Page 2 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

“I’m meeting E later. There’s no point.”

“For such a brawny man, you really are quite terrified. Jack,” she adds, watching me for a reaction.

I give her a reaction, all right. Dialing up my glare to eleven, I snatch up my phone.

“What?” I say to my brother, the barked word sounding ruder than intended.

Mirielle rolls her eyes at me.

“Good morning to you too,” E says, extra chipper.

“Are you calling to cancel?” Restlessness edges my movements, like I want him to say no. Like I need this meeting as much as him, when I’ve avoided him and my family for the past eight months.

“Just making sure we’re on for today,” he goes on. “One o’clock at”—a pause—“Down in the Hole?”

I relax slightly, but something’s off. This constant pushing from him is unpleasantly excessive. “Tell me again why you need to see me?”

“It’s Dad,” he says quickly, a hint of strain in his voice. “He asked me a favor, and I can’t discuss it on the phone. You’re the only one I can talk to about it, so just make sure you’re at the bar at one p.m. In two hours. Thirteen hundred hours military time, and don’t be late.”

Yeah. He’s full of shit.

This mystery meeting has nothing to do with our waste-of-space father, the Worst Human Ever, who decided it would be swell to launder money for a drug cartel and ruin our lives. The tightness in E’s strained voice and ridiculous babbling means something unpleasant is most definitely up.

“I’ll be there,” I say briskly and end the call.

Mirielle tilts her head, her dainty dinosaur held in her lined hand. “You have that mad-at-the-world look about you, chéri. Actually, non.” She peers closer at me. “That is your regular face.”

“Thanks for always making me feel better.”

“That is not my job. That is yours.”

I grunt, knowing it will irk her, but she’s not wrong. And I’ve been trying.

Since learning the Quintero cartel wiped out the Becerra cartel in a bloody massacre eight months ago and my family no longer needed to be in witness protection, I’ve slowly come out of my angry fog. Ditched the bad crowd that led to drunk tattoos and infected piercings. I’ve been hanging out with my seventy-eight-year-old neighbor instead. In exchange for her teaching me crafts—which I suck at, but they do sort of clear my mind—I help out as a handyman around her place and help her navigate online purchases. (We will never discuss the underwear-and-bra-shopping incident.)

Work has been better too. Bartending isn’t my dream job, but I’ve even been enjoying it more. Still tossing snarls out to annoying drunks, but I’ve been showing up early and getting more creative mixing drinks. I even called my brother back.

After so long being angry or plain apathetic, I finally have the itch to live more fully. I want to wake up looking forward to my days, my future. Normalcy. Optimism. Figure out what career might suit me better. Make an effort with my family.

I was hoping this meeting with E would be a leap forward, but life for me is a slippery slope. One wrong move and I tend to go off the deep end. E’s odd behavior is a billowing red flag that screams Family Drama.

“I’m getting my life together,” I tell Mirielle, trying to shake that troubling call. I point at my face. “This is my slowly-picking-myself-up expression.”

She lets out a tittering laugh. “That, chéri, is your barely trying expression. Last I checked, you haven’t made new friends.”

“Am I talking to a ghost?”

“And your apartment still looks like you have only just moved in.” She waves her hand extravagantly at my empty beige walls and sparse furniture.

Lips flat, I cross my arms.

“And you’re not dating.”

“Neither are you.”

She blinks at me blandly. “I do not believe the online market is clamoring for widowed Frenchwomen who excel at decoupage. And I do not do that right swiping.” She lifts her head as though affronted.

I have no clue how a producer hasn’t turned Mirielle into a star by now. “I’m happy being on my own.”