Wow, so I realize it's been like forty years, and for that I apologize. I really have no excuse except that I am super lazy, but I'll try to be better this summer, deal? I hope you enjoy this! I hope it's not too dry; I'm trying to set some side stories up, and that's never fun. But if you like it/hate it, let me know pleease! And thanks for reading!

As soon as Delia found out about the knife incident, she and Kristy fussed over Macy so much that I started feeling guilty that all I'd done was stop the bleeding. Before I could say what happened, Macy told the women that she'd cut herself through a slip of the hand, leaving Bert completely out of the picture. When I opened my mouth, she shot me a glare with those powerful eyes and my jaw snapped shut. Delia had Kristy and I clean the blood up with some bleach while Bert dumped the food that had been close to the accident. Macy puttered around the kitchen helplessly, since Delia forbade her from doing anything. I could tell she felt useless, and that she didn't like it, but she did look a little wan. All of us shot nervous glances at the door, hoping our current employer wouldn't walk in to find his kitchen had become the set of a horror movie.

I loaded the last of the supplies into Delia's van, trying to tune out Kristy's late-night rambling.

"So I failed history. But who cares anyways? Do you know how much history class is going to suck in, like, a thousand years?"

Bert snorted patronizingly. "You really think we'll be alive in a thousand years?"

"Oh, for the love of God," Kristy said, walking away, but Bert followed her like a little terrier nipping at her ankles.

"Even if we were," he was saying his voice fading with the distance even as it rose in volume. "They'd probably develop some device that would ingrain the knowledge into…."

I leaned back against the catering van, watching Delia talk to the host. A few moments later, Macy stood next to me, her arms crossed gingerly across her chest. "How's the hand?" I asked.

"If one more person asks me that, I'm going to scream," she replied exasperatedly.

I ran a hand through my hair. "I take it you don't like to be fussed over."

She opened her mouth, then shut it and shrugged. "I guess I'm just not used to it." She looked at me and smiled, her sad grey eyes an ocean of secrets. The night breeze tousled her blonde hair as she looked away, and I caught myself staring for maybe a little longer than was appropriate.

"That's too bad," I replied softly. I thought of my mom just then. How she, like Delia, would have a heart attack whenever she saw a speck of blood on Bert or me. The way she took care of us when we were sick, putting us in bed, popping in a Disney movie, and making us soup. I wanted to know what Macy meant when she said she wasn't used to being fussed over.

She cleared her throat. "Sorry if I snapped at you."

I cocked my head. "That was you snapping?"

She pulled a face. "More or less. Anyways, thank you for fixing up my hand. I really appreciate it."

I waved her off. "It was more for my benefit. I'm a sissy when it comes to blood. I'd have passed out cold if you kept bleeding."

She laughed, bumping my shoulder with hers. Kristy waltzed up just then, looking thoroughly annoyed. "I just want you to know that your freaking brother doesn't have to worry about an apocalypse because he's not even going to live long enough to die in it."

I nodded, as though this was a reasonable thing to say. "Just let him run with it. He'll tire himself out eventually," I said.

"You say that, but I have yet to see him 'tire himself out', Wes. Ever. In my life."

Monica ambled up just then, blowing the bangs out of her face. She pointed to the watch on her wrist.

"Yeah, we're going," Kristy replied to the wordless statement, pushing her hair out of her face with a hand weighed down with jewelry. "Macy, are you coming out with us?"

"I can't," the aforementioned replied, already yanking her keys out of her pocket with the good hand. Those two words seemed to always be balanced on the tip of her tongue around Kristy, and, in my opinion, they had been a bit overused this summer.

Kristy studied her for a second, perhaps gauging on how effectively she could convince the blonde. Obviously deeming it a lost cause tonight, she simply said, "Alright."

"But thanks."

"How about I drive you home?" I offered. "Bert can follow me." I knew her hand must be hurting, which couldn't be good for driving. Blood loss wasn't exactly a plus either.

