Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

“Mr. Gibson?” Ollie says from behind me. I hold up a finger without turning around.

Sucking in a deep, ragged breath, I turn around. Brandon is standing next to Ollie, holding a spoon.

“What are you doing Brandon?” I ask, annoyed.

“He needed help and you ignored him.”

Taking off my glasses, I head across the room just as Mariah finishes with the coach. She’s all smiles as she joins us.

“What are you doing?” she laughs.

“Sifting dry ingredients,” Ollie shrugs.

“You’re wearing more of them than anything.” She pulls him to the side and dusts him off, white flour puffing off his shirt. “Why are we doing this today again?”

“I missed it the first time and it’s a requirement,” Ollie explains.

“Why’d you miss it?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Overslept.”

“Get one of those new alarm clocks that flash color,” Brandon says. “That thing scares the shit out of me every morning.”

“I could sleep through a war. By the time I finish at the farm after school and then put in a couple of hours cleaning carpets with Red Henry, I’m beat.”

Mariah takes a step back. “You work two jobs?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t there a law about that?”

“Probably,” he says simply. “I’ll be eighteen in six months. I don’t have a choice, really.”

“I’ll be eighteen next month and I’m not working two jobs,” Brandon chips in.

A ripple flows through my stomach as I take in what Ollie’s saying. Mariah chews on her bottom lip, her eyes meeting mine.

“You won’t be homeless on your birthday either.” Ollie’s statement is harsh, but said with enough kindness that it doesn’t feel as sharp as it is. “As a foster kid, I get some basic government services for a certain time. But I can leave if I want and, well, my foster family is pretty shitty.” He lowers his head. “That makes me sound ungrateful, doesn’t it? I’m not. I swear. I just don’t want things held over my head anymore.”

I think Mariah is going to hug him. She leans forward like she does before she reaches for me, but her arms don’t extend. It’s like she’s not sure what to do. I can’t blame her because I don’t know what to do either.

My mind starts racing, trying to figure out how to fix this.

“So you just … what?” Brandon asks, walking back to the kitchenette. “You live in a box?”

“I won’t because I have some money saved.” Ollie sprays a pan. “But if I didn’t, maybe.”

“That’s a bunch of shit.” Brandon looks at me. “How’s this true, Mr. Gibson?”

I can’t find the words for a minute, nor can I find the gumption to get on him for his language. “I don’t know,” I admit. “Ollie, if you need a place to stay, tell me.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

Mariah walks to the counter where I was sitting, her back to us. I want to go to her and hug her. Make her laugh like she did with Coach Collins. Instead, I take in the two boys from very different backgrounds looking at me for answers.

“This isn’t fair,” Brandon insists. “This is so far from fair it’s fucked up and I know you’re going to tell me to watch my mouth but that’s the only way to describe this.” He looks at me, at Mariah, at Ollie, and back to me.

I think back to my life growing up, a semi-charmed one in comparison. How we took vacations and had pets and didn’t have all the things we wanted, maybe, but we always had enough. I think of the accident and the way it tore our lives apart. How Britt left and then my parents died and how I worked for years to protect myself from any sort of pain or from causing pain to someone else. And how now I’m in love with the woman I’m more or less sure was created with me in mind. It must’ve been a version of me who didn’t go on that gravel road back in the summer over a decade ago though. Because now the life we could’ve had, the one I know we would’ve had, should’ve had, is impossible.

“Life isn’t fair, guys.” I hold the bowl while Ollie scrapes the rest of the batter into the pan. “You’re born with a hand of cards.”

“Like in poker?” Brandon asks.

“Kind of. And each year you go through life, your cards change. Let’s say Ollie was dealt a shittier hand than you, Brandon. That doesn’t mean he can’t play his cards smarter than you and in ten years be sitting on a royal flush while you have eights and nines.”

Ollie likes this, smiling as he puts the cake in the oven.

“Or maybe Ollie makes a bad call and wipes himself out and has to rebuild at twenty. That can happen too,” I add. “The key to life is to play your cards smart. Don’t take anyone else’s and don’t trick them into playing theirs by lying or cheating the system.”