It’s typical for people to be praised in death. Heralded to the point of heroism sometimes. But nothing anyone said about Scotty was embellished for the sake of remembering him fondly. He was everything everyone said about him. Nice, funny, athletic, honest, charismatic, a good son. A great friend.
Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could have traded places with him, in life and in death. I’d give up the life I’ve been living in an instant if it meant he could have just one day with Diem.
I don’t know that I’d be this angry—this protective over Diem—if Kenna had just simply caused the accident. But she did so much more than that. She was driving when she shouldn’t have been, she was speeding, she was drinking, she flipped the car.
And then she left. She left Scotty there to die, and she walked home and crawled into bed because she thought she could get away with it. He’s dead because she was scared she’d get in trouble.
And now she wants forgiveness?
I can’t think about the details of Scotty’s death right now. Not with her sitting next to me in this truck, because I’d rather be dead than allow her the satisfaction of knowing Diem. If it means driving us both off a bridge, I might just be vengeful enough to do that right now.
The fact that she thought it would be okay to show up is baffling to me. I’m pissed she’s here, but I think my anger is amplified by the knowledge that she knew who I was last night. When we kissed, when I held her.
I shouldn’t have ignored my gut. There was something off about her. She doesn’t look like the Kenna I saw in the articles five years ago. Scotty’s Kenna had long blonde hair. But I never really looked at her face back then. I never met her in person, but I feel like even just seeing a mug shot of the girl who killed my best friend should have stuck in my head more.
I feel stupid. I’m angry, I’m hurt, I feel taken advantage of. Even today in the store, she knew who I was, yet gave me no hint as to who she was.
I crack my window to get some fresh air, hoping it’ll calm me down. My knuckles are white as I grip the steering wheel.
She’s staring out the window, unresponsive. She may be crying. I don’t know.
I don’t fucking care.
I don’t.
She isn’t the girl I met last night. That girl doesn’t exist. She was pretending with me, and I fell right into her trap.
Patrick expressed concern several months ago when we found out she was released. He thought this might happen—that she might show up wanting to meet Diem. I even put in a Ring camera on my house that points at their front yard. It’s how I knew someone was sitting on the curb.
I told Patrick he was silly to worry. “She wouldn’t show up. Not after what she did.”
I grip the steering wheel even tighter. Kenna might have brought Diem into the world, but that’s where her claim to Diem ends.
When her apartments come into view, I pull the truck into a spot and put it in park. I don’t kill the engine, but Kenna doesn’t make a move to exit my truck. I figured she’d jump out before I even came to a complete stop like she did last night, but it looks like there’s something she wants to say. Or maybe she just dreads going into that apartment as much as she probably dreads staying in this truck.
She’s staring at her hands folded together in her lap. She brings her hand to the seat belt and releases it, but when she’s free from it, she remains in the same position.
Diem looks like her. I always assumed she did since I didn’t see much of Scotty in Diem’s features, but until tonight I had no idea just how much she resembles her mother. They have the same reddish shade of brown hair, straight and flat, not a wave or a curl in sight. She has Kenna’s eyes.
Maybe that’s why I saw red flags last night. My subconscious recognized her before I could.
When Kenna’s eyes slide over to mine, I feel a tug of disappointment inside of me. Diem looks so much like her when she’s sad. It’s like I’m looking into the future at who Diem is going to someday be.
I don’t like that the one person I dislike the most in this world reminds me of the person I love the most.
Kenna wipes her eyes, but I don’t lean over and open the glove box to retrieve a napkin. She can use the Mountain Dew shirt she’s been wearing for two days.
“I didn’t know you before I showed up at your bar last night,” she says with a trembling voice. “I swear.” Her head falls back against the headrest, and she stares straight ahead. Her chest rises with a deep inhale. She exhales at the exact moment my finger meets the unlock button. My cue for her to exit.
“I don’t care about last night. I care about Diem. That’s it.”
I watch a tear as it skates down her jaw. I hate that I know what those tears taste like. I hate that part of me wants to reach over and wipe it away.
I wonder if she cried as she was walking away from Scotty that night?
She moves with a graceful sadness, leaning forward, pressing her face into her hands. Her movement fills my truck with the scent of her shampoo. It smells like fruit. Apples. I rest my elbow on my doorframe and lean away from her, covering my mouth and my nose with my hand. I look out my window, not wanting to know anything else about her. I don’t want to know what she smells like, what she sounds like, what her tears look like, what her pain makes me feel like.
“They don’t want you in her life, Kenna.”
A cry mixes with a gasp that sounds like it’s filled with years of heartache when she says, “She’s my daughter.” Her voice decides to reconnect with her spirit in this moment. It’s no longer a wisp of air escaping her mouth. It’s full of panic and desperation.
I grip my steering wheel, tapping it with my thumb while I think of how to say what I need for her to understand.
“Diem is their daughter. Your rights were terminated. Get out of my truck, and then do us all a favor and go back to Denver.”
I don’t know if the sob that escapes her is even real. She wipes her cheeks and then opens the door and steps out of my truck. She faces me before closing the door, and she looks so much like Diem; even her eyes have grown a shade lighter like Diem’s do when she cries.
I feel that look deep within me, but I know it’s only because of how closely she resembles Diem. I’m hurting for Diem. Not for this woman.
Kenna looks torn between walking away, responding to me, or screaming. She hugs herself and looks at me with two huge, devastated eyes. She tilts her face up toward the sky for a second, inhaling a shaky breath. “Fuck you, Ledger.” The sting of agony in her voice makes me flinch internally, but I remain as stoic as possible on the outside.
Her words weren’t even a yell. They were just a quiet and piercing statement.
She slams my truck door, and then slaps my window with both of her palms. “Fuck you!”
I don’t wait for her to say it a third time. I throw the truck in reverse and pull back onto the street. My stomach is in a knot that feels tethered to her fist. The farther I get from her, the more I feel it unravel.
I don’t know what I expected. I’ve had this vision of her in my head all these years. A girl with no remorse for what she’s done. A mother with no attachment to the child she brought into the world.
Five years of preconceived yet solid notions aren’t easy to let go of. Kenna has been one way and one way only in my mind. Unremorseful. Uninvolved. Uncaring. Unworthy.
I can’t reconcile the emotional turmoil she seems to suffer from not being part of Diem’s life with the lack of regard she held for Scotty’s life.
I drive away while thinking of a million things I should have said. A million questions I still don’t have answers to.
“Why didn’t you call for help?”
“Why did you leave him there?”
“Why do you think you deserve to cause another upheaval in the lives you’ve already destroyed?”
“Why do I still want to hug you?”
