Page 1 of Resist Me (Forget the Past 3)

ChapterOne

LUNA

“A week ago, I wouldn’t have been able to pick Delaware out on a map.”

“That’s not something you should be proud of.” I glance to the passenger seat where my younger brother rides shotgun. Dash stares out the window of our rental car as we cross from Pennsylvania into Delaware.

“I blame our public school education,” he concludes.

He’s not wrong. There are a lot of reasons I hold a grudge against our grade school, and I don’t mind adding sucky geography lessons onto the pile.

As the silence stretches, I try to find a response. A joke or witty comeback to maintain the light-hearted banter between us on this last leg of our journey. But nerves shut down my vocal cords. As our destination looms, I fight off the panic trying to convince me that this was a horrible decision. That in the next hour I will obliterate all the secret dreams I’ve kept tucked in a back corner of my heart.

We approach our destination as quiet as the manicured streets our car rolls down. This neighborhood lacks the personality of our childhood block in New Orleans. There was a wildness to that place. A dangerous edge. Here is all well-maintained safety. The former made me a survivor. But this suburb might have made me happy. If only I’d known family lived here.

Following the GPS, I pull up to a house with a neatly trimmed lawn. There’s a meticulously organized garden on the south side of the house, and despite its orderly rows, the small patch of agriculture gives the house more personality than the cookie-cutter palaces sitting equally spaced down the rest of the street.

“Mom grew up here?” Dash stares up at the massive house. The home isn’t a mansion or anything, but it’s at least three times larger than the shotgun house we were raised in.

“Maybe they moved after she left,” I suggest, trying to connect our mother to this upper-middle-class dream house. The pieces don’t fit. “Or maybe I got the address wrong.”

Our mother, Vivian Lamont, does not give off middle-class vibes. She gives off born-without-wealth-and-one-day-expecting-to-fly-on-a-private-jet vibes. No matter how delusional that last belief is. I always imagined she grew up in some shack even shittier than the house passed down through my father’s family.

“Doesn’t hurt to check it out.” Dash climbs out of the car, and I follow. A shiver creeps through my nerves, and I’m not sure if the sensation comes from the fall weather or some disquiet about this task. Still, as we head up the front walk, I take the lead. Like I always do.

As my finger hovers over the doorbell, I offer my brother another glance. A final chance to warn me off this course.

Dash just offers a tight smile and a quick nod.

Guess we’re doing this.

I press the button, listening to the echoing ring of the bell. Long enough goes by that I’m considering ringing again when the dead bolt clicks and the door inches open wide enough to reveal the face of a woman.

We meet eyes easily, with her coming in at the same height as me. And the similarities don’t end there.That’s my nose, I can’t help thinking. Straight with just a touch of a dip at the end. I’ve seen that nose every day in the mirror and all throughout my childhood whenever I looked at my mother’s face. This woman also has the same hooded eyes as my mother, my siblings, and me. She uses them to watch us with sharp attention.

“I don’t want any,” she snaps, adding a jerk of a head shake that has her slate bob brushing her cheeks.

Those are my cheeks, my brain declares.

“Any what?” The question is all I can manage as I try to deal with the fact that I’m talking to a member of my family. An entirely new member I never thought I’d meet.

“Whatever you’re selling. No solicitors. See?” She taps the sign hanging on her door. “Try the next house.” The woman goes to shut the door, but I stop her, pressing my palm flat on the wood.

“Wait. I—”

“What are you doing? Trying to break into my house? No!” That’s when this woman, who must be pushing seventy, gives me a mighty shove and slams the door in my face.

Behind me, Dash snorts. I throw a glare over my shoulder. “You want to take over?”

My brother backs away, hands raised in surrender.

Facing the door, I knock again.

“Go away! I’ll call 9-1-1!” The barrier muffles her words, but the threat is still audible.

Shit.My eager hope twists into desperation as the situation falls out of my control. If she calls the authorities, we have to leave. Immediately. Dash doesn’t need a run-in with police when he just finished his parole.

In my imagination, I always pictured bringing up this topic delicately. Sitting down together at a table and using a careful tone as I explained the circumstances.

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