Chapter 2

CHAPTER

TWO

MARY

Brad's at the kitchen sink, wringing the knee sleeve he wears when playing tennis at the local club. My older brother looks like my dad in certain lights, with his reddish-brown hair and the thin beard that's almost blond. He's lean like Dad, too, but way quicker to smile. Sunlight shines through the window, showing the several acres of picturesque land.

"I'll be taking a trip soon," Brad says. "Need to head up to Vegas to see Dad. It's been a while since I checked in on him."

Anytime Brad talks about visiting Vegas, it's with this subtly questioning note in his voice. He wants to know if I want to go with him. Dad abandoned us the day Brad turned nineteen. He fell apart after Mom died, as if she took him with her. It completely derailed Brad's dreams of being a football player. Instead, he fought and won adoption rights for me and raised me for the second half of my childhood.

"Okay," I say, spooning some cereal.

Brad sighs. "The timing's annoying. I booked the flights for early next week, but Rust called last night and said he's considering coming down Monday to get his head right for training camp. Well, his coach called."

"His coach called you?" I ask, using some calming mind tricks I pick up online so as not to let any of the inappropriateness running through my head show.

"Yeah. Rust's busy with his fight prep, the heavyweight championship. He's been waiting for this for a long time. You know what he's like when he's in his head."

"But he wants to be here?"

Brad wrings out the knee sleeve and then places it across the back of a chair. "I don't know about want . I think it's just the best thing for him and his performance. I was wondering if you'd mind if he were here a couple of days? It's not like he'll bother you."

I swallow, my belly tingling, other places tingling too. Mom's face flashes in my mind: her beautiful crown of bright yellow hair, her pearl necklace, and her brown reading glasses, wearing a frown of pure judgment. "Never be one of those women, Mary. I called you Mary for a reason."

"Mary?"

"It's fine," I tell him. "Obviously. It's not like Rust talks to me much, anyway."

Brad chuckles. "Don't take it personally. He's like that with everybody."

I try to laugh it off, but it feels painful and forced. The truth is, I shouldn't be anywhere near Rust without Brad around to stop me. Stop me from doing what? Okay, it's not like I'll throw myself at him, but it's challenging to be close to him and not think all the impure thoughts that have screamed at me for years. I've never shared them, not even with my friends. It's a sin. I'm not even sure how religious I am anymore. All I know is it would make a nun blush.

I can't think about Rust, all six foot four of him, with his broad shoulders and dark hair, a few blades of silver starting to show, giving him a mature look. So experienced, he takes away any worry, doubt, and fear. With his thick muscles and that scowl on his face most of the time, it's like he's just waiting for a woman to light him up. Or he's waiting for me to light him up.

"Or you could come," Brad says. "Maybe see Dad?"

I stand up, my chair making a screek noise I didn't intend. "Dad made his choice. He chose to live the exact life Mom would've hated him for. He literally moved to the city of sin."

Brad groans. "It's not like we even go to church anymore."

"It's not about that. It's about Mom. It's about him being selfish."

Brad touches my arm. "Forget I asked. I get it. Really."

Upstairs, in my bedroom, I fire up my laptop and put my headphones in. I make sure to sit with the screen facing away from the door. It's not like Brad would barge in here without knocking anyway, but I have to be safe. I can't ever let him see these videos.

This is another reason I'm suspicious about Dad. A few weeks after Mom's so-called heart attack, I was hiding under my bed. I used to do that often, soon after she passed. It was weirdly comfortable, but I never saw the envelope until that night. It had my name on it, in my mother's beautiful script.

Inside, a DVD and a note. Never show this to your father or your brother. NEVER. Love, Mommy x

Since then, I've transferred the videos to my laptop. I'm not sure how Dad can claim Mom had a heart attack when she left this for me. It seems too planned. Almost like she… But I can't go there. Does it make me crazy that I keep watching them, even if they mess with my head? Should I stop and try to save a little piece of my mind?

Yet I can't. It's Mom . She filmed it in the living room, three hours of footage. She's wearing different outfits in each, so I know she did it over some time.

The video begins. "Mary, my beautiful, good girl. I need to leave this for you to teach you to be what a woman should be."

The videos didn't make sense to me at first. However, as I got older, I began to understand. "Don't dress like you'd happily go to bed with any man who looked at you the right way. You're better than that, and you have to remember it. In fact, don't look at any man unless you're confident he'll put a ring on your finger."

