Shift

14

All the cold showers in the world couldn’t cure me last night. One of the curses of living in the desert means getting your shower cold enough can sometimes be impossible, especially in the warmer months. Last night? I needed ice cold water. I settled for lukewarm. I settled for struggling not to finish myself off in the Judge’s downstairs shower while I thought of Ha

The pent-up frustration led to zero sleep for the rest of the night. My restless mind took advantage of the time, dreaming up all the scenarios that could happen the minute Ha

With.

That’s the next thing I obsessed over. That word. The phrase. Which one is right? What are we? We’re Ha

All that time to find a better way to break the news to her parents, yet all I came up with is what I’m about to do right now. My knee bobs nervously under the lip of the counter as I sit on the stool picking at the blueberry muffin her mom put on a small plate for me. I guzzled the glass of orange juice so fast she quirked a brow at me and automatically refilled the glass, then felt my forehead.

Shit. This woman takes care of me like a mom and I’m about to tell her I’ve fallen for her daughter, whom I sleep near every night.

Shit.

I dismiss her offer of coffee because fuck if coffee won’t give me a heart attack right now. My palm is sweating so hard that the minute I see Ha

“Morning, sweetheart,” her dad says, leaning forward to kiss her cheek as she puffs it out with air toward him.

He’s going to hit me. Right in the face. I’ve been hit in the face. I can do this.

Her next move is to sit in the stool next to me, as I hoped, and maybe a little as I dreaded. I’m really going to do this.

Before I have a chance to change my mind—to chicken out—I slap my hand on top of hers where it rests on her knee and twine my fingers between hers so we make a joined fist. I lift both of our hands up and rest them on the counter on full display for every pair of eyes that isn’t ours. It takes about four seconds for everyone to take note, and about five for Mr. Judge to spit a full mouth of coffee all over the kitchen.

“Oh.” That’s the only word uttered and it’s from Mrs. Judge’s lips. She slides the coffee pot back into its place and leans against the counter before fidgeting with the crystal hanging from a chain around her neck. That thing is only decorative but right now, I think she might be praying to it.

Tommy’s laugh is the first thing to break the thick silence.

“Yeah, this is how I thought it would go down,” he says, making a point to meet my eyes and point at me. His smirk isn’t just smug, it’s full of doubt and warning.

You won’t make it out of this house intact. That’s what he’s saying with that look.

“You knew about this . . . this . . .” Mr. Judge waggles his finger in Ha

“Hey, I told them it was a bad idea,” Tommy says, popping an apple in his mouth and gripping it with his teeth while holding both palms up as if he’s totally i

If they only knew how many times I dragged your drunk ass home.

Tommy hits me with one last glare as he pushes through the door with his back. I hold him hostage with my return stare and unlike the smile on his lips, my jaw has grown rigid and my mouth a tight, soured line. I look at the door he shuts behind him and replay the last minute, wondering if it could have gone any other way. It’s hard not to be hurt by their reaction, even if I expected it. I’m good enough to be family, but not good enough to have the feelings I do for their daughter.

Mrs. Judge runs a paper towel across the counter in front of me, luring me back to the unpleasant scene in the kitchen. She’s already turned all of her focus to cleaning up the coffee spray mess, and her husband—the man who is more father to me than anyone I’ve ever known—is leaning over the counter with both palms flattened on the surface with so much force I think he may be trying to sink into the granite.

“Dad—” Ha

“Don’t,” he grunts, holding up one hand while keeping his stare on the counter between us. His rigid hand, fingers splayed, sits in the air like a stop sign for several seconds while he shakes his head before coming back down to the counter with a heavy slap that jolts both Ha

My grip on her hand tightens and though I feel her squeezing me back, it doesn’t do much to slow the rage building in my chest. My upper lip sneers as my mouth waters. Mr. Judge finally raises his head, his red, furious eyes meeting mine that aren’t that far behind, though our anger has different motivating factors.

“She’s my daughter, Dustin!” He grits the words through his teeth.

Somehow, I keep my words inside. I tighten my lips as my nostrils flair, and I shake my head to show my disappointment. My other hand comes up to the counter, curling into a fist that I fight not to pound in the same alpha-style Mr. Judge used. I’m huffing, my breath hitting my ears and sounding like a bull waiting for an opportunity.

“I love him, Daddy!”

Ha

“No!” her father yells in return.

Ha

“Am I really that awful?” I utter. My voice is half the volume of Ha

I’m not good enough.

A sad, breathy laugh quakes my chest as I stand, shifting to meet Mr. Judge’s still hardened gaze. His jaw works back and forth and I can see the physical pain he’s being caused by the conflict in his chest. He wants to love me like a son, but he just . . . doesn’t.

“Yeah. I am,” I say with a slow nod.

“Dustin,” Ha

“I’ll have my stuff out this afternoon. I’ll leave the key in the pot by the garage,” I a