Page 65 of Fighting for You
A shudder runs down my spine, and my skin prickles at the thought of his eyes on me again. I shake it off and make my way to the door between Hayes’ tattoo studio and the ice cream shop next to it. After I punch in the code, the door buzzes open, and I hustle up the stairs to Hayes’ apartment.
“Merry Christ—” I start as I enter without knocking and then freeze as I stand three feet from a boy who can’t be more than fifteen years old. I caught him in the middle of biting off the head of a gingerbread man. His grey eyes, partially hidden by glasses, are wide as they take me in. We stand staring at each other for a beat, then two. The spell is broken when he chokes on the cookie and starts coughing.
“Uh, hi. I’m Margot. Is Hayes here?” I ask when his hacking subsides. He nods and tries to chew quickly to clear his mouth, a few crumbs falling from his lips.
“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. “He’s cooking.” I’m still standing in the doorway, unsure of who the kid is when he realizes he’s in my way to get to my brother. “Sorry! I’m Sebastian. People call me Sebby. I’m Max’s brother. Hayes’... friend?”
Max’s kid brother. The reason Max spends his weekends in an illegal fighting ring, trying to win enough cash to help support the two of them. My heart breaks a little as I look over at him. He’s sweet looking; almost as tall as Max but gangly, like he hasn’t quite grown into his limbs, and still carrying the innocence of boyhood. Another year and he’ll be an exact replica of his brother. From what Hayes mentioned, they’ve had a rough childhood, but it doesn’t look like he carries too much of it on his shoulders. He seems relaxed, happy even.
“Margot, is that you?” Hayes calls out from somewhere deeper in the apartment. The space isn’t big, just a simple one bedroom, but the entrance is down a hall from the main living space. I move around Sebby and find Hayes in the small kitchen chopping carrots as something cooks on the stove behind him. He’s so broad, there’s hardly any room for anyone else in the space. The air smells delicious, scents of garlic and roasting chicken waft around me, and I’m transported back to the manyChristmases we’ve spent together with Hayes cooking all day and me stealing bites when he’s not looking.
Sebby follows me and hops over the back of the couch, settling in next to Max—arm still in a sling from his shoulder dislocation—who barely acknowledges me with only a nod and a quick “Yo,” his eyes on some action movie on the TV.
“Merry Christmas,” I say, stepping into Hayes for a hug. He returns it one-handed, the other still holding the knife but at a distance away from my body. “You didn’t tell me we’d have company,” I add in a whisper.
“Merry Christmas, Booger.” He looks behind me, confirming the boys’ attention is fixed on the TV. “Sorry, they had nowhere to go. Their uncle is spending a few nights in jail—don’t ask. So, I invited them here. We’ll have plenty of food.” My heart constricts at the thought, remembering plenty of holidays Hayes and I spent just the two of us because Dad was sleeping it off or out drinking somewhere, unaware of the significance of the day.
“No, of course it’s fine. The more the merrier. Can I help you with anything?”
“I’ve got this, but maybe you can set the table? I asked Max, but, well…” He trails off, and I follow where he’s looking to the small dining area off to the left. The tablecloth hangs off the sides of the table, askew; the plates are still stacked with the forks and knives on top; a pack of napkins sits next to the dishes, unopened. I smile at how very typical teenager the sight is.
After I sort out the table, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and sit on a stool on the opposite side of the island from where Hayes is working. He’s shoved papers and his open laptop to this end, and my eyes snag on the screen. It’s open to a website for a tattoo studio in New York City, City Tats. The page he has up is a profile for one of their artists: Calla Bennett. She’s stunning, flaming red hair and a chic goth-rock style. She also looks startlingly familiar.
I’m about to ask Hayes who she is when I catch sight of the papers next to the laptop: town records for renovation and business permits pulled by Calla.
“What’s all this?” I ask.
Hayes’ eyes flit to me and take in what I’m referring to, and then his eyebrows slant down while his shoulders tense. He starts chopping more aggressively. “Research.”
“Who’s Calla Bennett?”
“A huge fucking pain in my ass,” he grumbles out and turns away to drop the diced vegetables into one of the pans on the stove.
“Hmm,” I hum with a small smile. “Well, she’s a very pretty pain in the ass.”
“Don’t start,” he says, turning back to me before pausing. When he’s quiet and unmoving for a beat, I look over and find him examining me.
“What?”
“Ass? Since when do you swear?” His eyes narrow on me, scrutinizing my face for the first time since I got here. “And why do you look like you spent the night crying? What happened?”
The skin on my face tightens, and I know I’ve gone pale. I can’t tell my brother about Brooks, not that there’s much to say. He’d rage and say he told me so. Then he’d probably go find Brooks, and today would become known as the Great Indigo Hill Christmas Massacre.
“Nothing happened,” I meek out, unable to come up with anything better on the spot. “And I’m an adult, I’m allowed to swear.” I add, trying to infuse some indignation into my voice.
“Who am I fucking up?” He’s pretty much growling now.
“Hayes, it’s fine. I-I was just… sad yesterday. You know, the holidays.” I punctuate my lie with a small shrug, hoping it comes off at least a little convincing.
Hayes deflates a little, but the concern doesn’t leave his face. A moment later, he nods. “Yeah, sure,” he says, turning back to the stove to stir something.
I let out a silent sigh. No matter my feelings toward Brooks, I don’t want to ruin their relationship, especially since Brooks wants to work with him one day.
We spend the next hour chatting about my work and the people around town while I watch Hayes put the finishing touches on the feast he’s cooked for us. Once everything is prepared, Max and Sebby turn off the TV and help bring all the dishes to the table where we sit and pass around the food.
“Are there nuts and berries in this salad?” asks Max with a scrunched nose as he eyes the mixed greens topped with pistachios, shaved parmesan, and pomegranate seeds Hayes holds out to him.
“Just eat it,” says Hayes exasperatedly, like this isn’t the first time they’re having this conversation. He’s sitting across the table from me, Max on his right.
