Page 23 of Unmanageable

I look less like a star goalie and more like a guy who’s been on a three-day, life-ruining bender. Which, thanks to Callie’s bachelor-party-gone-goat-cult, isn’t exactly a lie.

I glance down at my left hand resting on the steering wheel, my mind drifting back to the living room floor a few hours ago.

Scottie’s face had been as red as her hair, her jaw tight, her knuckles white as she stared at the fresh black ink on her wrist.

A dollar sign.

She had been so furious, frantically claiming it was a financial symbol or her own initial, desperate to convince everyone in the room that it didn’t, in any universe, mean my name.

I’d laughed it off, leaning over her shoulder to give her hell about it, but the memory sticks in my chest. A dollar sign. Of all the things she could have ended up with, she walked out of that shop with a sign that means cash on her pulse.

The front door bangs open before I can even grab my duffel bag.

“Oh, look what the cat dragged in! And the cat clearly has a drinking problem,” Maeve shouts from the porch.

Maeve is two years older than me, and for the first eighteen years of my life, her sole purpose on earth was to ensure I never grew an ego.

She wasn’t successful, but she never stopped trying.

I hop out of the truck, forcing a grin that barely reaches my eyes. “Missed you too, Mae. You look like you’ve been through a car wash. Without the car.”

“Ha. Hilarious. Get your giant, hungover ass inside before the neighbors see you looking like a vagrant,” she shoots back.

But as I reach the top step, the humor vanishes. She tackles me, squeezing me so hard I actually hear my ribs protest.

Underneath the familiar, aggressive, sisterly rib-crushing, there’s a distinct desperation. She’s holding onto me like I’m the only thing keeping her pinned to the ground.

“You smell horrible,” she whispers into my chest, her voice thick. “How was the party?”

“A nightmare,” I say, pulling back and thumbing the purple-yellow smudge on my jaw. “I escaped with my life and most of my dignity. The bruise? That was just a disagreement with a doorframe. The doorframe won. It was a fair fight.”

She reaches up, her eyes softening as she touches the mark, her expression turning somber. “Most of it, huh?”

“It’s a look, Mae. Very ‘distressed chic.’ The fans love it. It adds mystery.”

I step past her into the hall, and the scent of my childhood hits me instantly—Pledge, old wool, and the distinct, savory, salty aroma of the slow-cooker soup Mom always makes when the world is tilting on its axis.

“Where’s the old man?” I ask, my voice dropping.

Maeve sighs, wiping her hands on her jeans, her posture sagging as the armor she wears for the outside world slips off.

“Sunroom. He’s having a ‘1999’ day, Finn. He thinks he’s supposed to be heading to the rink for your Peewee tryouts. Mom’s in there trying to convince him it’s summer. She’s been at it for two hours.”

Most days, Dad’s at the memory care residence across town. It’s where he’s safest now—where nurses know how to redirect him when the confusion gets too loud. But every few weeks, if he’s had a good stretch, Mom brings him home for a night or two.

Mom insists it helps him remember us.

I’m not sure who she’s trying to convince.

“Right. 1999. I was what, five? I’m pretty sure I cried the whole way to that rink.”

“You did. You threw up in the glove compartment because you were so terrified of the bigger kids,” Maeve says, a small, genuine smile breaking through her exhaustion. “And he bought you a chocolate shake afterward because you ‘skated like a hungover deer’ but at least you stayed upright. He told you you had the heart of a lion.”

We both look toward the back of the house. The memory is so bright, so violently clear, that it makes the current reality feel like a fever dream.

This house used to be loud.

It used to be full of Dad’s laughter, his work boots stomping through the kitchen, the smell of sawdust following him everywhere. He was the guy who built the deck out back with his bare hands. The guy who could fix anything with a wrench and a well-placed curse word.