“Dolly had a hissy fit.” I drop my things at the bottom of the stairs and stretch life back into my aching body. “Reg dropped me off at the end of the street.” His big truck doesn’t fit down our narrow road. He tried once and got wedged between two Escalades.
Zinnea sighs as she sets the paint down and flounces past me, heading for the kitchen at the back of the house, her kimono wafting behind her. “I don’t know why you didn’t accept your birthday gift from your father. You could still keep Dolly. How many times has she broken down now?”
Accept my father’s gift? That wasn’t a gift. That was a guilt crusher. I wasn’t about to feed his need for absolution. Besides, Mom bought me Dolly. She’s a classic. Busted, but still a classic.
I follow Zinnea into the kitchen and find Dexter at the table, engrossed in the screen of his laptop. He’s still in his blues. He looks up and gives me his usual kind smile. “Good day, Beau?” he asks. Always does.
“I met Nath for a coffee,” I say, and the inevitable looks are thrown between Zinnea and Dexter. I ignore them. They know why I met Nath. “And Dolly’s broken again.” I head straight for the fridge, pulling out a bottle of wine. “You?”
“Dead man by the ocean. Always fun.” He goes back to his computer. “The Feds have moved in,” he mutters, as I pull down a glass. I don’t offer wine to anyone. Zinnea is almost ready for her performance this evening, and Dexter will be there admiring his love as she woos the crowd.
I pour a drink and join Dexter at the table. He smiles, not taking his attention from his screen. “No work today?” he asks.
“No.”
“Is it drying up?”
“A little,” I admit. More looks are thrown between them. It’s long past being tiresome. “Don’t say it,” I warn.
“The force would have you back in a heartbeat,” Dexter says, ignoring my pleas. “Years at the academy, Beau. You aced the Phase One test. Top five in the country, for Christ’s sake. You’re throwing so much away.”
“I’m not working for an institution I can’t believe in,” I mutter, taking a swig of my wine. Look where it got Mom. Dead. And they’re doing fuck all about it. It’s time to change the subject before they see the rage burning my insides. “I picked up the colors for your room.”
“Ooh, let me see,” Zinnea says, distracted, as she wrestles to fasten her bra.
I jump up and head to the hallway to collect the paint, arriving back in the kitchen to find she has abandoned her bra around her waist and now has one leg in her pantyhose. I set the paint cans on the side, pulling my keys from my pocket, using one to lever off a lid. I reveal the color, and she’s across to me in a shot, holding the other leg of her pantyhose. “Oh, I love it.”
“Pink?” Dexter asks from behind, and we both turn to find his glasses have been removed, his attention now firmly pointing this way. “We agreed no pink.”
“Oh, won’t you indulge me?” Zinnea pouts.
“No. No pink, Lawrence. We agreed.”
I wince, peeking at Zinnea to gage just how pissed off she is. And not because Dexter is putting a rare foot down. “Dexter!” she barks, motioning down her half-dressed form. “What’s my damn name?” Her voice has deepened to its usual manly tone, anger fueling it.
Dexter sighs. “Well, I don’t know.” He throws his glasses on the table. “You’re standing there with your bra around your waist, one hairy leg in your pantyhose, and your balls hanging out of your satin panties. Who are you right now?”
I purse my lips, finding my wine and filling my mouth. The rules are clear, so I have no clue how Dexter fucked up so monumentally. If the wig is on, it’s Zinnea. And the wig is on, albeit wonky. I can’t remember when my uncle went from being an uncle to an uncle and an aunt all wrapped up into one. But I remember the shitstorm it created in the family. My father, the prejudice asshole, kept me and my mother away like his brother was contagious. And yet, even now, all these years later and a pile of further crimes marked against my father’s name, Zinnea never bad-mouths him. Dexter, on the other hand, shares my contempt. Good. I need someone to remind me of what an asshole he is whenever I’m feeling weak.
“And you can keep your big mouth shut,” Zinnea snaps, slapping my shoulder.
I cough over my mouthful, spraying the table. “I didn’t say a word.”
“You didn’t need to.”
Zinnea finishes getting her stocking on and her bra into place before perfecting her makeup in the mirror at the table with us. And I watch her, fascinated, as she smiles her way through her task. How easy she finds it to smile. How hard I do.