, almost adult who hasn’t quite been able to get things right—because she deserves more. But the best I can do is be consistent.
Keep loving her.
Keep showing up.
Keep fighting to give her everything.
“Are you mad?” she asks, still holding on to me.
“No, I’m not mad,” I answer, “but just know; as soon as I can afford it, this whole house is getting nanny cammed. Not even kidding.”
She laughs quietly and squeezes tighter. “Fair enough.”
