Page 98 of Veiled in Brick

“But?” he interjected with more purpose. “But I’m trailer park trash, Zoey. This—”

I gasped, and Liam silenced himself at my scathing look.

“You called yourself what?” I snapped, and he chewed on the inside of his cheek anxiously. “Get the fuck out of here with that,” I scolded him sharply.

He tried to clarify, “I just mean—”

“Nah, Liam, you’re not defending that,” I spoke, and he closed his mouth, looking to his hands in his lap. “No one,” I enunciated each word carefully, “in this house,” I pointed towards the front door that was just beyond the garage, “Gives. A shit. About where you’ve lived. They may ask, but no matter if you tell them that you grew up down the goddamn street or if you mention a low-income area or if you said that you didn’t have a home at all or if you said that you were raised by fucking wolves, they wouldn’t care.”

Liam twisted his hands together, continuing to focus on them as he murmured, “You really think that?”

“I do.” I tried to catch his eye to no avail and requested more gently, “Look at me.” He sighed quietly and turned his head, his expression somber. I asked, “Are you good?” He finally nodded, and I quipped, “Good. ’Cause if you pull that card again, I’m tossing you out on the street.”

Gentle appreciation shined in his eyes, and he murmured, “Okay.”

His lips curved in a barely-there smile, and it crooked the scar over his lip in such a way that my desire to grab his jaw in my hands was unstoppable. I did so, leaning toward him as I yanked his mouth to mine in a rough kiss that mimicked my anger at his recent self-portrayal. I pulled away from him abruptly, his jaw moved against my right palm as he brushed his lips together, and I ordered him in a tone that was far softer than I had intended:

“Now, get the fuck inside.”

His smile widened, and he obliged.

We walked past the garage, through a small arched iron gate, and I heard Liam whisper a quiet profanity to himself as we entered the courtyard. It was a square-shaped area, about thirty feet across, edged by the gate we walked through and the outer walls of the house. Our steps sounded softly on red brick. To the right, there was a small vegetable garden that spanned the entire edge. Vines grew up the large, irregular stones, the greenery weaving its way upward in a pattern that followed the grout. The remaining space in the courtyard contained a well-used wicker sitting area that was situated around a circular fire pit. Two logs were placed in the center—they were almost completely burnt, and I assumed that they were left over from the night prior. The windows along the stone walls of the house were open, the lighting inside bright as the sunshine reflected off of the light-yellow paint in the kitchen. Luke and Claire’s happy voices emitted from the openings, mingling with my mother’s. To the left was the front door—a heavy, arching entrance with espresso colored wood and a large, antiqued door knocker that sat a few inches above my eye level.

I beckoned Liam to follow me as I strolled past the windows and toward the entrance.

“A comfortable amount of money?” he whispered disbelievingly down into my ear.

I shot my gaze skyward, grasped the handle, and pushed the door to let us inside, announcing our presence with, “Hello, hello!”

There was a wooden shoe rack to our right along with a spot on the wall with hooks to hang coats, and Luke and Claire’s respective bags were placed on the floor. I marched past it all, following the hallway to the hum of voices, and found them all gathered in the kitchen. The island was large, and the granite dark. Four bar seats were along one side—two of which, Luke and Claire were leaning against casually. The cabinetry mimicked the color of the front door, almost as dark as black coffee, and they spanned the walls behind the island. Beyond that, the lawn leading to the dock on the lake was visible through the window above the sink. The sunlight from the courtyard shined through the open panes to the right, lighting up rectangular spots on the hardwood floor.

“Hey there!” my mother greeted us from the stove on the left, nearly bouncing past Luke and Claire. Her blonde hair, as usual, was up in a clip. I looked to the face that I knew I would resemble in several years to come, and smiled. She wrapped her arms around me and gave me a brief squeeze before stepping back, placing her hands on her hips, and observing my appearance. “How was the drive?”

I shrugged. “You know—long-ish. Not bad.”

“Good, good,” she muttered, turning to face Liam who was silently standing to my right. She flashed him a broad grin. “Liam, right? I’m Chris.”

He returned her grin, though it was a bit weak. “Nice to meet you.”

She looked him up and down for a moment so brief that I could have imagined it—no doubt questioning his presence in my life and how significant it was.

“Likewise, dear,” she replied, pointing a finger at him. “Pasta or pork? I’m taking votes.”

I breathed out a quick sigh of relief at her lack of questioning about our relationship.

“Um,” Liam looked down to me as if I would give him my own opinion before he would share his.

“Oh, don’t ask her,” she told him with a scoff. “Guests get to choose; she has no say.”

I argued, “Hey, I’m a guest, too.”

She waved a hand in my direction, dismissing my comment without even glancing my way. “Sure, you are, dear. Liam—pork? Pasta?”

A smirk had risen to his face at her naturally sarcastic behavior. “Pasta?”

“Ooh, you broke the tie—pasta, it is.”

“Where’s Dad?” I questioned.

---