Hollow Back Girl Page 2

  Glancing down at myself, I wondered if I should invest in more interesting clothing to hide the fact that I tend to eat like her youngest. I’d just settled on jeans with a hole in the knee and a yellow shirt that had a spot of something I couldn’t identify on the bottom hem.

  “So what’s with the cold shoulder?” Robin asked as the silence stretched on. I hadn’t really meant to go quiet, but the calm of having only her nearby was such a relief, my brain had gone somewhat numb with contentment. Here and there I could feel some other driver or an animal peak into my empathic range, but mainly it was just Robin. Curious about the sheepish curiosity fizzing within her, I forced myself to focus and be present.

  “What do you mean? I’m always dumb like this after a flight.”

  “Yes,” Robin said delicately, giving me a teasing smile. “After a flight.” I scoffed and she laughed, shaking her head. “I mean—” she laughed again at the look I kept giving her. “—you used to call at least once a week. Now it’s barely once a month.”

  “I just …” I trailed off, not sure how to explain. “I don’t have much to say.”

  “You didn’t before either. Being boring’s never stopped you from talking.”

  “I don’t know,” I lied, looking out the window. Truth was, I didn’t know what to say about what had been going on in my life since my last birthday. Something about turning twenty-nine had kicked off a fairly steady stream of strange and unusual circumstances. I had no idea if my family would understand—let alone believe—me if I tried to tell them. I couldn’t just calmly explain that I’d been kidnapped by a vampire, attacked by a werewolf, nailed by that same werewolf, snacked on by a giant spider, and bewitched by a succubus. I had scars and bad memories and an ever-evolving set of magnetic poetry that had, at one point, used my refrigerator to cryptically tell me the future. Not to mention that my pet bird knows Morse code thanks to a creature that was dating my best friend.

  How do you tell your perfectly normal, sweet, housewife sister that the world isn’t about bake sales and play dates?

  You don’t.

  “I don’t have your gift,” Robin said, “but I know when you’re lying. Just tell me what’s been going on.” She reached toward my hand like she was trying to sneak a squeeze and I yelped, slapping her away.

  “No!” I protested through a laugh. “Don’t you use your crazy mind control powers on me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she claimed innocently, even though she knows I can smell a lie. Glancing over just long enough to see where my arm was, she reached for me again. I growled like a threatened animal and smooshed myself as far into the corner of the car as I could get.

  “Stop!” I whined, slapping at her when she laughed and reached toward me a third time. We were in grade school all over again. “Get away!”

  “I’m not doing anything,” she insisted, grasping for my arm. She caught the sleeve of my shirt and I yowled again. The last thing I needed was my sister using her influence to make me spill the truth. She isn’t exactly Professor X, but she can make you admit things you kinda don’t want to. She could also make you do her chores even after you swore you never would and I was betting she’d used her powers on her husband in more situations than I wanted to think about.

  Luckily she could only tug on my sleeve and not get her hand on bare skin; that was when the real problems started.

  “I don’t want you to—”

  “Get the truth out of you?” she asked, letting go of my arm long enough to slap blindly at me.

  “Cheater!” I accused. Robin chuckled, pulling her hand away, leaving me to my tantrum as she had so many times before. Finally, I growled, the guilt winning out. “I can’t tell you what’s been going on in my life. Because I’m in the CIA. If I tell you what I do, you could be in danger.”

  “Now you’re just being silly.”

  “No! It’s a magical CIA,” I said, sniffing smugly. “They recruited me for my empathy. I do a lot of field work.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “My partner has a gun and everything.” That part wasn’t a lie; Chloe really has a gun. She’s used it to save my life on more than one occasion.

  “Gwen,” Robin said. We were finally pulling up in front of my parents’ house. The weeping willow in the front looked especially sad in the chilly air. As she turned the car off, she twisted in her seat to stare me down. Despite still being scrunched up in a ball against the door, I felt myself hunch even further.

  “What?”

  “What’s really kept you from calling?”