She was already shaking her head, though, before I finished the second sentence. "I'll be fine, really. Thanks for the offer, but I can manage." She offered me a tired smile, as if to take out any of the "snapping" she thought had seeped into her words.

The four of us didn't move as she got in and started her car. We watched her pull out of the long driveway and drive away, waving or nodding goodbye to her. I stared after the road she left behind.

"Delia's making her give her a call when she gets home," Kristy said out loud. Though she wasn't looking at me when she said it, I could tell she was directing it towards me. Kristy acted flippant and blasé, but she was sharp and observant; a dangerous combination that could eventually get me into trouble. I nodded indifferently.

"So what are we up to tonight?" Bert asked. Monica shifted her weight to another foot, eyeing Delia's socializing with an impatient puff of air towards her bangs.

"There's a party down in Crooked Stick," Kristy said, reading a text from the little phone in her hand. The light cast a blue gleam on her face, illuminating the scars there.

Kristy was beautiful, and her scars only enhanced that. Flaws were storytellers, hints of the lives the owner leads, or has led. A person could find out a dozen things just by looking at someone. Kristy's scars spoke of trauma, her clothes shrieked her adventurous, vibrant personality, and her smile conveyed a sanguine outlook.

My mind wandered from Kristy without effort, to two pools of grey. Macy's eyes spoke of sadness, of reservation. Perhaps even tragedy. I wanted to know what kept life from them, and not just out of a greedy, burning curiosity. Within the problem lies the solution, and I found myself desperately wishing to see a twinkle in those eyes. And I found myself desperately wishing it to be myself to put it there. To do that, I had to know what was bothering her.

"Wes," Kristy was saying, looking at me oddly. I blinked, allowing reality to filter back in. "Are you coming?"

I looked up at the stars, and let out a breath before pulling my keys out. "No," I replied, to everyone's surprise. "No, I think I'll go home."

Bert sighed and climbed into the Bertmobile. Monotone slunk off to the other side of the ambulance, calling out a bored "Shotty" that was barely heard. Kristy paused for a second, studying me with a smug smirk. Then she, too, disappeared into the ambulance. And, together, the three of them disappeared into the night.

When I got home, I walked into the old barn that I used for my welding. I headed over to a counter piled high with junk, dug around for several minutes, and then found what I was looking for. With the two grey pieces of smooth, frosted seaglass clutched in my palm, I set to work on another angel. If Macy refused to leave my thoughts, then I would direct those thoughts productively.

She would be my inspiration for this one.

An obnoxiously loud noise rang in my ears the next morning. With a grunt, I slapped my hand down on my alarm clock. When it didn't turn off, I fisted my hand and started banging on the top of the device, my face still buried in my pillow. I clipped the corner of it by accident, sending it flying off of my nightstand, as well as my lamp. The pain in my hand brought me fully awake, and I came to the realization that my ringing phone had been the culprit all along.

I flipped it open grudgingly. "Hello?" I croaked, my voice half muffled since one side of my face was still buried.

"Morning, Wes. Sorry to wake you."

I froze, then swung my legs over the bed into a sitting position. "Dad."

He cleared his throat. "So, I'm going to be in town next week," he said.

Silence.

"Okay…"

Another pause. "Well, I'll be around for Fathers' Day. I was just, you know, wondering if you and Bert wanted to grab a bite to eat with me, or something. I know it's pretty early on, but I was just hoping to catch you before you made plans."

I could tell he was nervous. I pulled a hand through my hair, struggling for a response. This was new territory for the both of us, and I was caught off guard. Holiday and birthday standards were met with a detached Hallmark card, signed with a "From, Name", and sometimes money. No message, no xoxo's. Just those two words. I had seen him twice since my mother died, and I could tell it was out of some unspoken feeling of obligation that brought him to us. Bert's apocalypse would have been less surprising than this phone call right now, and probably more welcome.

I cleared my throat. "I dunno, Dad. It's a holiday, and Delia might need help catering or cooking, or something."

There was another pause, and I heard a quiet sigh. "Okay, son," he said softly. "Just let me know."

