Broken Records by Bree Bennett
Chapter 20
Jack clomped up the basement stairs, holding not one, not two, but three tree toppers, even though no sane household needed more than one at any given time. “Lucy,” he bellowed. “Your mom says it’s your turn to pick the tree topper—” He rounded the corner and stopped short, his eyes narrowed.
Nico was kneeling in front of Lucy, his face pale and frantic. Lucy was curled into herself, her ears covered by trembling hands and her eyes squeezed tight. Tremulous inhales of shock tore through the air.
“What did you do?” asked Jack, speaking slowly despite his instinct to yell. Nico’s head snapped up, eyes locking on him.
“I just touched her arm. I did it gently. I know she doesn’t like to be touched, but she’s never done this before,” Nico shook his head over and over. The juxtaposition of this tall, self-assured man and his stunned expression was almost laughable. “I don’t know what I did. I don’t know what I did.”
Jack laid the tree toppers on the sofa and knelt next to Lucy. He pushed at Nico’s arm, and her brother jumped up, stepping away and tugging at his hair nervously.
“Hey, Cottontail,” said Jack. Lucy flinched and shied away from his voice. “It’s just me. It’s just Jack.”
“I didn’t hurt her,” Nico repeated as if trying to convince himself.
“I know you didn’t,” said Jack in a calm, singsong lilt. “Nobody did anything wrong. Right, Lucy? You didn’t do anything wrong. No one is in trouble. No one is getting punished.”
Her eyes blinked open, and she tilted her head. Her eyes darted from Nico to Jack and back again, her brow furrowed in confusion.
“It’s just us,” Jack said. “Just your brother and me. No one else. He isn’t here.”
“He?” asked Nico, but Jack shook his head. Now was not the time. He reached out a hand, and let it hang in the air, patient and hopeful. After a few seconds, Lucy touched her fingers to his, the tips bumping against one another, and then slipped her own fingers in between his, braided together in a semblance of comfort.
“Hey,” he whispered. “Why do bees have sticky hair? Because they use a honeycomb.”
Lucy let out a half-laugh, half-gasp, as if surfacing from an icy ocean, and crumpled against him. He adjusted until he was cross-legged and she was sitting in his lap, face curled against his neck. There were no tears, only tremors that shook her body and transferred to his own. Jack’s hand traced her cheek and brushed her skin in a simple rhythm. Back and forth, up and down.
“Why is Peter Pan always flying?” she whispered in between jagged breaths. “Because he never lands.”
Jack rocked a little and nuzzled her hair, maintaining that same stroking pattern on her cheek. “How do you row a canoe full of puppies? You use a doggy paddle.”
“Where did you learn these?” she murmured against his shirt. “They’re awful.”
“Google is a powerful tool.” He risked a glance at Nico, who looked stricken, his back pressed against the wall. “I’m going to take her upstairs for a bit, okay?”
“Okay,” her brother rasped. “I’ll—I’ll finish the lights.” Nico ducked his head low as Jack helped Lucy stand, keeping his gaze from his sister as he untangled endless strands of bulbs with quaking hands.
* * *Meyer family tradition involved watching It’s a Wonderful Life after a day of holiday decorating as a way to either kick off the merriment of the Christmas season or to insinuate the evils of small-town monopolies by men in ornate wheelchairs. After a long rest, Lucy and Jack had rejoined the family in time to hang the ornaments, and no one mentioned their absence, though Nico refused to make eye contact with either of them.
Ten minutes into the film, Nico stood up, his stance jittery and tense. “We need more firewood. Jack, come help.”
“I can help you,” offered Matteo, starting to rise, but Nico held out a hand to halt him.
“No, Jack’s been here for a few days; it’s about time he helps with the goddamn firewood.”
“Watch your mouth,” everyone in the room echoed.
“Nico, It’s a Wonderful Life is on,” Rose chastised.
“Jack doesn’t care; he’s seen it.”
“Have you seen it?” Rose asked with a wary squint.
“Which answer gets me in the least trouble?” Jack asked.
Nico threw his hands up and stormed out of the room. Jack followed, grabbing his coat and heading outside to the firewood pile, and possibly a reckoning of sorts.
Lucy’s brother stood alone in the moonlight, an ax gripped in his hand. A pane of cold, blue light from the motion-sensor lamp illuminated him, casting a gauzy, stretched shadow across the brown grass. Jack began gathering logs from the nearby firewood pile, the bark scratching at his ungloved hands.
“Drop them. They need split first.” The edge of the ax glinted like a tiger’s fang. Jack swallowed a lump of trepidation and obeyed.
“How long?” Nico finally asked with an eerie stillness.
Jack cocked his head. “How long what?”
“How long was he—” Nico swallowed as if the words were foreign and unfamiliar. “How long was he hitting her?”