  “Nothing major,” I said, feeling uncomfortable for all sorts of reasons I couldn’t properly articulate. We had a stare down for a minute or two before I relaxed, bit my lip, and glanced toward the house. While I wasn’t exactly eager to get inside and deal with my father, I wasn’t enjoying getting the third degree from my sister.

  “You’re okay? You swear nothing’s going on?”

  “I swear. I’m perfectly healthy,”—she snorted at that and I pressed on as if she hadn’t mocked me—“happy, and in no danger. Everything’s cool.”

  “Okay.” I felt her suspicion and worry melt into relief with just an edge of disappointment, and I reached out to slug her lightly on her arm.

  “Come on. Now that I’ve gone a few rounds with you, it’s time for the boss fight.”

  “Dad’s mellowed,” she claimed, but I could hear the lie in that too.

  Despite my better judgment, I followed Robin into the house. She had my bag, after all, and I’d stashed my phone in there.

  First things I found were a toy truck under foot and a screaming four-year-old running frantically from the door as if we were viciously growling grizzly bears with a taste for little boys. Robin avoided the truck as if she'd known it would be there, whereas I tripped, toppled, and nearly brained myself with the jut of staircase railing.

  “J.J. please be quiet,” Robin said. The screaming stopped but I saw a red head poke out from the kitchen doorway to my left and brown eyes watch us mischievously. As I righted myself and kicked at my luggage in anger, I caught my nephew’s eye, scowling his way in faux threat.

  Instead of being intimidated, he matched my look with his own glare and we held that position for a bit until I saw a slight wiggle overtake his shoulders. Once he couldn't take the stillness anymore, he shrieked loudly and ran off in the other direction. I laughed, feeling his glee burble inside my chest like soda as I grabbed my luggage and took the stairs up to my old room.

  My parents have a huge house with a huge yard, but they’d clearly been focused on common areas when choosing the place. Each bedroom is tiny, able to fit a minuscule closet, a double bed, and a dresser at most. You could probably get a queen bed in one or two of them, if you don’t mind stubbing your toes a lot. Despite this, I had spent most of my pre-first-boyfriend years locked in my room with books and a Discman, as dull claustrophobia was better than fighting with my father.

  Eager to relive that solitude rather than seek him out—I was keeping my empathy as to myself as possible, lest I accidentally poke into his psyche and lose my mind with frustration—I reached the top step, turned toward my room, and stopped.

  “Uhhh, mom?”

  As far as I could remember, my room had not had a screen door instead of a real one and had not been filled with a bird's jungle gym worth of stuff.

  “What happened to my room?” I asked, knowing no one could hear me over Jake Junior’s excitement and the whirring dishwasher.

  The other two rooms looked as they had when I’d moved out, even down to the Usher poster on my brother’s wall. This was an attack, I thought, unable to help myself where the stupid bird was concerned. Grumbling, leaving my luggage where it fell, I stormed downstairs, ready to verbally take someone’s head off.

  “What's up with my room?” I demanded as I hit the edge of the kitchen. My mother glanced over from the pile of brightly colored vegetables she was dicing and her face lit up. Ig
noring my question completely, she set down the knife, sidestepped J.J. as he darted past, and yanked me into a hug. All crankiness melted away upon contact, my mind soothed by maternal love. She was overjoyed to see me, happy and nostalgic and amused, probably at the fact that I'd chosen to bitch rather than greet her.

  “Chipmunk!”

  “No!” I argued, though it was half-assed, as was my attempt to pull out of the hug. She ignored my protest and squeezed me tighter, kissing the top of my head. While I grumbled and wiggled, mostly for form, she just laughed, kissing me more aggressively, and started rocking back and forth.

  “My baby girl,” she cooed. “My baby with the big teeth!”

  “My teeth are fine!” I insisted. Mom chuckled against my hair, kissed me one last time, and pulled away, smiling down at me.

  My mother is gorgeous and well out of my father's league, if you ask any of us kids. She's tall and slim with short, red hair, a bevy of smile lines at the corners of her green eyes, and a core of strength that could stop a charging bull with just a look. Despite her formidable nature, she’s the sweetest woman you will ever meet, an amazing cook and baker, and quick with a compliment for anyone at any time.

