Kind of Cursed Read online

  “Hey, I got it,” he says casually. “No problem.”

  “Oh, there’s a problem,” Luc affirms. “Hand it over.”

  Drawing back with a look of shock, Slim Jim thrusts the contraption into Luc’s ready arms. Then Luc angles his head toward the open door.

  “Your services will no longer be needed. I’ll see you out.”

  “What?” Slim Jim’s eyes bulge. “I didn’t do nothing.”

  Luc shakes his head. “We’re not doing this here. Outside.” The way he says this leaves little room for misinterpretation. That and the hunk of metal Luc’s holding as easily as if it were a box of cereal and not a major appliance must make Slim Jim think twice because he stalks out the door with a muttered, “Shiiiit.”

  Without looking at me or the other guys, Luc follows and makes a point of closing the door behind him. I glance at the other workers, but they quickly jerk their gazes away, getting back to ripping out cabinets.

  Did that really just happen?

  I want to ask the question out loud, but I’m too stunned to form the words. Are these guys all buddies? Did they just watch their friend get fired? Are they afraid they’ll get fired too? Is this my fault?

  The idea of heading upstairs and hiding in my room with Clarence is more than tempting, but I turn and beeline to the laundry room instead. I stop when I see the lion’s share of my lingerie collection. It’s exactly how I left it last night after putting everything through the delicate cycle, but instead of looking like regular laundry on a drying rack—like it has every other Sunday night of my adult life—the display looks lurid. Pornographic.

  Shameful.

  Red-faced, I yank an empty basket from the shelf above the washer and launch bras and panties into it.

  “Goddammit,” I hiss, a knot forming in my throat.

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  I wheel around to find Luc standing in the doorway, jaw tense, hands balled into fists.

  “Apparently, I do.” The drying rack is half-empty, and I rip a black Cosabella bralette from the back rod and whip it into the basket.

  For the fraction of a second, Luc’s eyes follow the arc of the bralette. And why shouldn’t they? It’s beautiful.

  And it cost $85, I remind myself a moment too late. I glance into the basket to make sure the precious garment survived the launch intact.

  When I look up, his eyes are fixed on me, but I’m too mortified and too furious that I’m mortified to face him, so I turn my back and continue—with more care—to collect my lingerie.

  From behind me I hear the door of the laundry room close, and for a moment, I think he’s gone, leaving me alone with my searing emotions.

  “Are you okay?”

  My breath leaves me in a huff, and I turn back to glare at him. Luc stands in front of the door, watching me. I ignore his question. How the hell would I answer it anyway?

  “Did that asshole come in here?” I ask.

  The muscles in Luc’s jaw stand out and disappear under his skin. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “That’s a yes. That’s why he said I had a loose caboose, isn’t it?” I don’t need him to answer. I grab the last thong and bra from the rack and toss them into the basket. A laugh that feels like sulfuric acid climbs my throat. “Loose caboose. The irony is hilarious.”

  When I realize I’ve said this aloud, I look up. Luc’s brows are drawn together. I can’t tell if he’s confused or concerned. But why would he be concerned? I’m sure talking to me is confusing as hell.

  “Sorry I cost you an employee,” I mutter.

  “That guy?” Luc’s face contorts with disgust as he throws a thumb over his shoulder. “That guy’s a temp. Today was his first and last day working for me.”

  I blink at this news. I inhale through my nose and feel marginally better. “And the other two?”

  He must hear the apprehension in my voice because his face softens. “Donner and Sam work for me, and they’d never behave like that.” I watch his throat work as he swallows. “That should never have happened. I’m very sorry it did.”

  I give him a tired look. “It just proved you ri—”

  “No,” he says, shaking his head and taking a step closer. “No. I was out of line to say anything at all. This is your house. Your laundry room. Your laundry. It has nothing to do with me—with us,” he adds quickly.

  I shake my head. “No, I should have put it away this morning. I would have come home, seen it, and been embarrassed no matter what you’d said.” This is the truth. I was mortified when he mentioned it in the driveway. It seems I’m destined to be mortified whenever I’m around him.

