Chapter 2I Became His Worst Curse

The night Lyle Briggs came to dinner, he wore a black polo shirt with gold embroidery on the collar.

He walked through our front door carrying two cartons of premium cigarettes and a crate of expensive imported beer, his voice booming loud enough to echo down the entire block.

“Frank! Where’s that pretty girl of yours?”

My father rushed to greet him, a wide, sycophantic smile plastered across his face—a look I had never seen him direct at anyone in my family.

He clapped Lyle on the shoulder, ushering him into the living room. As they passed me, my father muttered under his breath, barely moving his lips: “Put your hair down. Lose the ponytail.”

Lyle sank into our worn-out sofa, crossing his legs and scanning the modest room. His eyes eventually locked onto me as I carried a platter of roasted chicken out of the kitchen.

“This her?”

“Yeah, that’s my oldest, Maeve.” My father pushed me toward the sofa, his hand pressing down on my shoulder. His grip wasn't violent, but his knuckles dug hard into my collarbone. “Say hello to Mr. Briggs.”

“Hello, Mr. Briggs,” I said, placing the platter on the table.

Lyle tilted his head, studying me for a long moment before taking a sip of his beer. “Frank, she’s pale. Pretty, but too thin. How old is she?”

“Eighteen. Just had her birthday.”

“Can she work? I don’t keep dead weight at my plant.”

“Oh, she’s a worker,” my father said, pouring Lyle another drink. “This girl’s been doing chores since she could walk. Cooking, cleaning, laundry—she’s got stamina. She won't disappoint you.”

Lyle set his glass down and gestured toward me. “Come here. Let me see your hands.”

I didn't move.

Under the table, my father’s shoe kicked my shin hard.

“He asked to see your hands. Show him.”

I walked over and held my hands out, palms up.

Lyle grabbed my hand, turning it over to inspect the palm, then the back. He pressed his thumb firmly against my wrist, rubbing the skin as if he were at a butcher shop, testing a cut of meat for freshness.

“Soft,” he murmured, his thumb lingering on my pulse point. “Doesn't look like she’s done much heavy lifting.”

“She draws,” my father offered, a hint of disdain creeping into his voice. “But she’s done with that hobby now.”

“An artist?” Lyle laughed, a dry, grating sound. “A creative type. Well, just make sure you don't complain about the smell of fish scales at the plant.”

He let go of my hand and clinked his glass against my father's. “Alright. Have her report tomorrow morning. We’ll discuss the... compensation details privately.”

The way he said privately hung in the air, thick and suggestive. I watched the tense wrinkles around my father's eyes smooth out in instant relief.

Gavin stayed locked in his room the entire evening.

But I could see the door was cracked open an inch.

Once Lyle left, my father pushed the stack of dirty dishes toward me. “Wash them.”

As I started clearing the table, Gavin burst out of his room.

“Dad, what did Briggs mean by that? Is he trying to...”

“Trying to what?” My father lit a cigarette. “Your sister is working at his plant to earn money so you can go to school. It’s the natural order of things.”

“Then why did he grab her hand like that?” Gavin’s voice was tight, his face flushed. “The way he was looking at her...”

“What do you know about anything?” My father pointed his glowing cigarette at Gavin’s chest. “He was checking to see if she has the grip for the processing lines. Stop overthinking and worry about your own damn grades.”

“But—”

“But what?” My father slammed his fist onto the table, rattling the remaining glasses. “Who do you think paid off the three thousand dollars you wasted on those online streaming girls last year? You think money grows on trees? If your sister doesn’t work, how are we going to pay for your tuition?”

Gavin clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white.

He looked at me.

I kept my head down, scrubbing a plate, turning the kitchen faucet on to its maximum volume to drown out the noise.

“Maeve, say something.”

I kept scrubbing.

He stood there for a long time, chest heaving, before turning back to his room. The slam of his door was violent enough to rattle the cheap drywall.

The cold water splashed onto my sleeves.

Later that night, Diane came over.

She was the woman my father had met at the local poker den last year. In her early forties, she always spoke in a soft, syrup-sweet voice, and she never showed up without a bag of fresh fruit.

“Maeve, sweetie. Your dad told me about the job at Briggs’s plant...”

She sat on the kitchen stool, peeling an apple with a paring knife and offering me a slice. Her smile was warm, practiced. “Honestly, Lyle Briggs is a good man. He’s been in business for years, owns a nice house, drives a brand-new truck. Working for him is a lot safer than doing odd jobs around town.”

“Diane,” I said, accepting the apple. “How did your first husband die again?”

Her hand froze mid-peel.

Her smile didn't falter, but the warmth in her eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp glare.

“That was an accident, sweetie. It has nothing to do with this. Why would you bring up something so tragic?”

“Just curious.”

“You,” she said, standing up and patting my shoulder, her voice returning to its gentle, maternal tone. “Should stop overthinking. Just do what your father tells you. He always knows best.”