The Takedown by Carlie Walker

Author:Carlie Walker [Walker, Carlie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2023-10-03T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

—

Nick,” I say, downstairs the next morning, by the coffeepot.

“Sydney,” he responds, matching my let’s-not-talk-about-it undertones. Being my agent self and my at-home self is hard enough without . . . this. Whatever this is.

Nick swigs a too-hot sip of his black coffee, filtering it through his teeth. Automatically, I match him, burning the tip of my tongue. An uncomfortable level of tension pulses between us, and I wonder if he’s thinking about the press of his lips against my—

“I still can’t get over it, Sydney,” Calla says. She’s sipping her coffee at the breakfast table, shaking her head; she seems to have recovered from our little squabble yesterday, seems to have shoved the dad talk back into a dark drawer, where it belongs. “You took that guy down. In a donkey costume.” A teaspoon of sugar plunks into her mug. “I bet that’s up on YouTube by now.”

My nose scrunches. How long before the FBI wipes it from the web?

“Good coffee,” Nick says with a lift of his cup, changing the subject.

After breakfast, Grandma Ruby flutters around the kitchen like a moth, spurting out plans. If there’s going to be a wedding at the house, we need additional fresh Christmas trees. “For the greenery,” she says, fishing out a spool of ribbon from one of the cabinets. “Maybe we can place them at the altar? Ooo, wouldn’t that be pretty for the pictures?” I gulp another mouthful of coffee before I say something stupid, like, This wedding is about as good of an idea as filling a bunch of trash bags with gasoline, tossing them in the Prius, and then lighting a match on the way home.

We take two cars.

I ride with Nick, Johnny, and Calla in the rented Escalade. When I slide into the back seat, memories from last night crash into me—the glove box, empty of weaponry; the line in Nick’s forehead as he accused me of the truth; the crush of his lips against mine—and soon we’re setting off with a tire screech in the snow. As with everything else, Johnny’s competitive behind the wheel—and he’s an atrocious driver. Turn signals? What turn signals! Stoplights? Merely a suggestion. Pedestrians? Never heard of them! Even if you have tinted windows, I want to say, people can still see you being an asshole.

“Hey, learn to drive, will ya?” he shouts . . . at a cyclist. Calla winces. Which is promising. She must notice, at some level, that Johnny isn’t the nicest guy?

By the time we arrive at Cape Hathaway Christmas Tree Farm, just over the river on the other side of town, the parking lot is jam packed, and the sky is a cloudless gray. Grandma Ruby took us here the first winter after Dad left. Said we could pick out any tree we wanted. No sadness, no distractions, just acres and acres of Christmas trees. The scent is amazing.

Almost smells like Nick’s soap.

Sydney, for fuck’s sake. Do not think about Nick’s soap.

From a man in a tiny wooden shed, Calla rents a handsaw for the tree takedown, then sidles up by my shoulder.

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