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"Well, honey, I know you're busy, but it's Chay's birthday, and you didn't even call," Evan said, tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear so he could scrub out the cast iron skillet. "She cried herself to sleep."

Not that Sandra would care about Chay's tears. No, sir, that woman hadn't thought about her eight year old daughter in maybe six years. Since she'd left, for sure, which had been five years. Goddamn it, how hard was it to call? Evan wasn't asking for the woman to send a present or nothin'.

Sighing, he listened to Sandra bitch about her schedule and how she had National Finals coming up and how she wouldn't get to see Cheyenne for Christmas. Then Evan clunked the pan down on the stove and let her have it.

"Fine. You just do your thing, like you always have. But I swear to God, the next time you come sweeping into her life with glitter and gifts and shit, I'll lock the door in your face."

He slammed the phone down, too, the plastic cracking under the force of it, the sound echoing through the little trailer house.

"You okay, buddy?" Brooks asked, coming in from the tiny front room, covered in pink glitter and silly string. The whole look made Evan laugh.

"Yeah. Just ... Sandra, you know?"

"Ah." Brooks nodded sagely, blue eyes searching his for a moment. "Bitch not dead yet, huh?"

"Brooks..."

"Sorry." The man didn't look sorry a bit. The smile made Brooks' laugh lines come out, though, made that tanned face look less sharp angles and more relaxed. "You know how I feel on that."

Evan knew. Hell, he'd been twenty-one the first time Brooks had said that Sandra was bad news, even with the sparkle and shine, and that she neededto be put down like a rabid dog. They'd fought like a couple of old tomcats that night, both bruised and battered and hurt deep down.

Somehow it never surprised him that Brooks was the one still around.

"Why'd you marry that woman, anyway?" Brooks asked, pulling the cooler out and taking it to the kitchen door to tump it out.