  He arches a brow. “There’s a difference between being embarrassed and being intimidated. You shouldn’t be intimidated in your own home.” He holds my gaze, and as he does, I realize I was both embarrassed and intimidated.

  But I’m not anymore.

  He’s quiet. I’m quiet. We stare at each other.

  No. It would be more accurate to say we watch each other. The skin on my cheeks goes hot again, but this time it’s not from humiliation or rage. I clutch my wicker basket to my chest.

  “I-I’d better go put these away and let Clarence out,” I stammer.

  As if my words are some kind of starting gun, Luc jumps back, grasps the knob, and whips the door open. He holds it open and ushers me past him, and I don’t hesitate. I practically dart from the room, but when I move past him, I fill my lungs and inadvertently catch his scent as I do. Fresh sawdust. Spicy sweat. Warm skin.

  And out of the corner of my eye, I see him tense as if he’s holding himself still.

  At two o’clock, the skies open. Because the forecast shows rain until midnight, soccer practice is cancelled. I get a notice from the team app on my phone, and despite his size, Clarence is a big baby when it comes to storms, so I take him with me to pick up Mattie and Harry.

  “What are we gonna do for dinner?” Harry asks as soon as he’s inside the SUV.

  I suppress a sigh. He already knows the answer to that. “I made gumbo last night. We’re having leftovers.” It was our last night cooking in the old kitchen, and everyone helped.

  “Oh, yeah,” Harry mutters, sounding less than enthused.

  Okay, so, yeah, I might have used a little too much jarred roux. The broth might have been a little heavy. Emmett even used the word greasy, but it was edible.

  “Gumbo is always better the second day,” I say.

  “Maybe we should wait a third day,” he says under his breath. Mattie snickers from the backseat.

  “Hey, now,” I warn, but even though the joke is at my expense, I still chuckle.

  “What else is there to eat? Like right now?” Harry the Walking Stomach asks.

  “You mean like for a snack?”

  I see him nod out of the corner of my eye.

  “Um cereal, sandwiches, apple and peanut butter. The usual.”

  His long-suffering sigh fills the cab.

  “If you’re not hungry enough to eat an apple, you’re not hungry,” I say, echoing one of Mom’s favorite after-school mottos.

  “And you’re not Mom.”

  I grip the steering wheel. It’s like I’ve been punched in the throat. Mattie’s eyes in the rearview mirror are as big as sand dollars. I see her glance from me to Harry, worry etched on her sweet brow.

  The light at Cajundome Boulevard turns red, and I stop. The only sound in the car is the drumming rain and the rhythmic squeegee of the windshield wipers.

  I test the waters. “Harry…”

  But my brother stares fixedly out the side window, jaw set, arms crossed over his chest.

  He’s angry. I need to just let him be angry. I curse the stupid cold front that’s coming through because if he were at practice, he’d be working some of this off. Yeah, he’d come home hungry—ravenous even—but he’d feel better.

  When I pull onto the driveway, I note Luc’s truck is gone. This shouldn’t depress me further, but it does.
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br />   “Whoa,” Mattie says as we pass the debris pile on the lawn.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Brace yourselves. It looks different already.” I glance at Harry as I come to a stop in the garage to see if this elicits any reaction.

  Nope. He’s out of the car and slamming the door before I even kill the engine.

  Mattie takes her time gathering her backpack, purse, and lunch box. “He didn’t mean it,” she says softly.

  I take a breath, wanting to tell her something reassuring. That I’m fine, and his bombshell didn’t just crush my spirits, but I’m not that good of an actor.

  “I know,” I say on a sigh.

  Mattie opens her door. “You coming in, Millie?”

  I don’t look back at her. “In a minute. I’m going to wait out here for Emmett’s bus. I’ve got the golf umbrella.”

  “Okay,” she says, slipping out of the SUV.

  “Take Clarence with you, would ya?”

  “Sure.” She calls the dog, and it’s only when I see the kitchen door close behind them that I let my head fall to the steering wheel.