"Be ashamed of any feelings of desire. People say shame is a bad thing." My mom laughed, flashing her straight, white teeth, a smile that always lit me up like the Fourth of July. "That is absolute silliness. Shame is a useful emotion. You shouldn't feel any sexual attraction, Petal, until you're married, and it has a purpose."

These teachings have always been tied so closely to my mom. Maybe I'm messed up, but whenever I start thinking about Rust's big round shoulders and how it would feel to sink my fingernails into them and feel his power and firmness, it's like I'm spitting in Mom's face and Brad's. Two betrayals for the price of one. First prize in worst daughter and worst sister of the year award.

I have to fight it, always. This means I must be as cold as possible when he gets here. Thankfully, Rust has absolutely no interest in me whatsoever. Yeah, I'm really grateful for that. That's what I tell myself, anyway.

The next day, I'm sitting in the local diner with Chrissy, the late-summer sun shining down on us. She looks over with a big smile on her face, but then she lets out a long sigh. "I wish you were coming to college with me."

I shrug. "I might be, just a little later."

She fiddles with one of her bracelets on her wrist. "Might."

"What does that mean? Why say it like that?"

"I love you, Mary," she says.

"Yeah, obviously." I wink. "And I feel the same."

"That's why I have to say this," she continues. "I don't want you to live your life on a might basis. I don't want you to look back and think of everything you could've done. You're so talented. You could draw better than me after two weeks when I'd been doing it for months. You were great in drama class before you quit."

"Thanks, seriously," I tell her, "but I'm fine for now. I've got work at the motel. I can help Brad with the bills."

Chrissy rolls her eyes.

"What?" I snap.

"Brad doesn't need help with the bills," she says in a kind, warm tone, the one she uses when she's worried about upsetting me. She knows I can have annoying up-and-down moods and get mad at myself afterward. Sometimes, I can't help it, but I'm trying to do better. "He's doing well with the hardware chain, you said. He doesn't even raise animals on the land anymore. It's there to look pretty, and his best friend is Rust freaking Hadley."

Chrissy often says his name like that, with a hint of awe that makes me want to tear my best friend's eyes out. It's absolutely ridiculous. A pearl necklace flashes into my mind. Mom glares. Violence, dear, really?

"Brad doesn't ask him for money."

"I'd ask him for more than money," Chrissy says, giggling, ha ha ha, with no idea how painful this is for me. "He's so huge, it's crazy. I was watching the fight commercial online. He towers over the cage."

"Hmm-hmm," I say, resisting the urge to tear up my napkin.

She smiles at me, really not meaning anything by it. I've never dared to tell her about the dreams that grip me sometimes of Rust laying that heavy, hard body against mine, trapping me so it's like I'm not the one making the choice. I'd want it. I'd be wet for him. My body would tingle as it does just thinking about it, but it wouldn't be bad. He did it. Not me. He's claiming me, but I can't tell anybody, ever. It would break Brad's heart.

"You're not going to work at a motel for the rest of your life," she says.

"Why not?"

"Because you're… Mary," she explodes passionately, her bracelets jingling as she flails her arms. "It's not like you got bad grades."

"It's different for us," I say. "You want to be a nurse. You've got a path. What's the point of me going to college and wasting all that money when I don't even know what I want to do?"

"That's fair, but it's not just college. What about boyfriends, hobbies, projects, something? Sometimes—I'm sorry—but sometimes I feel like you're scared to live when you've got so much to offer."

I smile and shake my head, trying to show her the face I show to everybody else. Mary, sometimes with a joke, mostly with a smile, is content to do her work and then go home and watch videos of her mother—the same ones, sometimes several times a day, with her beautiful halo of golden hair and smile.

"Don't be a sinner, no matter what anybody says."

It's not healthy. That's the worst part. I know it isn't. I've promised myself I'll stop so many times.

"It's okay," I tell Chrissy. "I'll get my act together. You'll see."

"That's not what I meant."

"Seriously, I get it. You don't have to explain."

Tonight, I'll delete the videos, but that's a lie. There's something sickly alluring about them, as if my mom's voice and teachings guide me through life's confusion. But what if Chrissy's right? What if, because of them, I'm not living life at all?