I chuckle to myself at the thought of anyone standing in my way if I wanted to enter the restroom. Then I see Pixie, and my brain can’t figure out what she’s doing.
Is she wet? Has she been crying? Why is she running? The pot and booze keep me so blitzed that I stare dumbly when Pixie throws a watermelon at DeAnna and nails the dumb bitch in the face. Only when Bronco bursts into laughter behind me do I wake up enough to register what I’m seeing.
Pixie isn’t playing. Taryn and DeAnna are wrestling around with her, kicking and hitting. She’s getting ganged up on. Now, Wyatt is rushing over to help them. Bambi and Rooster might join in. too.
Everyone is fucking with my honey!
I yank one of those bitches off Pixie and then another. They’re lucky I’m so buzzed. If I were sober, I don’t know if they’d survive this experience. When I hit Wyatt, I almost forget to pull the punch. I’ve killed men before by slugging them in the gut. He gets lucky tonight, thanks to the pot and beer.
My buzz fades a little when I see the terror in Pixie’s eyes. She isn’t afraid of them. It’s all me—the monster, the Antichrist, a man unworthy of her love.
Now, I’ll lose her. A part of me always knew this moment was coming. Everyone turns on me eventually.
Pixie’s expression changes and she reaches for me. She isn’t ditching her grand sequoia yet. I still have more time with her. I lift Pixie into my arms and carry her wet body out of the clubhouse. I don’t hear the people behind me. Fuck them! If they aren’t on Pixie’s side, they can eat shit. I only see her.
But I feel uneasy. Why did I not put my foot down and say she wasn’t coming to the community party? That other idea with individual dinners made more sense. I could control them better. People would be on my territory. Instead, I let myself get pushed around. I’m a giant, scary motherfucker. Why can’t I take charge?
As we drive back to Bronco’s house, Pixie shivers next to me. I don’t know why she’s wet. I’m afraid to ask. What if she hears the barely restrained rage in my voice? I can’t scare away Pixie. I need to remain in control.
“How did you get wet?” I ask, self-sabotaging as usual.
“If I tell you, I’ll get upset. I’d rather focus on the bright moon,” Pixie says, stroking my hand on the steering wheel. “I wish I tried the dumplings earlier. My stomach was too full by the time I saw them.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t offer them. I’ve never tried any before. They looked gross.”
“They do look gross,” she says, smiling brightly as if the world didn’t turn upside down for us less than ten minutes ago.
Pixie can’t understand how much she means to me. She grew up with a family that loved her. The only person to completely love me is this woman I let starve for months and now failed again. She can’t understand the burden I feel to redeem myself. She just smiles at the moon.
“I love all your hair,” Pixie says as I pull into Bronco’s driveway. Her fingers reach for my head. “I love the ones on top that get all the attention and the shy ones on the bottom.”
I turn off the SUV and sit silently. My gaze remains frozen on the garage door. On the surface, I’m stoned and drunk. Underneath, I feel my temper rising.
“I like your house better than Bronco’s,” she says, trying to get me to focus.
The Woodlands is so appealing at night when the streetlights cast interesting shadows against the houses. I used to walk around after dusk and admire how peaceful the world is when I’m not faking shit for people.
“Except I like how he has pictures of his family on the walls,” Pixie continues. “I wish I had a picture of my papa to put up, but the Village made us burn our beloved mementos to prove our loyalty to the Volkshalberd. Now, I have trouble remembering Papa’s face.”
Pixie doesn’t cry tonight when she speaks of her father, but I see how she struggles. At the Collective, grief was something to be experienced briefly and then released into the universe. But human beings don’t work that way. Pixie feels the hole where her father once lived.