Page 11 of Everywhere You Look

Luke

I’m starving. Look at the size of those things. We’ll be eating leftovers for days!

“What’s got you smiling like that?” Reuben asks, and I hold my phone up to show off the picture. Pride thrums in my chest when the guys give a collective ‘aww’ at my girls on the screen. Cam says something about his daughters and how much they love fishing on the bay and buying buckets of Dungeness crabs from fishermen on the wharf.

“Oh yeah, it is crab season, isn’t it? It’s probably too late now, but maybe Dean or me can head down on Saturday morning and pick up a few pounds. I think Lem and Mel will dig eating crab legs with their hands and getting all messy,” I say, swiping back to my message thread with Dean to let him in on that thought.

“Right, you’re living with Dean McKenna from Knoxville now, aren’t you? How’s that going?” Howie asks. I mentioned Dean on my first day here when someone asked me where the kids were, and I guess word has gotten around. It doesn’t surprise me that people are curious about my bestie. He’s an incredible athlete with the kind of career accomplishments most of us can only dream of achieving. Tack on the fact that Dean got to head up a franchise that once belonged to his dad, the legendary Knoxville Crushers quarterback Jay McKenna, and that family is the thing athletic wet dreams are made of.

“It’s going well. I wasn’t on my own for too long before he moved in, but still, it’s a relief having backup when it comes to the kids. His sister lives next door, and she’s been a big help, but just having another adult in the house is a game changer.”

“I bet. The wife and I just have one kid, and he was a nightmare until we got him into school. Even with McKenna in the house, you guys are outnumbered. I don’t know how you do it.”

I shrug at Reuben’s comment. I understand the sentiment, but the answer is simple. I do it because Gigi asked me to. I do it because I love Lemmie, Mellie and Ollie with my entire heart.

Dean, on the other hand? I’m still not one hundred percent sure why he has voluntarilysubjected himself to my circus. I think he might be crazy, but I’m so grateful to have him.

An unfamiliar man approaches our circle, and I lift my arms, assuming it’s a production assistant here to retrieve the last of the wires taped under my shirt. But when he speaks, my stomach drops.

“Levi Connelly?”

I feel the blood rush out of my face. My knees buckle as anxiety thrums through my veins. The chatter around me sounds distant, like I’m trapped in a bubble, unable to hear what’s going on around me. Some part of my brain registers a hand on my arm, and I realize that I’m swaying, and Reuben is holding me up.

“Levi Connelly?” The man asks again, and my throat goes dry. Connelly hasn’t been my name for years. Not since I was thirteen.

No one has called me Connelly since Gigisavedme from our parent’s house. The house where we endured years of indoctrination, abuse and being told that who we are is a sin and we need to pay for it.

We changed our surname. We went from Levi and Genesis to Luke and Gigi. No one knows that I was once Levi Connelly, not Luke Cannon. If this guy is calling me Levi…

“Why did my parents send you?” I ask, mymouth feeling like it’s full of cotton. I don’t recognize him, but he has to be from Idaho, right? He’s got to be from the church. The Connelly’s don’t talk to people outside of church. There is no world outside of Salem, Idaho.

He holds out a manilla envelope between us, and I scoff at it, taking a dramatic step backwards. I don’t want anything from this guy. I don’t want anything from anyone who knew me then. But the man doesn’t relent. He waves the envelope between us and then eventually shoves it into my chest, forcing me to grab it.

“Levi Connelly, you’ve been served. Have a great day.”

6

A POX ON OUR HOUSE

Dean

“How old are you?” Mellie asks as she applies another coat of hot pink polish to the nails on my left hand. Well, not just my nails. My fingers, my jeans, and the carpet all have a shimmer of glitter pinkness that wasn’t there twenty minutes ago, too. I’ve long given up on trying to keep the girls from making messes. I find it’s better to let them do their thing and then try to teach them the importance of cleaning up afterwards. My right eye is closed since Lemmie insisted I stop squinting while she runs a brush covered in electric blue powder over my eyelid, but I can still peek down at Mellie while monitoring Ollie in her pack-and-play out of my left eye.

“I’m thirty-six,” I answer, and the twins gasp in unison.

“Thirty-six? Oh my gosh, your daddies must have to buy so many candles for your birthday cake!” Lemmie says in shock. I can’t help the snort that works its way out of my nose. The way these kids see the world is endlessly fascinating to me.

“So many candles, Lem. And my sister is thirty-two. Between me and Miss Kira, I’m surprised Pops and IronDad haven’t gone bankrupt.”

“What’s bank rubbed?” Mellie asks, and I sigh. Fascinating as they may be, the questions never end with these two. Yesterday Lemmie asked me if spiders pee in the potty, and honestly? I’m still a little stumped by that one.

I don’t think I have it in me to try to explain the American financial system right now, so I decide to distract them.

“Hey mis pollitas, want to call Tía Camila while my nails dry?”

They squeal in response, and I lift my hips so that Lemmie can fish my phone from where it’s sticking out of my back pocket. We’ve been calling my Tía Camila on FaceTime every afternoon this week so she can help me learn to cook, and the girls adore her. They think it’s hilarious that she yells at me in Spanish when I mess something up, like when I usedthe wrong knife to chop the herbs for my chimichurri. At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if Ollie’s first word is Tía.

Tonight, I’m attempting beef empanadas, and I’ll be shocked if Lemmie and Mellie don’t pick up a few Spanish swear words in the process.

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