Page 39 of Everywhere You Look

Luke

“I’m telling you right now, you need to go.”

Kira’s voice echoes in the nearly silent studio, loud and commanding even though she has her head and her body halfway out the door as she yells into the street. Something in my gut tells me that I know exactly who she is yelling at. It’s the same sickening bile that would simmer in my stomach and rise in my throat late at night when insults were being slung and doors were being slammed. The same nauseating unsettledness that I’d feel every time I sat in one of those church pews and listened to the words that my father would spit from his spot at the pulpit, all in the name of some God.

Abomination.

Criminals.

Should be lined up against a wall and shot.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

They’re here. I knew I’d have to face them eventually, but not here. Not now.

There are no windows on this side of the studio, for the children’s safety. They need to be able to dance without fear of creepers walking around outside and leering in. But the snack station is set up in the lobby, which faces the street.

Dean shakes his head with a small laugh, seemingly unaware that my anxiety has reached a high I haven’t felt since I was a teenager.

“Of course, my sister has to make enemies everywhere she goes. She’s probably yelling at some poor unsuspecting tourist who stopped to check their teeth in the reflection of the window. Come on, let’s go save them,” he says, standing and pulling me by the hand. I follow, not because I want to but because I seem to be unable to make any sort of conscious decision on my own.

Dean leads me across the dance floor, and when we cross the threshold into the lobby, I’m grateful that my husband is taller and broader than I am. It makes it that much easier to hide behind him.

The front door is only open a fraction, but Kira’s small frame can only shield so much of who standson the other side. It’s clear how Kira knew exactly who the couple standing on the sidewalk and peering through the windows was. Gigi was a carbon copy of our mother, having inherited Rebecca’s thick blonde hair and waifish figure. And much to my chagrin, I’ve always been a dead ringer for Joseph.

It only takes a second before Dean realizes who Kira is yelling at, too. In an instant, he’s shoving his way to the door, carefully pushing his sister—who has Ollie resting on her hip—behind him and creating a sort of protective wall with his body between my parents on the street and the rest of us inside.

“Vayanse a la mierda. You need to leave. Now. Leave this street, leave this city. You’re not welcome here,” he says in a tone that is so calm, it borders on eery. If Gigi were here, she’d probably say that his aura has turned black as night. I’ve never once seen Dean lose his temper outside the confines of a football game, but I get the feeling that it is taking everything in him to hold back right now.

“So, you must be my son’s…friend,” Rebecca says with all the politeness of what their church would call a “well-bred woman of God.” She’s dressed in a pale blue dress—though to call it a dress is being generous. It’s more like a frock that covers nearly every inch of her skin. She looks so much like Gigi, somuch like Lemmie and Mellie, too, that it hurts. I have to turn away or I think I might get sick.

I look at Joseph instead, and it’s like looking in a mirror that’s aged me thirty years. His collared shirt matches the pale blue of Rebecca’s dress, but the loose-fitting denim jeans he wears serve as a reminder that he, as the man, has the luxury of choosing something more casual to wear. The two of them look comically out of place here. Two buttoned-up, conservative sore-thumbs sticking out in the middle of our loud, bright, colorful neighborhood. I almost wish I could have seen their faces when they got out of the car and saw the arrangement of pride flags that line the street we’re on.

“I’m Luke’s husband. And don’t you dare call him “son”.”

“Husband,” Joseph scoffs, spitting on the ground like the word itself is some sort of affront to him. “You don’t get to tell me how I speak to my child, and you are not married. Not in my eyes, and not in the eyes of God.”

“Good thing the eyes of your God don’t mean crap to me, then. Hijo de puta, what kind of God would let you parent? Parents don’t hate their children. They don’t threaten their children or beat their children or disown them for being who they are.” Dean says, and I wince. Though I’m impressed hehas the foresight to censor his cursing, even now. Most of the parents and kids have stopped what they’re doing to watch the scene unfold. It’s not like they can leave with my husband blocking the door.

“Dean, babe, maybe we should move this outside,” I murmur from my spot behind him.

“Uncle Lukey, who is that?” Mellie asks, tugging on my pant leg. She and Lemmie have saddled up next to me, obviously confused and overwhelmed. Rebecca kneels down and holds out her arms. It’s a ridiculous sight, this woman on the ground, leering at my children through my husband’s legs.

“I’m your grandmother, little angels,” she coos, and in an instant, my anxiety has been replaced by pure, seething rage. I step in front of Lem and Mel, looking back only long enough to see that Kira has taken them by the hand and is walking them back into the studio. My girls glance back at me over their shoulders, confusion and a hint of fear marring their sweet faces.

I duck under Dean’s arm and step onto the sidewalk right in front of where Rebecca is still squatting. My close proximity forces her to crane her neck to look up at me.

I am not a violent person. Emotional? Yes. Hot-headed? Sure. But not violent. Even on the football field, I never loved the pushing and tackling part ofthe game—that’s why I loved being a quarterback. But the urge to just sort of…kick Rebecca over and watch her fall flat on her ass is strong.

“Do. Not. Speak. To. My. Kids. Ever.”

Rebecca stands, and even though she’s a few inches shorter than me, when she crosses her arms over her chest, I feel like a little boy about to be sent to Dad’s room for a punishment with the belt again.

“Levi, you are being unreasonable,” she says, alligator tears welling in her brown eyes. “First, we lose Genesis. I have to read about my own daughter’s death on the web. I never got the chance to mend things with her, to try to bring her back to God. I have to know that she is spending eternity in hell because of her life choices. Do you know how impossible that is for a mother?”

“Her name was Gigi. And you lost every right to call her your daughter when you sat back and let him—” I jab a finger in the direction of my father. “Hurt her. You encouraged it.”

“And now you won’t even let me see my grandchildren? The children need to get to know us before we bring them home to Idaho.” Rebecca continues like I haven’t said a word. Like it’s a given that I’m going to let her take my kids away from me. Like she doesn’t give a shit that she’s pissing all over my sister’s memory and expects me to just be okay withit. But it’s not okay, I am not fucking okay. The rage simmering inside of me comes to a boil, and I explode.

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