  None of this stopped me from complaining.

  “My room!” I accused, pointing at the stairs, as if she would think I mean my room in Seattle.

  “It's Dorian's room, now.”

  “But why my room? And where do I sleep?”

  “You can sleep in the yard,” Thomas said from behind me. I turned to glare at him, but he yanked me into a hug, rocked me like my mother had, and squeezed harder when I started to complain.

  My tantrum aside, the mood was pleasant: my mother’s love, my brother’s mischievous glee, my sister’s contented happiness all mixing to threaten my childishness in a way few things could.

  “I'm not sleeping in the yard, you sleep in the yard,” I argued, shoving my brother away. He let me, looking unkempt and half-asleep as if he’d been the one to just get off a plane full of angry strangers. His dark hair was mussed, curled a bit at the edges, his long face looking tired and a bit pale.

  “The kids are sleeping in tents—inside—not you. You get Thomas' old room,” Robin assured me, appearing from the living room with my youngest niece in hand. Seeing the baby melted me instantly, my insides turning to goo, my uterus demanding to be fertilized.

  “Stella!” I cooed, reaching for the toddler. She bounced in her mother's arms, thrashed a tiny fist in excitement and drooled down her front. I took the drool as a good sign, gripping her delicately under her pudgy baby arms. She let out a burbling goo-goo and I felt a little pop of delight from her young psyche as I yanked her against me. When I layered kisses over her face and sniffed her red hair, she barely even halted her bouncing.

  “Ohh,” I moaned against her cheek. “She's perfect!”

  “Of course she is,” Jake said, leaning around Robin to give me a half-hug. “She's ours. How are you, Gwen?”

  “Feeling like I want one,” I said, letting Stella's innocence and unfettered happiness bleed in through my skin. She gave a spastic dance with her arms, kicked a leg, and then blew a raspberry at me; I didn't even mind the spit all over my face.

  “I can't help you with that but any time you want to come out and babysit, just let us know.” I smiled up at him, looking him over.

  Jake is a bit taller than Robin, which means he's got a full head on me, and he’s always reminded me of some surfer-academic type. Sandy brown hair, bright blue eyes, and a slim, muscular build join a perfect jaw line and make him almost a knock-out. His nose is a touch too big, but it gives his face character, making you think he knows a thing or two about chemistry or chess or something. I admit, I have a bit of a crush on the man, despite the fact that I've known him so long I couldn't honestly consider him anything except family.

  With his genetics and hers, I had no doubt Robin and Jake's children really would be perfect once they aged past all the screaming and drooling. Just as I started to wonder where their oldest was, figuring Natalie had likely matured past me, even at eight, I heard my nickname sing through the air.

  “Chipmunk!”

  My eye twitched and I peered past my brother-in-law to the African Gray parrot perched on my father’s shoulder. Dorian had been around longer than even Robin, and I was pretty sure my father loved him more than he loved any of us kids. Well, more than me anyway. I gave the parrot a dirty look, wondering why, of all the things I’d been called by my family over the years, that particular name had stuck in his tiny bird brain.

  My teeth are normal-sized, now, couldn’t he see that? Couldn’t any of them see that?

  Instantly the emotional temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees. The bird tipped his head at me and my father glanced between it and me. We squared off for a moment, both of us undoubtedly deciding who would draw first, before my mother rolled her eyes and turned toward her husband.

  “Marvin, doesn’t Gwen look great?”

  “Sure,” he said. I sighed, cheek still pressed against the baby, using Stella like a shield against my father’s annoyance.

  He’s a touch taller than me, though I’ve long suspected he’s not really, that most of his height is just his unruly, black hair. Dad's a bit portly, with a round face and cheeks that hope to be full on jowls when they grow up. His eyes are a deep, dark brown that I’ve never once seen sparkle, and he’s got a perpetual five o’clock shadow, no matter what time of day it is. Robin got her full lips from him but Thomas inherited what some might call his weak chin.