  I really, really don’t want to cry today, so I take a few sharp inhales and exhales and then dig my phone out of my purse and tap the third number on my favorites.

  “Loftin Veterinary Hospital, this is Kath.” I like everyone at the clinic, the techs, Dr. Loftin and his wife Sarah, but I’ve bonded with Kathleen Morvant. We haven’t hung out beyond work, but we eat lunch together almost every day. And we talk. A lot.

  “Hey, it’s Millie.”

  “Hey, I thought I recognized the number,” Kath says, a smile in her friendly voice. “What are you doing calling in on your day off?”

  I give a thready laugh. “Is it a day off? I think being at work would be a lot easier.”

  “Ohhhh,” Kath draws out the word, her voice rising like a soap bubble. “What’s wrong?” Her ready compassion makes me smile. It was the second thing I noticed about her, how attentive and gentle she is with clients whose pets are sick or dying. The first thing I noticed was that she seemed to have a new book every day.

  Kath is the first new friend I’ve made since moving back. My two best friends from vet school, Grace Stolworth and Abbie McKenna, both moved out of state when we graduated. Grace went home to Tallahassee and took a job at a clinic with a vet who’s semi-retired, and Abbie got her dream job at the St. Louis Zoo. We try to keep in touch. They know what I’m going through, but the distance makes it hard, and our lives are undeniably busy.

  And maybe it’s wrong that I’m reaching out to Kath, because I know that unless she’s dealing with a client or on the phone, she likely isn’t all that busy. A lot of the time she’s sitting at the front desk, she has her nose in a book. But what do I know? Maybe she was in the middle of something important.

  “Is this a bad time?” I ask, wincing at my own selfishness.

  “Hmph. You know it’s never a bad time, ma love.” Kath calls everyone ma love. “What’s going on?”

  I sigh and then tell her about Harry. I’d love to also tell her about this morning and the underwear fiasco, but that conversation will require tequila, and I haven’t had a drink in months.

  Not since—

  But I shove that unbearable thought aside and focus on a woe I might actually be able to deal with.

  “If there’s anything I know without a doubt, Kath, it’s that I’m not Mom. I’m not even trying to be her. That would be…” I grip the steering wheel with my free hand and watch my knuckles go white. “Well, that would be a joke—”

  “Oh, c’mon, Millie,” Kath scolds gently. “Give yourself some credit. I’m sure you’re a lot more like your Mom than you realize, who sounds like she was awesome, by the way.”

  “She was awesome.” I close my eyes and picture her, hold her in my mind. The ache of it clogs my throat, and tears burn my eyes. I blink them open, wary of letting the tears fall. Emmett will be home soon. “So awesome,” I rasp.

  “You’re awesome too,” Kath says softly.

  I clear my throat. “Huh, well, I don’t know about that, but I’m doing the best I can,” I say, forcing the words out. “I know he’s just a kid, but I wish Harry could see that. I wish they all could.”

  “He sees it, Mil, trust me. Kids don’t miss much.” Kath has a six-year-old son named Daniel. He’s on the autism spectrum, though most people wouldn’t know it to look at him. Not until they get to know him or see him in a situation with too much stimuli. Kath, of course, is great with Daniel. But she’s had lots of practice. Her husband Jake is offshore twenty-one days a month.

  “I just wish he understood that I’m not trying to be Mom. I just want to respect her and Dad’s wishes. Raise the kids the way they would have.”

  “Wellll…” She stretches this word out too, and the lilt of her voice lets me know she’s about to impart a hard truth. As kind and compassionate as she is, Kath has no problem telling it like it is. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a winning combo. Friendship jackpot material. “You can’t raise them the way your parents would have.”

  “I know. I’m not them. I just—”

  “No, it’s not that you’re not them. It’s that your lives are not the same ones anymore. You can’t compare the life y’all had with your mom and dad to the one you have now. This life is on a totally different path.”

  I frown at this. “I disagree. I think it’s up to me to keep it on the same path.”

