“ARE you sure you have to leave?”
Despite the fact I knew the answer before I asked the question, I’m still disappointed when Dad nods—Dr. Hanlon is undoubtedly desperately needed to sew some poor hapless soul back together. There’s no telling how many lives were lost without him running the show over Christmas. The hospital probably couldn’t function without him for an hour, let alone the four whole days he’s been gone.
Clearly, I’m not bitter at all.
Dropping the newspaper he’s reading, Dad sighs, hands stretching across the dining table to grip mine. “You know I wish I could stay.”
I smile weakly; I do know. He hates leaving me as much as I hate it, he always has.
One time, when I was thirteen, he booked an entire week off after I got my appendix taken out; the man cried because we got to eat dinner together every night. On my sixteenth birthday, he got through a full night on-call without any pages and he spent the morning after practically skipping around the kitchen. When he made it in time after a particularly hectic shift to watch Cass’ first high school baseball game, he was the loudest parent in the stands. The longest he’s ever taken off was after the accident. Four whole months of him doting on me and driving me to physiotherapy and holding me while I moped and cried.
That’s why I don’t hold a grudge; while my dad might’ve missed a lot, he was always there when it mattered most.
I can know all of that and still miss him before he’s even out the door.
Dad stands, rounding the table to tower over me. A gentle hand strokes my hair. “How about I try to come visit you next semester?”
There’s a unmissable emphasis on ‘try’ but I perk up anyway. “Really?”
He stoops to kiss the top of my head. “No promises,” obviously, “but I should be able to swing it.”
It’s like a switch flicks; I go from feeling sorry for myself to beaming, and I’m not sure what that says about me, how simply offering to try is enough. “I’d love that.”
“He can stay with me,” Cass offers as he struts into the kitchen—he was gracious enough to let me and dad have breakfast without his presence.
Dad and I laugh in unison. “Not a chance.”
The rest of the family tricks in, bidding their goodbyes to Dad. My face is smushed against his chest, arms wrapped tight around his waist, when the doorbell rings. Everyone exchanges confused glances. “Are we expecting someone?”
Shaking her head, Lynn slips from the room, footsteps heading toward the front door.
It all happens so fast.
I hear the door opening. A sharp inhale that seems to echo off the walls. Stifled arguing, like Lynn’s trying to hold back from yelling, which is weird because I don’t think I’ve ever heard Lynn raise her voice unless it’s aimed at her sons and me and something silly we got up to.
Curiosity drives me into the hallway. I frown at the sight of Lynn crowding the door with her body, blatantly trying to hide whoever’s standing there from view. For a split second, she shifts, and I catch a glimpse of the secret she’s so desperate to conceal.
A vaguely familiar woman stands in the doorway, smirking at Lynn. Rusty blonde hair—obviously dyed—is pulled back into a neat bun. She’s dressed impeccably, brown pantsuit and white shirt immaculate, cream heels making her a good head taller than Lynn, and I almost laugh at the juxtaposition of her crisp outfit versus our rumpled, borderline dirty pajamas.
When green eyes flicker to me, my laughter dries up and briefly, I stop being able to see, hear, feel anything.
Because those are my green eyes staring at me. Those lips quirked into an amused grin are mine. The blonde slicked-back hair that should be vivid, curly red is mine too.
I know without a doubt who this woman is before she even opens her mouth.
“Hello, darling.”
Chaos erupts around me.
People are yelling, demanding that she leave, but the only thing I can hear is her voice. Sickly sweet and cloying, ringing in my ears like an awful warning siren.
Hellodarlinghellodarlinghellodarling.
Suddenly I’m six years old again, sitting on my driveway watching her drive away.
Hands grip my waist and pull me back into a hard chest, surrounding me with the citrus-and-spice scent of someone I think I should probably push away but my mind won’t, can’t, focus on anything but the woman in front of me. A hand, separate to the ones on my waist, slips into mine, warm and comforting, and another belonging to a third owner drops on my shoulder.
Her gaze is flicking between me and the people around me, and I’m struck with a strong urge to wipe that self-righteous smile, like she’s enjoying the havoc she’s created, off her face. The hands on me tighten the tiniest bit, as if they know.
“Get out.” The voice is so quiet yet so harsh, and it takes a moment for me to realize that I’m the one speaking.
Two perfect eyebrows raise. “Is that anyway to talk to your mother, Amelia?”
Mother.
Sounds like a curse when she says it.
“I think you made it pretty clear you have no interest in that particular job.”
She laughs. Her whole face shimmers with amusement, affirming my suspicion that she’s genuinely finding pleasure in this sick little scene of her creation.
I wonder if I look half as furious as Lynn does right now, still standing half in front of the door, still blocking the woman who dares call herself my mother from crossing the threshold.
