Page 60 of Stupid Dirty

Sky is more like Cade. She’s the star of her own show, so what other people do tends to roll off her as incidental.

“You’ll be singing a different tune when you’re the one getting caught necking in the kitchen.” Cade sneaks up behind her, then snakes his arm around her waist and yanks her up in the air, spinning her around as he shouts, “Teenagehood is upon you! The Waters house has been cursed a second time!”

Maddi wriggles and squeals at him to put her down, but she’s laughing the whole time and so am I. The relationship they have might be unconventional, but it works for them. Anyone who walks in here can tell that the girls feel loved by Cade, and as safe as they can be, given the circumstances.

Snatching the spoon out of her hand, Cade smacks her playfully on the arm with it, leaving a smudge of sauce on her sleeve, before shooing her away from the stove.

“Go. Do homework. Or scrapbook with Taylor Swift lyrics. Whatever normal teenagers do. I can cook dinner.”

Maddi grumbles as she wipes the sauce off, but she’s still smiling. Cade calls over to her one more time before she disappears back down the hallway.

“Except what are the two things we absolutely do not do in this household?”

The long-suffering look she gives him in return seems well practiced. “Take meth or get pregnant.”

“Exactly.” The spoon is pointed at her for emphasis. “Now go.”

He goes back to his stirring, and I take advantage of the brief moment of quiet to move over behind him, wrapping one arm around his waist and pressing a kiss against the back of his neck.

This is the stuff that makes me nervous. This is the stuff I have no idea if I’m supposed to do or not do or ask, or if it means we’re more than we are, or what. But Cade is a fundamentally tactile person, and every time I do it, he sinks into me like a housecat, and the confusion seems worthwhile.

“I swear, Silas. A few more years and I’m gonna start leaving a fruit bowl full of condoms next to the door, where most people leave their keys. Just grab and go. Or maybe I can paint lamb’s blood on the door like in the bible, and the puberty fairy will just skip us. The only thing that freaks me out more than the idea ofmeknocking someone up by accident is the idea of one of them getting knocked up while they’re still kids. That shit keeps me up at night.”

He shudders, his attention still on the pot of what looks like maybe chili.

It’s tricky to follow his thought process when he’s deep in ramble-mode. Something he said makes me pause, though. Howmuch time does he still spend thinking about girls? Does he miss it? Does he think about going back to it?

These are all questions that I should probably ask him, but nothing comes out of my mouth. Instead, I keep leaning into his back, soaking up the warmth and feel of him for as long as I’m allowed.

Christmas morning, as soon as I wake up, I find myself thinking about the tinsel-covered trailer and wishing I were there. Instead, I’m still at home.

Dad and I never had our big confrontation after I got back from staying at the trailer that first week. He gave me shit for being out so much, but it was a lot less shit than I expected. He asked me for money, but also less than I expected.

Maybe he senses that we’re building up to something, because he seems to be treading carefully these days. Still himself, but never pushing me hard enough that I snap and tell him I’m done being his piggy bank.

He’s still my dad. And I do owe him. If he can keep his mouth shut and not ask me where I go at night, and we can manage a kind of detente in the house, maybe our relationship is still salvageable.

Christmas has never been a good day for us, even when Mom was still here. I think they fought a lot. Dad’s always been a big believer that structure is the solution to everything. At the holidays he would be home more, and Mom’s mood swings andbouts of malaise that I’d always considered normal seemed to get on his nerves more and more.

After she died, the whole thing felt like a joke. Dad started getting me motocross gear for presents with a single-minded intensity, and bikes became the only thing he’d talk about.

Until he’d get too drunk and start talking about Mom. But I learned pretty quickly that I didn’t want to stick around for that part.

Right now, the atmosphere is more tense than it’s been in years. We typically just exchange a couple of gifts and then move on with our lives, but it feels like this year we’re circling each other, both on the precipice of change, waiting to see who shoves the other off the edge first.

We have breakfast together in silence, and then I tell him I’m going out. He raises an eyebrow, and I hold his gaze.

I dare you to ask me where I’m going on Christmas Day.Where I’d rather be than here. I want him to ask me, so I finally have a reason to say it.

All he does is shrug.

Feeling deflated, I take my plate to the sink and get ready to leave. Nothing else is said before I walk out of the door.

By the time I get to Cade’s, they are already in the thick of their celebrations.

I let myself inside, braced for the sound of arguing because I know Cade and his mom, but pleasantly surprised. Instead, theonly sound is the warm chatter of the girls floating from the back room, as well as Cade’s voice talking excitedly with them about something.

If anything, there’s even more tinsel than before, and I have to pick my way through a minefield to get down the hallway. But it’s worth it for what I find at the end.

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