  Kath’s laughter on the other end of the phone has me shifting in my seat. It’s like someone’s plucking the baby hairs on the back of my neck one at a time. I let go of the steering wheel and scratch my neck in agitation.

  “Millie, it can’t be the same path. It’s like the multiverse theory.” Kath is a science fiction addict. She can talk about time paradoxes and causality loops and the rise of the machines all day. “All the possibilities that can exist do exist, but distinctly. Separately.”

  “So, you’re saying there’s a universe where my parents didn’t die in a boating accident, and they’re raising my sister and brothers as if nothing happened?” I hope for all our sakes that this is true. The thought of one happy Delacroix family out there somewhere gives me a warm glow in my chest.

  But I wonder if in that universe I’m still with Carter. And if I’m still carrying his baby. If so, I’d want to warn that Millie. He’s not what you think. You’re better off without him.

  “What I’m saying is, if so, the universe we’re in, right here, right now, it’s uncharted territory, no longer connected to that universe where the accident never happened. They split off. Irrevocably.”

  Irrevocably. What a shitty word.

  “You can’t possibly raise your sister and brothers exactly the way your parents would have. The lives they’re leading, even the world they’re living in isn’t the same.” Even though she speaks firmly, her words are cushioned with compassion. It’s the only thing that makes listening to her manageable. “They have struggles and scars they never would have had before. Your job is to help them survive this and adapt.”

  Survive this.

  A cold chill trickles down my back. Helping them to survive and adapt sounds so much less promising than raising them the way my parents would have.

  But it also sounds more achievable.

  “Yeah, but what about my parents’ values? Their wishes? Their standards and rules?”

  “Hmmm,” Kath muses into the phone. “I don’t know. Let me ask you something. If your parents had known that they’d die so young, do you think it would have changed the way they raised all of you?”

  Her question wallops me over the head. I’ve never considered it. “Y-yes. It would’ve had to.”

  “In what way, do you think?”

  I open my mouth to say I don’t know, but it isn’t that I don’t know. It’s that there are too many ways to count. If they had known with any kind of certainty that they’d be gone, they would have raised us to be more self-sufficient. But at the same time, they would
have wanted us to be able to rely on each other. They would have taught us practical things. How to cook. Manage our money. And they would have wanted us to be whole. To comfort ourselves. To believe in ourselves.

  But they would have made time for fun, too. And the making of memories. So, in the end, maybe it wouldn’t have been all that different from the life my parents had given us, unwittingly trusting that the future was theirs. Not so different, maybe just more concentrated. More deliberate.

  Survival. Adaptation. Fun. Memories.

  Is that what I’ve been offering?

  We’re surviving, sure. And we’re adapting because what other choice is there? I don’t know how much fun we’re having. And I’m not sure the memories we’re making are the kind we’ll treasure later on.

  I heave another sigh. “In ways that would have focused on the most important things,” I say, feeling like an idiot for not realizing this sooner. I mean, I’ve picked my battles, but I haven’t picked my parties, so to speak. “Is it really going to be the end of the world if Harry eats junk food after school instead of an apple and peanut butter?”

  “I doubt it,” Kath says, chuckling. “But there’s probably room for compromise there too. Maybe take the kids grocery shopping and let them each pick a mix of healthy and crappy snacks for the week. When the crap is gone, they have to eat the good stuff until you go back to the store again.”

  I sit bolt upright. “Kath, that’s a great idea,” I practically shout. “Because then I won’t be the bad guy. They’ll have to self-regulate.”

  “It gives them ownership. We do the same thing with Daniel, except it’s with bath versus skip nights. He gets two skips a week, and the rest of the nights, he has to take a bath.”

  “Does he ever skip two in a row?” I wrinkle my nose at this, hoping I never have to go here with Emmett.

  She laughs at this. “He did the first week we tried it. He hasn’t since. He doesn’t want to have to take a bath five straight nights.”

  “I like it. I—” But I stop mid-sentence when Mattie charges outside, looking as mad as a wasp. “Hang on, Kath.” I quickly glance at the dash to check the time and make sure Emmett’s bus isn’t about to pull up.