Chapter Thirteen

Maren

Lydia was nine the last time I saw her in person, but I've seen her photo on Instagram enough times to know it's her. It also doesn't take a scientist to see she's blitzed out of her mind. She's clutching a bottle in a paper bag while stumbling in her platform boots, and I wonder if our father saw how short her skirt was when she left the house. He surely wouldn't approve of the guys hanging around her. But I'm not really worried about what my father would think, I'm worried about the position Lydia is in as I see the guys pass her the bottle again, catching eyes above her head.

Years ago, before I got sober, I was Lydia. I felt like the sexiest girl in the world as I hung out with some guys who were years older than me. We'd just done a few lines of coke, and they were awfully generous with a bottle of whiskey they were passing around. I don't remember much about that night, but I do know that when I woke up the next morning behind a dumpster near some apartments, my underwear was missing, there were bruises on my arms and thighs, and I had a deep pain in my groin that lasted for days. More than anger and fear, I felt completely stupid. I knew better. You don't live on the streets and not see stuff. I knew what happened to girls who let down their defenses. And I'd done just that—trusted a bunch of guys I barely knew only to be violated. I was so ashamed that I didn't give details when I got tested at the free clinic, and I was lucky I didn't get pregnant or any STDs.

Now I'm seeing the same scene unfold in front of me, but it's my sister, and these guys are purposely getting her drunk.

"Lydia!" I tear myself from Mac's arms as her name falls loudly from my mouth. She turns around as I stalk in her direction. For a moment, I see the lack of clarity as she tries to figure out who I am. And then it washes over her, followed by a sneer that too closely resembles a look I've seen on my father's face.

I don't wait for her to talk, instead I grab her arm and pull her away. She tries to fight me off, but her drunk ass can barely form a sentence .

"Who the fuck are you?" One of the guys takes a menacing step toward me, but Mac is between us in an instant, his hand like a vice around the guy's throat.

"Back off, fucker, or I'll beat the shit out of you. Then I'll call the cops for supplying a minor with alcohol. Fuck knows what else you were planning on doing with an underage girl."

He pushes hard, and the guy coughs and gasps for breath as soon as Mac releases him.

"We weren't doing nothing but hanging out," another guy mutters, but loud enough that Mac swings at him, catching him in the chin.

"Leave them alone," Lydia screams, finally finding words as the guys take off running, leaving her with us.

"Why, so they can finish getting you fucked up before they rape you?"

Lydia pulls away from me, rubbing at her arm as if I've done more harm to her than those bastards. "They're my friends. But I guess a whore like you wouldn't understand."

"Don't talk to her that way," Mac intervenes, his face twisted in an angry scowl as he shakes out his hand. "Who is this twit, anyway?"

"She's my sister."

"You are not my sister." Lydia stumbles, and I catch her before she falls. She yanks her arm from me again. "You're a fucking stranger who probably stalked me here so you can get money from me."

I know she's saying things to get under my skin. And it's working. Every word she throws at me, every sneer, is like a punch to the gut. I hear my father. I wonder what he's told her in the years I've been gone.

"Your sister is the bravest and strongest woman I know," Mac says, "and she just saved your ass from what those guys were going to do to you."

"They weren't going to do anything. We were just having some fun."

I bark out a laugh, "And Dad would have no problem seeing you like this?"

She doesn't have a chance to shoot me another sarcastic remark, because suddenly she's bent at the waist, puking all over the street. I jump back to avoid the splash zone, but then quickly maneuver around her so I can pull her hair back.

"I'll get the car," Mac says, and I look up, catching his eye. I'm overwhelmed at how grateful I am that he's here with me. As furious as I am with Lydia, reality is starting to catch up with me. Lydia wasn't lying when she called me a stranger. She doesn't know me; she only knows the picture my father has painted of me. Now I have to deliver her back to the lion's den and face my father's rejection once again.

"Thank you," I say, and Mac nods before trotting off in the direction of the car.

By the time he returns, Lydia has puked half her weight on the street and is now leaning against a wall with her eyes closed, moaning periodically.

Mac pulls up in a Jaguar, panther black with silver details and shiny rims, which still smells like new leather when he opens the door. It's another reminder how different our worlds are, along with a stab in the gut that someone like him could not possibly be interested in someone like me.

Imagine if he knew I lived in the Beale Street apartments, with its mildew scent and dark spots on the ceiling. That it was a huge step up from my life before, that this is the progress I've made while he sleeps between thousand-dollar sheets. It's one thing for him to know where I came from. It's something else for him to know I've only come this far. If he knew I lived in that teardown apartment, he'd really know how different we were. My ego, more than anything, can't risk this.

"I'm sorry if she pukes in your car," I murmur as Mac lifts her up. Lydia keeps her eyes closed, moaning as he places her in the backseat. He buckles her in, but she slumps over, lying on the bench seat as if it were a bed.

"I'll let you help me clean it if she does," he says, followed by a wink. He opens the door for me and I slide into the passenger seat.

It's like an out of body experience as I direct Mac to my parents' home. It feels both familiar and strange as I navigate through streets that grow more recognizable with each turn. Then we're on the same street, and my heart is pounding as he slows in front of the house I once called home.

"Breathe, Maren," Mac says, taking my hand and stroking the back of it.

The night I met Mac on the top of Torches, wearing the glass of wine I never drank, I revealed more about myself than I ever had to anyone. Beyond Claire, that is. There was something about Mac that made it easy to let my guard down, and before I knew it, I was telling him all about my fucked up past and how it cost me my family.

