Things We Didn't Say - By Kristina Riggle Page 0,17

can get a drink herself.”

“Oh, we did, huh? Isn’t that cozy.”

I scrub the dish harder, though it’s already clean.

She continues, “I thought you’d want your own house. One that didn’t used to be mine.”

My breathing is shallow so I have to will myself to take in enough oxygen, lest I pass out right here. “Less disruptive for the kids.”

“Hmmm.” Mallory gazes out the window. “No sense in moving yet, since you’re not married or anything. Of course, Mike can’t really afford to move anyway, seeing how the good Dr. Henry owns the place and rents it to him for a song.” Mallory hops down off the barstool and comes close to me. I can smell her lunch from here. Something with onions.

“So, Dylan hasn’t given you any clues to what’s going on? Any at all?”

“I told you, I don’t know.” I turn to put the dish away, though there are plenty of other dishes left to wash, anything to give me a couple inches of space. “He didn’t give you any clues, either, right?”

“If I had him with me, I would know what’s going on.”

I let the next dish fall into the water. “Easy for you to say when you’re not at Ground Zero.”

During the silent moment that passes, Mallory matches my glare.

She’s won by goading me.

“Our differences aren’t important now.” She sighs, leaning one hip against the counter. “We’ll have to be mature about this.”

I feel a sneer creep across my face before I can stop it.

Mallory leans in again, crowding me so tightly against the kitchen counter that the edge pinches my back as I stretch away. “I know that might be hard for you, being so young and all.”

I pull myself away and toss the dishrag in the sink. Banging the back door open into the cold, I notice I’ve forgotten my coat. I don’t even need the cigarette, but I’m starting to think longingly of Jack Daniel’s. I can just picture Mallory inside, chuckling at how she needled me into reacting.

The wind kicks up, and it takes four tries to flick my lighter, cupping my hand around it.

Despite my protests to Mallory, a cold strand of guilt starts to thread its way through my gut. He has indeed been more quiet lately. And now I remember he’s been bringing in the mail every day, which at the time I thought was so thoughtful, but now I wonder what he was hoping to intercept.

Should I have grilled him?

Whatever bond I have with Dylan is built on respect. He tells me things in his own time, usually when I listen to him practice, between songs as he rearranges his sheet music. He’ll just volunteer something, and I grab it like a coin tossed into the dirt at my feet.

I close my eyes as the smoke loosens the tension in my shoulders, as my head feels lighter. I review our last practice sessions, which were a few weeks ago now. Trying to remember what he might have said.

Something about Jacob? Or that girl flute player he likes? What was it?

The kitchen door bangs open. Through the storm door Michael looks away quickly, like he’s caught me doing something embarrassing. Masturbating, or picking my nose. I throw down the cigarette, though now I really want to finish it.

“Angel’s back,” he says, looking at the ground. “She’s upset.”

“Kids are so dramatic.”

“Hey, her brother has been missing all day.”

“I meant the other kids. The ones spreading rumors.”

I go through the kitchen to find a tight knot of conversation on the living room couch. Angel is in the crook of Michael’s arm, chewing her thumbnail. Sitting on his other side is Mallory, her knees together, pressed close to Michael’s side. His arm is stretched out along the back of the couch.

Both Angel and Mallory have whitish-blond hair, bookending Michael’s darker complexion. They all have those same bright marble-blue eyes, reminding me of their unbreakable bond, which I can never share.

They seem to notice me all at once. Angel folds her arms and looks away. Michael’s eyes flit down to the floor. Only Mallory stares directly at me. “What?” she says.

“Nothing, I’m just . . . Back inside. What can I do to help?”

“Oh, because you’ve been so much help already.”

Michael looks between Mallory and me, his brow wrinkled up, eyes questioning. Angel glares in my direction, jumping the gun on angry.

Mallory continues, never breaking her stare. “Here I am, upset about my missing child, and she picks a fight at the sink and