And we’re having chicken for dinner.”“It’s not gross. Peter says...”“Enough about Peter. That boy isn’t one of us. And we’re having ch...cken.”Cassie heard her mother on the phone later. “Yeah, smelled like sulfur and the edges were grey. I’ll return it tomorrow.” Pause. “Disgusting.” Pause. “Can you pick up Chinese?” Pause. “Okay, love you.”Her father came home from work with a large pie and garlic knots.*****It was hard to believe, but Cassie’s Grand-mere grew more distant as she aged. Nothing. It might be bullet proof but it sure wasn't rocket proof.I swear, "What the hell was that and where did it come from?"Maria points, "Follow the smoke trail, that was some sort of fucking anti-tank round."I order, "We've got to do something about these bastards!"Then I hear a familiar voice..."Looks fancy thoo chaps coods use some help."I look over and it's Hammer so I demand, "Where the hell did you come from?"He answers, "Ah will teel thoo later, let's gang gie these bastards!"The crazy Scot. This crowd is so NOT going to approve when they find out what she does for a living. Luckily, a butler enters and announces that dinner is ready. Mr. and Mrs. O’Brian escort the whole party to the dining room where they sit at the head of the table with Greyson and Landyn on the Dad’s left, and Danny and Meg to the dad’s right. She squeezes Danny’s hand under the table before letting go.“So, Meg, you said you got those horrendous callouses from work. What is it you do?” Marge O’Brian questions. Let the water pour. Clean and hot and desensitizing, destroying prints and calluses, burning away bacteria, boiling needles to the surface of my skin. Mindless, hopeless activity. I sit in the shower without forgiven and need and lust and longing. The scars will never vanish. Never fade completely. But remind me of the torture of trust, the fool who gives over. The emptiness that follows desire. All of it written in stitches across the scars and curves of fingerprints from homemade thread and.
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