The phone clicked off. I stared at it before snapping it shut a little forcefully, frustration filtering into my being. What game was he playing at? If he thought that Fathers' Day was a holiday that applied to him, he thought wrong. That man hadn't been my father for a long time, and he knew it.

I stomped across my room and made it to the door before I turned around, picked up my abused alarm clock and lamp, and replaced them on my nightstand. Pete was at the stove, stirring something that I didn't plan on touching. Delia sat at the table, a baby magazine open but unread in front of her and her whale of a stomach. She opted to watch Pete nervously. He was a notorious cook. Notoriously awful, that is. The man could burn take out.

"Morning, Delia. Pete. Whatcha burnin'?"

He spared me a quick look over his shoulder. "Funny, Wes."

I pulled out a chair and took a seat, propping my big feet on the chair across from me. "So, my dad just called me."

Delia's eyes snapped away from the hopefully functioning fire alarm to meet mine. "What did he want?"

I shrugged. "Grab a bite to eat on Fathers' Day."

"What did you say?"

I traced patterns on the table with the tip of my finger, refusing to meet Delia's probing eyes. Everyone seemed to take different approaches to the father situation. There was Delia, who wanted me to handle it in any way I was comfortable with and gave me advice instead of personal opinions. Pete stayed out of the matter completely, but pretended he was involved by nodding at whatever Delia said. Kristy wanted me to ignore him. Monica blew bangs out of her face. Bert acted angry and indifferent but secretly wanted our father in our lives. Becky wanted me to hate him. She cursed him, talked about slashing tires, told me I was too good for a man like that and didn't need him. Her father left her when she was a kid, and didn't she turn out fine?

"I said I probably had to work," I answered, the smell of burning food tickling my nose unpleasantly.

"Oh, yeah Wes," Delia said sarcastically. "Because who doesn't have a huge party in need of catering on Fathers' Day?"

"Delia…" Pete began uneasily.

She leapt up, as though previously poised to respond to this emergency, and fluidly, expertly, simultaneously pushed Pete out of the way while grabbing the stirrer out of his hand. She fiddled with some knobs on the stove, and the burning aroma dissipated.

Pete smiled, unabashed, kissed her on the cheek, and sat down at the table with his coffee. "Thanks, hon."

"He's lucky I even cared enough to make up an excuse," I said. "I could have just outright rejected him. I wonder if he's talked to Bert."

"Bert won't go unless you do," Delia told me. "You know your brother."

I nodded, then swallowed my dignity. "What should I do?"

Delia looked at me. "It's your decision," she said. "Do whatever you're comfortable with."

I suppressed an eye roll, and wanted desperately to talk to Becky.

Macy found me in a coat closet a few days later, an expensive-looking black wrap dangling from her hand. She cocked her head and pursed her lips, her face clearly pulling a "What the hell?" expression.

"Wes?" she said, her a voice clearly pulling a "What the hell?" tone.

I put a finger to my lips and gestured her to come closer. I might have already been beating Bert, but no way was I going to miss this Gotcha! opportunity. To my surprise, she moved her small, snug body into the closet and crouched down in front of me, so that we were eye level. I could feel the heat radiating from her, and the proximity made me pleasantly uncomfortable.

No time for that, Wes, I thought to myself. It was game time, and I was going to get Bert good.

"Okay," I said, entranced by the way my breath ruffled her blonde hair. "It's all in the timing."

After a few moments, she parted her lips to say something. I quickly put my finger back to my lips, feigning the stern look a teacher would give an out-of-control student. Her pretty lips closed twitched as she suppressed a smile.

The air felt used up and hot by the time I heard Bert's pounding lumber down the hall.

"Not now…"

Macy looked apprehensive, yet excited.

"Not now…"

Bert's heavy steps were practically rattling the door.

"Not now…"

Finally, I could hear his somewhat labored breathing and muttering. "Okay," I said, my aching knees rejoicing as I stood. "Now. Gotcha!"

