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She doesn’t respond. Looking over to see if she heard me, I see that her elbow is propped on the door, supporting her chin as she stares out the window.
She finally answers, “I’m good.” Her voice is quiet.
The lie slips past her lips effortlessly, and I grip the steering wheel. Is she always going to shut me out like this?
The last few minutes, we don’t speak, the tension in the cab palpable. She gets out of the truck when it comes to a halt, pausing to wait for me.
“Look,” she begins, blue eyes sweeping over the rowdy group setting out buns and digging through ice chests, “maybe this is a bad idea.”
Her eyes turn back to me, wide and glassy. I grip one of her elbows—the one the group can’t see.
“What’s the matter? Please tell me why you’re upset.” I plead with my gaze, fingers brushing her arm.
She stares down at the dirt, not responding for a few seconds.
“I just—I don’t—” she stutters. “I’m not used to families. Happy families, where everyone laughs and hugs and doesn’t hate each other’s guts, just—it just reminds me that I have no one. No one wants me for anything besides…” She trails off, breathing in a giant gulp of air and rubbing her eyes.
I abandon the pretense that we’re just friends I was trying to adopt for my family’s sake, wrapping her in a tight hug. She presses her face into my chest, body slightly trembling.
“My family is huge and loud and definitely overwhelming, even to people who are from a loving family. They talk a lot, and yes, they all love each other. You deserve to know what that’s like. I’ll take you back if you want,” I say, turning my mouth down to kiss the top of her head, “but I hope you’ll stay and give it a chance.”
Pulling back from her a few seconds later, I give her hand a squeeze. She slowly nods, and we start walking toward the cluster of people. Unfortunately, most of them are staring at us, a few mouths gaping at Harley.
My sister, Eden, approaches, a smile on her face. Her long golden hair is in a braid that stretches down to her waistline. Her face is makeup-free. I’ve never seen any of my sisters or my mother wear it. Their clothes are loose, all a bit oversize and plain.
“Hey, I’m Eden. What’s your name?” She extends a hand to Harley.
Harley grips it, a timid smile forming on her lips. “It’s Harley.”
Eden looks down at our joined hands, then back up at me, her gaze unreadable.
“Come meet everyone, Harley. I hope you’re hungry.” She turns around, leading us toward the group.
My family is plain and a little unusual. I wasn’t aware of it until recently. Now that I’m scrutinizing them, trying to see what Harley might be, I realize they’re all dressed in worn, ill-fitted clothes and old tennis shoes with unruly hair and baseball caps. At first glance, they probably look poor, which they aren’t at all. I’ve only been away from them for a few months, but my world has been expanded to an extent that I didn’t even realize was possible.
Eden leads Harley up to my mother, who is busy preparing the hot dogs and laying out buns on plates.
I clear my throat. “Hey, Momma. This is Harley.” I feel the urge to let go of her hand, and I’m such a coward for it.
My mother is the kindest person I know, giving up her time and her life daily for her eleven children and her husband. She’s a hard worker and an active member of our church. She donates homemade canned goods to charity every season we have an abundance.
But I know she’s going to judge Harley; there’s no doubt about it in my mind. From her tattooed skin to the low-cut front of her dress and the short hem. She’ll judge her sultry mouth, and if she knew the things we’d done in her bed and mine…
“Marley? Is it Marley?” she says, speaking loudly over the ruckus of children. She’s looking over Harley as she says it, her smile a little pinched.
She’s a plain woman, but I’ve always thought she was beautiful. Her face is wrinkled, gray hair beginning to edge out of her hairline. It’s tied back in a long, loose ponytail at her nape. She’s a little heavyset, but her mouth is almost always turned up in a genuine smile, except for now.
Harley stumbles a bit. “Uh, no—no, ma’am. Harley, like a motorcycle,” she says, blinking and attempting an awkward smile with her hand outstretched.
She’s met with a cold perusal, eyes zeroing on the short hem of her dress. My mother takes in all the ink, the low cut of the front, and it’s painfully obvious that she does not approve. I inwardly cringe, wanting to pull Harley back to the cab and take her somewhere she won’t be analyzed like a beast at a sale.
She tugs down the hem of her dress, but all it does is make the front show more of her chest. Finally, the cold inspection ends, and my mother’s eyes reach up to Harley’s.
“I’m Bethany. Do you have a class with Adam?” She briefly shakes her hand, turning back to open plastic packets of food.
My mother is always Beth, never Bethany, when she’s speaking with people she likes. The discomfort I’ve been feeling in my abdomen all day is getting worse, but there’s not a single thing I can do about it.
I squeeze Harley’s limp hand, trying to tell her I’m sorry she’s being received with such coldness. Does she sense it?