Jack ducked his head. “Long enough.”
Nico exhaled, long and slow. “She doesn’t like being touched, but she doesn’t mind us. But that—that was different. That was something else.”
“It was,” Jack agreed, his voice low and rough as sandpaper.
“I hated the guy,” Nico said, biting the words out behind clenched teeth. “I always hated him. And still, I never figured it out. I never saw. We never got along, but I thought it was just him and me. He was arrogant, and I’m a hothead, I admit, but Lucy seemed fine. I never thought there was an issue between them.” He relaxed his arms with an exhausted sigh, dropping the tool, the ax head sinking into the snow. “One month,” he said. “One month with her, and you know her better than any of us.” His eyes met Jack’s, and they weren’t angry or accusing. They were the eyes of a brother desperate to save his sister from her demons. “Here.” Nico handed Jack the ax. “Ever split wood before?”
“Nope. Not a lot of reasons to use an ax in New York.” The tool was top-heavy and clumsy in his hand, and Jack couldn’t get a comfortable grip.
Nico grunted, his eyes gleaming. “That’s not an ax; that’s a maul.” He steadied a thick log on the homemade chopping block. “Look here, you want to hit right where it wants to naturally split.”
Jack lifted the maul into the air and swung downward with all his might—and missed by seven inches.
To his credit, Nico didn’t laugh. “Try it again.”
Jack gritted his teeth and swung again. This time, the air echoed with the snap of the log as it split into neat pieces that tumbled to the ground. Jack grinned at Nico, and miraculously, he smiled back.
“Ma sent us out to make sure you haven’t killed him yet,” Matteo announced as he joined them at the chopping block, Dante lumbering behind him.
“Step back; he’s busy,” said Nico, putting another log on the block. Matteo and Dante halted at a safe distance. As Jack’s breath puffed out in frosty clouds, there was a new sense of determination flowing through his muscles.
“Put your feet further apart.” Dante spanned his hands out to demonstrate. Jack adjusted his stance and swung again, missing twice but splitting the wood cleanly on the third time.
“Wiggle your ass a bit,” said Matteo. “You’re too tense. Stretch out.”
“Matty, you can’t tell people to wiggle their ass,” Nico said. “Let alone a famous rock star.”
“No.” Jack held up a hand. “I’m Jack. Just Jack. Tell me to wiggle my ass if you want.” He paused. “Well, maybe not. Now, more wood. Please.”
Nico balanced another log on the block and stepped back just before Jack slammed into it, funneling every frustration, every fear into his arms.
Thwack. Derelict Records and their stupid contracts.
Thwack. The suffocating pressure of the album, the fans, a tour that may not happen.
Thwack. The fear that he’d become his father—or worse, his mother, distorted by the allure of fame.
And the fact that he was falling hard for his fake wife. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Jack swung and split and chopped until his hands were as raw and pink as an uncooked shrimp.
“You’re good.” Nico clapped him on the back, and Jack wondered if he was referring to more than his firewood skills.
His chest stung from gulping in the cold night air, and his arms were already burning with overuse. And yes, he should have wiggled his ass a bit because his lower back was stiff and sore. “So,” Jack panted, wiping sweat-damp hair from his forehead. “What are you guys doing tomorrow?”
“Dunno,” said Matteo, “But that look on your face tells me you’ve got something fun planned out.”
“Depends,” Jack said. “Any of you know how to throw a punch?”
Nico and Matteo both grinned wildly and glanced at Dante, who simply raised the evilest eyebrow imaginable.
“Well then, boys,” Jack said, attempting to throw his arms around Nico and Dante’s shoulders, but as he was several inches shorter than them, it felt like he was trying to reach for a dish on the highest shelf. “Have you ever taken part in a good shenanigan?”
Jack explained his idea and then the four men tromped back to the house in silence, like soldiers coming home from battle. When they returned to the living room, Ben raised a single eyebrow that Nico answered with a curt nod.
After everyone replenished their plates of snacks and cookies, Rose shushed everyone because “It’s sacrilegious to talk during Jimmy Stewart!” Jack and Lucy traded their spot on the couch with the twins, opting to sit on the floor in their place. Jack claimed it as an act of fairness, but really, he just wanted to pet Larry, who couldn’t jump up on the couch with his awkward piggy legs.
When everyone’s attention was glued to the screen, Jack took a moment to gaze around the room, amazed by the sheer improbability of the situation.
He was curled up on an old carpeted farmhouse floor in the middle of nowhere, Indiana, watching Jimmy Stewart stammer about flower petals and angels.
He had spent the night chopping wood with his future in-laws.
His fake-ish wife was nestled in one arm, red and violet and yellow speckled light from the Christmas tree dancing over her skin like tiny holiday fairies.
And, of course, his other hand was resting on top of a snoring pig.
Jack had never been happier.