It's like I can't escape him. Marco's there again the next morning, bustling around the house like he owns it. Which I know he does! I know! But I didn't realize he spent so much time in it. Does he have work? I'm not even really clear at what he does, but surely he has to go somewhere to do it, right?
I unpacked everything yesterday, so now I don't even have that as an excuse to avoid him. That was such a terrible idea; I should've saved half of it for today, just in case.
I thought I'd have the house more to myself, like I had the apartment with Mom to myself in the good days, when she was working and seeing friends and even sometimes dating. The rarer the good days got, the more she stayed in her room. On the bad days, it was like the floor was made of eggshells that I tiptoed on, desperate to never make a crack. The littlest things could shatter her. But I guess that's it, isn't it? Those things, they didn't seem little to her.
Not at all.
I wish I had known that. I wish I had known better.
But I didn't. And now I'm here with Marco, and the floor feels like eggshells again. Same feeling, different parent. It makes me wonder: Is it me?
I need coffee, so I shuffle into the kitchen to get it. As I pass by the living room, he looks up from the couch.
"I could make you some breakfast," he offers when he sees the coffee cup in my hand.
Having had several of his dinners, I don't think breakfast is going to be his secret skill. "Coffee is fine," I assure him. "I've never eaten a lot in the morning."
"Huh. Maybe you got that from me."
I choke on the coffee, I'm so surprised. "Um. Sure."
"You want to see what I'm doing?" he asks, motioning me forward. There are a bunch of plastic boxes with dividers set on the coffee table. As I draw closer, I can see that there are gemstones inside one of them, finished jewelry in the other.
"What's this?"
"My work."
"You made these?" I lean forward, curious despite myself. He makes jewelry? But he doesn't even wear any. I don't know him well or at all, but I can tell you right now, Marco is not the turquoise-bracelet sort of guy.
"I picked up jewelry making to pay the bills while I made music. Stumbled into it when a buddy of mine got a good deal on some stones. Taught myself the basics, honed my skills through the years. My early pieces were crude as hell." He laughs at the thought, and when he does it, my heart twists, because it's the first time I've seen him smile ... and it's exactly like mine.
Everyone's always told me I look more like my mom—same eyes and high cheekbones, small nose, and thick, straight hair. But Marco's smile is staring me in the face. It's my smile, and it's like he's stolen it from me, this thing I thought was mine alone.
"They're pretty," I say faintly, even though I can barely see them. This is what he was doing all these years, instead of being my father? Shining up pretty stones and melting silver like a blacksmith or something? He could've been doing this from anywhere. He could've stayed in San Diego, even if he didn't want to stay with Mom.
But instead, this place—Bumfuck Nowhere, Oregon—and a bunch of minerals were more important?
"You can touch them," he says, so encouragingly that I do it just to make him happy, even though I feel numb. "I've got a studio smithy set up in the garage now. I could teach you."
I grab the closest necklace, a smooth pendant I have to flip over, the chain filtering through my fingers with the faintest tickle. My stomach drops like I'm diving off a roof into a pool I know is too shallow.
"That's a design I've been doing since the beginning," he explains as I trace a finger over the intricate leaf pattern etched into silver encasing the tiger's-eye.
My fingers know the bumps and grooves of the leaves already. I could draw them with my eyes closed. Mom wore a tiger's-eye pendant just like this when I was younger. I used to hold it when she rocked me to sleep, a talisman to keep the monsters at bay. At some point in my childhood, she stopped wearing it—I guess we both thought the monsters were gone for good. The next time I saw it, it was in the bag of personal effects the coroner gave me. She'd been wearing it when she ...
I drop the pendant. It clatters to the ground.
"Whoops," Marco says, bending down to grab it.
I jump up. "I have to go."
"Lisa—"
But I'm running down the hall, desperate to get into my room before he stops me. I slam the door shut, wishing I had a lock. He doesn't follow me, though. Thank God he doesn't follow me.
Her jewelry box is right there on my dresser, next to the paperbacks. A little cedar box with a rose carved on top. My hands shake as I push it open, and there it is—the plastic bag they gave me. Inside is my grandmother's topaz ring, Mom's hoop earrings, and the necklace Marco must have made for her when they were still in love.
