Phoenix Broken (2 page)

Scott shouldered the door of his SUV shut before walking up the drive. The fall air was crisp against his face. Bright leaves scattered over the lawn which could do with a last mow before snow fell. Before he knew it, it would be Halloween and he hadn’t bothered to decorate. Again.

He used to.

Hell, he used to go crazy every first of October with the skeletons and the ghosts and the animatronic hands in the candy bowls. All of it. He loved Halloween. Fannie would swear at him every time she walked into one of the fake webs he put up all over, but she'd laugh, too.

This would be the third year without him going into the basement and dragging out those dusty boxes.

Toby and Tish probably didn’t even remember him doing that crap anymore. They were losing so many things. Death didn’t limit itself to stealing your heart, it went after everything that fed your soul, too. Sucking away the joy you’d taken in so many different things; in every way that it could.

With a curse, Scott pushed the maudlin thought away. What the hell did orange lights and skeletons and stupid cobwebs and plastic spiders have to do with anything? Who could be bothered with that shit, anyway? The nagging pulse of guilt faded quickly. He'd had a lot of practice in pushing such things away since Fannie died.

Scott opened the door to absolute quiet. Something that would've never happened in the old days. He used to love the noise. The chaos of their small household had been something he and Fannie both thrived on. He'd liked the twins to be loud—to be unafraid to be kids and just be. Something as far removed from Scott's own childhood as possible.

He found Merry in the kitchen.

For the longest time, Fannie’s mom had never aged to Scott. Meredith Hampton was a unique beauty, just like her daughter. With the same wild hair, though Merry kept hers far shorter than Fan had, and the same dark smooth skin that shone softly like dusky satin in the glow of the kitchen lights. Year after year, Scott used to tease his mother-in-law that she was hiding a voodoo altar somewhere, because in the eight years he’d known her before Fannie’s death he’d never seen her gain so much as one laugh line.

Time had caught up with Merry in the last two years though; she’d gained that decade and more. Her rich brown curls were dashed with salt and pepper. Lines feathered from both her eyes and her mouth now.

She smiled when she saw him, and as always, opened her arms. He gave her a perfunctory squeeze, but she held on longer and tighter than normal before releasing him.

“How you doing, sugar?”

He gave her his usual answer, stretching out his hand and wagging it back and forth. The light caught his wedding band. Merry’s smile dimmed.

She turned back to the sink, drying the dishes she'd washed by hand, even though Scott had a perfectly functional dishwasher. Once he'd protested she did enough for him and the twins without insisting on making things harder for herself. Merry had lectured him about the stresses of modern life, and how more gadgets didn’t equal more time.

"I like washing dishes, sugar. And I like drying. How many conversations would I have missed out on if I just tucked everything into a machine and went on my way to more chores? Families are made in the between times, sugar. And don't you forget it."

Merry spoke quietly now, her back to him. “The kiddos are done with their homework. At least Tish is. Toby…I don’t know what is with that young man lately, but I swear I wouldn’t trust him not to tell me he was freezing if the house was on fire. He seems to fib for the pure sake of fibbing.”

Scott frowned. “I’ll talk to him.”

Merry turned. “I wish you would, but not about that. When was the last time you and him hung out? And talked to each other, and not about chores, or school or homework either. Just had a regular old boy’s day out, like you used to, huh?”

“Frank takes him to a game almost every weekend.”

“Frank is Toby’s papa, not his daddy.”

“Jules—“

“Jules ain’t that boy’s daddy either, Scott.” Her hand had gone to her hip.

Ugh.

She never called him Scott when she was happy with him. Sugar was Merry’s pet name for everyone, until you began to wonder if she remembered anybody’s given name. But sure enough, if she'd a bone to pick, out would go the sugar and in would come your name alright—with a big, bold capital ‘Oh shit, what'd I do now?’

Scott spoke fast, not wanting to get into this. Especially not after his run-in with Jules earlier. “Merry, I’d like to, really, but I have to go out tonight. On a job. Jules wants me to scope out this club for Phoenix.” Scott hesitated, then added, “it may lead to a friend of Cross’s.”

Her lips went tight. “A club? Why’s he got you in on that kind of thing for?”

Scott didn’t know how much Jules told Merry and Frank, but he bet it was more than the boss man should have. He swallowed the urge to argue. Trying to reason with Merry about need-to-know where her daughter's case was concerned was not a smart idea. She was one of the most unflappable people he'd ever met, but on the rare occasion it made an appearance, her temper was terrifying.

“It’s a swing dance club. At least tonight it is. They switch it up—different themes every night. Jules thought I could blend there better than anyone else, you know cause of…” His voice trailed off.

“You haven’t danced in a long time, Scott.” She looked him over, her dark eyes sad.

“It’s not something you forget.”

“Seems to me you can forget most anything if you try hard enough, including how to live.”

He opened his mouth, feeling a muscle twitch in his jaw as his own, increasingly quick, temper started to rise.
Easy there, Marine.

Merry waved a hand, as if clearing her words from the air. “Never mind me. You know what? You go on out. You should go out more, Scott. Not just for work. And by more, I mean at all. When was the last time you thought about a date?”

The rage he'd been trying to dampen surged again, from his heels to his temples; a hot black wave of anger, making his vision go hazy. He beat it back with an effort, but his voice shook. “I don’t date. I'm a married man, Merry.”

He held out the hand with his ring on it, his arm rigid with fury. She simply cupped her warm hands around his and squeezed softly.

“No, you’re not, sugar. You’re a widower. And I love you to pieces for your loyalty to my baby…but Fan’s gone. She's gone and she isn't coming back.”