  We sighed at each other, friction arcing around the room as I tried to ignore the annoyance and apprehension bouncing between us. The feeling reminded me of feedback from a microphone and was just as unpleasant.

  “Hi dad,” I said finally. Jake failed to silence his laugh at our awkward greeting, but stepped aside so we could at least pretend we enjoyed each other’s company. I leaned in and we hugged, keeping Stella as a barrier between us. To my surprise, I felt a teeny, tiny, almost imperceptible sliver of affection as my father tugged me quickly against him in what even upper-class, unaffectionate, super white people would consider a pansy-ass hug. I pulled back as fast as I could and went back to cooing at Stella, who blew a raspberry right in my eye.

  At least it was better than having to have a full-on conversation with dad.

  Chapter Three

  “Where are you headed?” Thomas asked as I hit the bottom of the stairs. I glanced over at him, wondering if he’d meant to startle me. While that was usually impossible, considering my gift, he’d managed it a time or two in the past when I’d been distracted. He was just too damned lucky for my own good.

  “Out,” I said, suddenly feeling like a teenager again. Dancing forward, he grabbed at my hand, managed to catch the loop of the key fob on my mother’s car keys and yank them out of my hand. Dancing back, he twirled them around his index finger once. “Give those back!”

  “You can’t make me!”

  “Oh my god, Thom,” I sighed. He laughed, holding the keys above his head, knowing full well I couldn’t reach them.

  “Why must you leave us so soon?” he asked, masking his face in dramatic sadness. “We just got you back, Gwen.”

  “Jeez,” I said, snorting out a laugh. “If you really missed me that much, you would’ve visited like you promised.”

  “Oh, I was gonna,” Thomas said, lowering his arm, suddenly conversational. “Carter needed help at the store, though, so I’m covering.”

  “Doesn’t he have his brother for that? The kid, right?”

  “He’s not a kid anymore, he’s barely younger than me.” Ignoring my look, Thom pressed on. “Plus, he’s real sick, remember? They’re both not doing great.”

  “Still? Jesus, it’s been a month. Is he dying?”

  “I hope not,” Thomas said earnestly. Biting my tongue, feeling bad for being so flippant about his friends’ health, I went quiet, reconsidering the grab I’d been planning to
make to get the keys back. Thomas watched me in the dark for a bit, before breathing out a quiet laugh and handing them over.

  “Does mom know you’re taking the car?”

  “Yes, because I’m an adult,” I lied.

  “Only in height. Will you be home late?”

  “Uh,” I grunted, unsure of my answer. I had considered just sleeping at Owen’s hotel all night, but it occurred to me in that moment that I hadn’t thought to pack any sort of overnight bag. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d slept over with just the clothes on my back, but it really would have been smarter to be home before breakfast, if only because my mother would ask all sorts of questions if I wasn’t.

  “Probably,” I said after a long pause. Thom tipped his head and I felt curiosity burble out of him.

  “Are you seeing a boy?” he asked, drawing the noun out like warm taffy. I rolled my eyes, heading toward the door.

  “No, that would be creepy. He’s a fully-grown man. A very sexy, fully-grown man. Now go to bed.”

  “Okay. Well, have fun,” he said, as if unsure what else to say.

  Immediately, embarrassment flooded through us both as I turned, halfway through the doorway. We met each other’s gazes for a moment, both considering that we knew exactly where I was going and what I was planning to do to my fully-grown man friend.

  “I mean …” Thomas said, trailing off. After a second, I held up a hand.

  “Stop. Stop talking. Just lock the door behind me and never speak again.”

  He mimed locking his lips up and tossing away the key while I rolled my eyes amiably, shook my head, and fled.

  Owen’s hotel was only about twenty minutes away from my parents’ house, but it was about nineteen minutes too far for my hormones. I pushed through the doors into the lobby, strode straight to the counter. The woman there looked up from a book she was reading, gave me a practiced smile. I felt an arc of annoyance jolt out of her and it kicked up a funny sort of nostalgia; I remembered the joy of customer service jobs all too well.