I tip them out into my palm, wondering if it means something. It has to, doesn't it? That she chose to wear his necklace that day? It seems like something I should tell Marco, but I can't even imagine that, so I push the thought down.
The doorbell rings just as I'm shutting the jewelry back in the wooden box, letting it mingle with my tattoo chokers and the tiny white-gold hoops my mom gave me when I was thirteen and she finally let me get my ears pierced.
I throw myself on my bed, ignoring the voices in the living room until I realize whoever Marco's talking to is a woman. Then I'm too curious to stop myself. If there's some sort of girlfriend situation he hasn't let me in on, I'm gonna be pissed. I have enough to deal with without some stepmother wannabe nosing in on my business like he's been doing.
I walk down the hall, the voices growing clearer. When she laughs, I know it's Jennie. Her laugh's already imbedded in my mind like vital knowledge. Like the tiger'seye pendant and my mother's hands, brushing my hair off my face after a bad dream.
My heart hammers, every bit of my blood rushing as I turn the corner and see her laughing at whatever Marco said.
She looks over her shoulder and catches sight of me, her smile widening. "There you are," she says, like I was supposed to be there all along. Maybe I was. It certainly feels like it.
"I'll let you two girls hang out," Marco says.
"Your dad makes gorgeous jewelry," Jennie tells me.
"Nice meeting you, Jennie." Marco ambles out of the living room. Is the only way to get rid of him to bring friends around? Is this some sort of reverse psychology on his part? Or am I overthinking it? The guy spends all his time working, playing guitar, or making jewelry, so mind games are probably not high on his list. Amethyst, guitar picks, and making sure the long-forgotten kid he got saddled with isn't throwing any fits probably are.
"He's nice," Jennie says.
"Yeah. Um. What are you doing here?"
She looks down, bending and picking up a necklace that has slices of some blue stone strung like icicles on the silver chain.
"You didn't message me," she says, not looking up from the necklace nestled in her palm. "You promised."
"I was soaked, Jennie."
She finally looks up at me, frowning.
"My clothes? They were all wet. Because of Kai. Remember? The ink was all smeared by the time I got home. I couldn't read what you wrote and forgot the numbers."
"Oh," she says, and the silence hangs there as we stare at each other and her cheeks turn red.
She lets out a shaky laugh—not the one I've already got memorized, a different one. I wonder how many there are. How long it would take to learn them all. Weeks? Months? A lifetime?
"Well, I keep my promises, unlike you, Miss Lily."
I don't laugh back, I just look at her. "I'll keep that in mind."
She huffs out another shaky laugh. "You're a brat."
"Mm." I may not know a lot about her yet, but I know people give in to her. I'm pretty sure one of the reasons she's in my living room is because I didn't.
Jennie picks at the edge of her striped shirt. "So ... what do you wanna do?"
I shrug, collapsing on the beige couch. It's ugly but it's comfortable, I'll give Marco that.
"You're the one that showed up here," I say.
"Because we said we'd hang again. Remember? I keep my promises."
"So?" I throw my arms out wide, encompassing the couch, kicking my feet back for emphasis. The flare in her eyes—it's hilarious. It's like poking a very angry but fluffy kitten. "We're hanging right now, aren't we?"
"Lolling around the house isn't hanging. Not without refreshments," Jennie insists. "Come on." She snaps her fingers at me.
I roll my eyes, getting to my feet. "One of these days, you're gonna snap at the wrong person."
She laughs. "Well, that's certainly not you, so we're cool. Right?"
"Gonna start calling you Snappy," I tease her as we head out of the living room and onto the porch.
"Don't poke the bear, Lisa," she warns.
"Rawr." I scrunch my hands up into little claws and paw the air, and her nose wrinkles up when she laughs—that true, unrivaled laughter that I already knew.
"You are such a fucking dork," she says, bending down to get the Pink bike that she's got leaning against the tree opposite mine.
"I really think this is a situation where it takes one to know one."
She gasps as I grab my own bike and ride off before she can retort, cackling as she screeches and follows, pedaling furiously.
"You don't even know where we're going, Lisa!"
"Catch up, then!"
I sail down the street, wind whipping my hair into knots I know I'll regret later, but I don't care then.
All I care about is that she's laughing and she's chasing me.