Tears sparkled in her eyes as Merry parted her fingers, looking down at the ring on his hand with a sigh. “You’re still such a young man, sugar. It isn’t right for you to be alone.”

“It isn’t right that she’s gone.” Scott’s head bowed over their joined hands, his throat so tight it hurt to get the words out. His anger had vanished as quickly as it had come; leaving him cold, empty and aching.

“No, it’s surely not. But that’s what is.” Merry raised his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles before she released him. Tucking the discarded dishtowel briskly into the rack and flipping over the dish drainer to dry out over the sink, she made off down the hall.

“I’m gonna call Frank and let him know I’ll be late, you go get ready. Mind you say goodnight to your children before you leave. Or I'll get the stick out.”

She sounded so much like Fannie when she said it, Scott's heart lurched in his chest. There'd never been any stick, of course, but they both said it just the same.

“Yes, ma’am.” Scott stared down at his hand, watching the gold band scrolled with flowers and vines glitter up at him.

Closing his eyes, he took the ring off. He held on to it for a long moment before reaching out to let it fall with a clink into the Mason jar over the sink. It wouldn’t do to go out to this club with it on his finger. As soon as he got home, though, he’d put it right back on. He was wearing that ring until he fucking died. Damn what everyone else thought.

Moving on was fine for some people.

Just not for him.

Tish was in the bedroom the twins shared. They were only seven and Scott thought he'd another year or two before he pressed the idea of separate rooms. God knows they'd needed each other's company these last couple years.

His daughter was lying on her tummy in bed, reading. Her explosion of brown hair so like her mother's, only a touch lighter and laced with Scott's own gold. Tish looked over her shoulder as he entered, impossibly adorable in pink PJs, her sweet bare feet swinging in the air. Her face lit up. His stomach knotted. How long until she stopped looking at him like that? Toby certainly had. Scott glanced around the room, but his son was nowhere to be seen.

He perched himself on the edge of Tish's Monster High bedspread. She launched herself into his lap, her slender arms flying around his neck, smelling like bubble bath and toothpaste. A well-cared for child. Bless Merry, he thought, for perhaps the thousandth time.

He kissed his daughter's cheek, just as soft as when she'd been a baby. "Where's your brother, princess?"

Tish pulled back. And started chewing her lip.

She had the same upside-down mouth as her mother, the same little dip in the thinner bottom lip, only in miniature. Scott was all too aware he'd be beating away the boys in a few short years. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He didn't want to go there. He didn't want to contemplate the endlessly long years ahead, doing this alone. Knowing damn well he was screwing up. He loved his kids to bits, but anymore he didn't know how to shape that love, to show it. It used to come so naturally to him, but not anymore.

Ever since that night on the 7th Street overpass. When Cross had blown out their tires, forced Fannie from the car, and made Toby jump from that fucking bridge….

The easy discipline; the structured chaos he and Fannie had thrived on—the joy he'd taken in parenting—that had been a partnership. Without Fan, he'd lost his heart, and what was left behind was a dark and empty place. He could navigate work, he could interact with his co-workers, manage the job…but being a family….he didn't know how to do that without her.

He did make himself try. Because no matter what shit life handed out, Scott refused to become his own father. Never that.

Scott shook himself. "C'mon, princess, where is he?" Not that he expected her to give her brother up that easily.

Toby and Tish were twins, but she was the eldest. She'd been looking out for him since they were in utero. Curled around him in the first ultrasound, little fist raised. Scott was sure she'd insisted on being born first, purely to make it easier for Toby.

When her brother was in the hospital all those months, Tish had been his cheerleader, his drill sergeant and his best friend. All while trying to process her own grief over Fannie's death. Not to mention the complete transformation of her goofy, sweet father into an increasingly silent and scary stranger.

Her big eyes went wary as she sat back. He could see the wheels turning. Tish didn't often fib. But she would for her brother.

As soon as he saw that look in her eye, though, Scott knew exactly where his son was.

Fucking hell.
Not again.

"Daddy, don't be mad."

Scott rose, forcing himself to give her a gentle smile. "I'm not, princess."

He pretended he didn't see the deeper shadow flit through those big eyes before he turned away. Disappointment, betrayal, weariness. Tish didn't only have so many of her mother's physical features, she'd also inherited Fannie's touch of empathic power. She knew damn well when she was being lied to.

Toby was in the willow out back. So high in the branches Scott could barely see him. Just his son's feet hanging down, sneakers swinging back and forth.

Scott’s stomach did a slow, sickening dive to his toes. He’d only the haziest memory of seeing Toby fall from that bridge. Shock had taken away most of the details. But one image remained clear in his head. That of one little sneaker; the soft black sole of it, the red Spiderman emblem on the scuffed heel. Watching his fingers brush it as Fannie's screams rang in his ears.

He'd been able to hear those screams in the hospital while the doctors bombarded him with information that would not, could not, sink in.

Spinal concussion…possible longitude compression…growth plate damage a real concern…

Fucking medical terms that he'd learned all too well over those nightmarish first six weeks. Toby had been lucky. Incredibly lucky. Without Miles getting that team on site so fast…

Scott shuddered.

You'd think a kid who'd lived through that crap would be scared of heights, maybe a little cautious at least?

Fuck no, not
his
son.

It would've made him proud if it didn't terrify the shit out of him.

Toby sought out heights like an addict. Scott didn't know if it was pure defiance, or, as his kids' therapist thought, Toby's way of exerting some kind of control over a fear he wouldn't admit to.

Another injury could result in further complications, contact sports will always be a risk. Best to avoid certain activities…

Scott closed his eyes and told the voices to shut up. He knew every word by heart. What was he supposed to do? Lock the damn kid in a padded cell for the rest of his life? He just wished that Toby would make it easier on him.