The way he's holding my hand now, I'm sure he can see the tempest brewing inside me. I hadn't even known I was holding my breath, or that I was crying. He wipes my tears with his thumb, then cups my face as he looks into my eyes.

For a moment, I'm tempted to ask him to come with me as I deliver my sister. But as much as I fear my father's wrath, it will be worse for Mac. There's no way my father will see anything but malice if some strange guy came in carrying his drunk daughter.

It has to be me.

"Wait here," I say, moving from Mac's protecting hand. His jaw pulses, and he pauses like he's going to say something. But he finally nods.

I leave the safety of my seat, opening the back door. My sister is still slumped over, and she moans as I unbuckle her seatbelt.

"Lydia, you have to get up, I can't carry you." I tug at her until she finally pulls herself into a sitting position. When she opens her eyes, I can see it's a struggle.

"Maren?" Her voice is strained, and I'm worried she's going to be sick again.

"Let's get out of the car," I say, taking her arm and putting if over my shoulder. She stands, but I bear most of the weight. "Can you walk?"

She nods, taking a shuffling step forward. She murmurs something else, and I lean in to hear what she's saying.

"How's it feel?" she slurs, then takes another few steps. I cling to her to keep from falling as she stumbles.

"How's what feel?"

She laughs, dropping to the asphalt, probably skinning her unprotected knees.

"How's it feel to know that you fucked up so badly that Mom and Dad don't want you? That they pretend you're dead because they can't stand to know you exist."

It takes all my effort to not push her back down and cram her face into the street. I hear Mac's door slam shut, and I whirl around, losing Lydia in the process as I press my hands to his chest.

"It's fine, I got this."

"It's not fine. That little brat needs to learn a lesson."

"And you're going to teach it to her?" I ask, still holding him off.

"No," he says, shaking me off him. "But no one gets to talk to you that way, least of all a spoiled drunk kid. I don't care if she's your sister."

"And you'll stand down because she's my sister. This is my business, Mac. Not yours. I can handle my own."

Even though he's made it clear that no one gets to tell him what to do, this is where the line is drawn. He can run his alpha mouth all day long, and I will not back down.

The hardened look remains in his eyes, and he glares at Lydia, who is back on her ass on the ground not even bothering to get back up.

"Fine," he relents, "But I'm staying with you, and not in the car like some bitch."

"Fine," I spit back at him. But secretly, I'm glad. Just knowing he's there eases my nerves about facing my father again.

We get Lydia to the front steps, and I'm about to ring the doorbell, when she stops me with a flailing hand.

"No," she says. She looks at me, and this time I see the fear in her eyes. "He can't know. "

After all this girl has said to me, I have half a mind to beat the door down and get him really angry before he opens it to find his drunk daughter. But something in her face stops me. Even though I owe her nothing, and I have every right to turn her in, I lower my hand.

"Give me your keys," I say, and she fishes around in her purse before finding them. "Not a peep. If I'm going to sneak you in, you're going to be dead silent, you hear me? Because if Dad catches me in there with you, being drunk will be the least of your issues."

Lydia won't be the one to pay—I will. Still, a new look of fear crosses her face, and she nods.

"I can try to make it to my room by myself," she slurs, but I shake my head.

"You can barely stand up, let alone walk. Now stop talking and let's get this over with."

"I'm still coming with you," Mac says. I nod, even though this feels like an impossible mission. But I also don't want to go in there alone.

I slide the key into the lock and turn it quietly. Then I ease the door open, holding my breath. I look at Lydia and nod, and we both make the first step into the house.

The smell in the house hits me all at once, an earthy scent I haven't smelled for years. There's the hint of whatever they had for dinner—my mom's Chile relleno, if I'm smelling it correctly. The porch light casts a soft glow on the living room, and it's apparent nothing has changed. It's like time has stood still, and I'm seventeen again, coming in after a night out. Pictures of Lydia line the entryway, starting from when she was little all the way up to her track photos from this year. Gone are any photos of me.

For Lydia's part, she manages to stay upright with each step. Mac stays close as we advance down the hall, one careful step at a time. Lydia nods to the door that used to be my room, and my heart aches as I open it. In the moonlight streaming through the bedroom window, I can see all my things are gone, replaced by hers. It's like I never lived here. Like I never existed.

Mac is in the room but turns his back as I undress my sister and get her into bed. Her breathing deepens as soon as she's tucked in, and I pause for just a moment to look her over. Asleep, her face is peaceful. She reminds me more of the girl I've seen on social media and less like the vile bitch I've just spent the last half hour with. I know my feelings toward her are changed forever. The mystery is gone. Maybe it's time to give up my family once and for all, to never look back.

A piece of me breaks, knowing this is the end of what I once wished for.

The journey back down the hall feels a thousand steps long. It's too quiet, and I hear each creak as we tiptoe back to the front door. This is different from when I was a teen, when I used to sneak out of the house to meet a boyfriend or find trouble. Now, I'm the stranger. The intruder. I don't belong here, and I feel it with every step, every inhale, every touch of the wall as I find my way through the dark.

My hand reaches the doorknob, and I let out a deep exhale, turning the knob. But then the room is bathed in light, and I hear the unmistakable click of a gun behind us being cocked.

"Who are you and what the fuck are you doing in my house?"