I'd seen worse from Bert. He was a twitchy fellow, always tense and tightly wound. So, needless to say, I was never disappointed with his Gotcha! reaction. He shrieked, his high voice on par with Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music. I seriously considered that all of the champagne glasses in the dining room had shattered. Bert also managed to trip over nothing, since those flat surfaces are tricky sometimes, and fall into the wall behind him. The blood rushed to his face when he took in Macy.

He sputtered a few times. "That was-"

"Number six," I cut in with a quick grin. "By my count."

Bert used the wall to help pull himself to his feet, darting quick looks down both ends of the hallway to see if anyone else had witnessed his little tumble. He straightened himself out and brushed at his clothes. Then, "I'm going to get you so good." He pointed his finger at Macy, then me, and back at Macy, his eyes shooting nearly tangible beams of hate, and promising revenge. "Just you wait."

"Leave her out of it," I said, amused. "I was just demonstrating."

"Oh no. She's part of it now. She's one of us," he snarled, one step short of foaming at the mouth. Macy looked to be debating on whether to be amused or afraid, but I could tell the former was winning. "No more coddling for you, Macy."

"Bert, you've already jumped out at her," I reminded him.

But he ignored me. "It's on!" he bellowed, so loud I was sure Delia would give us a lecture about using inside voices later. I smiled as I watched my brother lumber down the hall, yank open the door to the main room, and let it shut behind him.

Macy was looking at me, her cheeks still flushed pink with the previous excitement. "Nice work," she said. We started down the hallway to the kitchen.

"It's nothing. With enough practice, you too can pull a good gotcha." Though I could hardly imagine Macy scaring anyone. She wasn't short, but she was still small. Thin, delicate. Probably the least intimidating person there was.

She laughed softly, then said, "Frankly, I'm a little curious about the derivation of all this."

My eyebrows raised on their own. "Derivation?" I repeated.

"How it started."

I snorted indignantly. "I know what it means." She looked up at me quickly, her grey eyes wide with apology. I grinned at her. "It's just such an SAT word. I'm impressed."

She looked back to the hallway and cleared her throat. "I'm working on my verbal," she explained.

I smiled, nodding at a valet named Devin that I knew from around my old school. He cut a glance at Macy, gave her the once-over, then looked back at me with raised, appreciative eyebrows before he passed.

I cleared my throat. "I can tell." I always appreciated a smart girl, and Macy seemed to be a highly intelligent and driven one. Becky was smart, but not in the way it applied to school and textbooks. She could spot a liar before one opened his or her mouth, establish connections and relationships before she set foot in a room, and say just the right thing to manipulate anyone. She was street smart. But she knew she wasn't intelligent in the way people like Macy were, and she hated that. She got angry when I used words she didn't understand, frustrated when she couldn't grasp something I was telling her, and sad when she didn't graduate. She hid the latter with a cool indifference, and refused to talk about it.

"Truthfully," I began as I realized Macy was watching me expectantly. "It's just this dumb thing we started about a year ago. It pretty much came from us living alone in the house after my mom died. It was really quiet, so it was easy to sneak around."

She nodded, although her brow was furrowed. Again, I tried to picture Macy sneaking around, jumping out at unsuspecting victims. I had to suppress a laugh. "I see," was all she said.

"Plus, there's just something fun, every once in a while, about getting the shit scared out of you. You know?"

She gave no sign of agreement this time. "Must be a guy thing," she said with a smile.

"Maybe," I replied, pushing the kitchen door open for Macy and following her in. Everyone but-thankfully-Bert was crowded in the kitchen. Kristy was munching on what looked like a biscuit, and Delia was pulling more supplies out of a container. She froze, then patted the bottom of the empty container as though it would open and reveal whatever she was looking for.

"Wait a second," she said, making my stomach drop. "Everyone freeze."

We all waited apprehensively. Please be something insignificant, I thought to myself.

"Where," Delia said, doing a slow three-sixty around the room. "Are the hams?"

Next chapter up hopefully before the world actually ends. Thanks for sticking with me!