“Nice ah, mansion, dad,” Tara says, popping her bubblegum.
“Hey,” I say, raising then lowering my arms, “I said it needed some, well, some work.”
“Yeah, you said a little work. Little is the keyword, dad.”
“So, I was a little off.”
“Eeeew, I’m not fuckin’ stayin’ here, dad?”
“Would you rather sleep there?” I pointed to the trailer fixed as a guest house.
“What am I a fucking country girl now?” Tara said. “Am I supposed to say yee-haw?”
I choked back a cackle. “Let’s just be happy.”
“No,” Tara says. “Just because you moved on doesn’t mean I have to!”
“Mom would…”
“Don’t you fuckin’ say her name around this bitch,” Tara says, glaring at Beth.
Beth shrugged off the insult. “The inside has been renovated.”
“Don’t talk to Beth like…”
“Alan,” Beth says, slicing the air. “If I need your help, I’ll ask for it.”
Tara gives me her she told you face.
“We’re finally here,” Beth says, placing her suitcase beside her feet, clinging to my arm as we gaze at the fixer-upper mansion.
“Barf,” Tara says, holding her finger to her mouth, gaggling her tongue. “Before y’all start makin’ out or whatever old people—”
“Old?” I ask, raising a sly brow.
“Which room is mine, dad?” Tara asks, slamming her hands on her hips.
“You miss your friends, don’t you?” Beth asks.
“You’re just my stepmom, Beth,” Tara says, glaring at her.
“Watch how you talk to Beth!” I say.
“What the fuck ever!” Tara says as she storms upstairs to her room, slamming the door shut and plunging her body on her bed. “I didn’t want to leave my old high school, my friends.”
“Alan, she hates me,” Beth says.
“Tomorrow will be five years since—well—since her mother died.”
“You should have reminded me!” Beth says, throwing her hands to her closed eyes.
“We wanted a fresh start. Now we have one,” I say. “I start work tomorrow.”
“My baby’s the new police chief,” Beth says, biting her lower lip. “You can arrest me anytime.”
“It’ll work out.”
“You sure?”
“Yes,” I say, wishing I hadn’t.
(Part One.)
(© 2020 Andrew Cyr)
Short Stories| Poems 