I hear my dad coming around the corner, asking what’s going on and I try to move. I try to stop him from seeing the woman who ruined him, but those damn hands hold me back. It’s like he hits a wall, the way he suddenly stops in his track, his eyes widening almost comically. ‘Diane?’ His rasping voice breaks my heart in two.
It seems to have the opposite effect on the she-devil. ‘Hello, Patrick,’ she purrs, fingers wiggling in a little wave.
Dad responds, asking her something, but I can’t hear it over the roaring in my head. It’s so loud, so overwhelming, so unapologetically hateful.
And then suddenly, it’s gone.
Drowned out by soft whispers of a language I don’t understand yet they calm me all the same.
Despite the circumstances, despite our audience, I can’t help but slump against Nick, my free hand curling around one of the ones settled on my waist. Warm breath brushes my cheek, warm lips a second later, and it’s enough for my focus to clear, just in time to catch the end of a spat sentence.
‘…although, even without you, it seems she’s had plenty of attention.’ Diane stares pointedly the hands gripping me protectively, and my cheeks flare with nothing but pure rage. Before I can say anything, though, a body moves half in front of me, a shield from her gaze, her words, her insinuations.
‘Get the hell out of my house.’ Cass is livid. Wracked with rage toward a woman he’s never even met, rage on my behalf, the hand in mine shaking with it, although that could be my own trembling. On my other side, James shifts, mimicking our brother’s stance, leaving only a sliver of space between them.
Diane pays them no mind; I remain the sole focus of her attention.
“Don’t you want to know why I’m here, darling?” That fucking voice; so sugary, so deadly. I don’t answer her, and I swear I see a flicker of annoyance cross her features before they revert into a cool mask. “I saw you,” she continues, her gaze darting behind me. “At the grocery store.”
Nick stiffens and so do I.
The day before Christmas Eve, we were sent on a grocery store quest—Lynn had a last minute panic over whether or not she’d stocked the house with enough booze to get us through the holiday—and Nick drove us to one a few towns over.
To waste time, he claimed.
To freely feel me up between the aisles, I know.
Vaguely, I remember messing around and noticing some woman staring at us. At the time, I assumed she was some random spoilsport judging us for being too loud. I didn’t even look twice. The receding sound of tapping heels and a hint of a vaguely familiar face were all I took away from that brief encounter.
Apparently, I should’ve paid more attention.
“I thought, maybe, now that we’re both adults, you’d like to have lunch with me. Let me explain.”
It takes a moment for Diane’s word to settle in, so heavy in my mind it’s like I can see them.
And then, in a whiplash of emotion, the anger lifts and I laugh.
Loud, bitter cackles wrack my body, eyes watering and stomach cramping with the force of them. “You’re kidding, right?” My voice cracks slightly, as cracked as Diane’s perfection mask; she looks completely and utterly bewildered.
“You abandon me, abandon us,” I gesture wildly at Dad, who’s watching me with an odd combination of pride and confusion, “and you don’t call, you don’t text, you don’t even send a fucking postcard for fourteen years, and now you want to have lunch?”
What I’m saying isn’t funny yet I’m powerless to cease chuckling because this whole thing is so preposterous, so fucking hilarious. Like an episode straight out of some overdramatic soap opera.
Completely cutting your child out of your life, pretending she doesn’t exist only to pop back up when she’s an adult… Fuck me.
‘I tried to get in contact, Amelia.” My name sounds so wrong rolling off her tongue. “After your accident and that boy…”
Just like that, the hilarity dissipates.
“Don’t you fucking dare,’ I hiss, skin flushing so red it feels like I’m on fire. “You don’t talk about him.”
Diane rears back as though I’ve slapped her. “Darling…”
I hold up a hand to cut her off, like a parent scolding her child, ironically. When I move forward, Nick does too, never breaking contact, and I’m glad for it because I genuinely feel like the only thing holding me back from jumping the wretched woman is his anchoring touch.
There’s little doubt in my mind that if I did start swinging, he’d coach me from the side lines, calling out notes on my form.
Looking Diane dead in the eye, I hope to fucking God she hears me loud and clear when I state exactly what she is to me. “You mean absolutely nothing to me, and I don’t want you to. Get the hell out and stay away from my family.”
She looks shocked. Genuinely shocked, as if she really expected me to run into her arms crying tears of relief and begging her to be my mom.
Surprise, bitch, I goad internally. I have a mom. She’s currently five seconds away from slamming the door in your perfect, prissy little face.
Diane’s gaze flickers to Dad, an essence of pleading to her expression. When he meets her gaze head on and scoffs loudly, I’ve never been so proud of him.
And when she only hovers in the doorway for a split second longer before turning on her heel and striding down the driveway, I’ve never been so proud of myself.
Because, this time, when the screech of tires echoes down the street, I don’t watch her drive away.
The tree in the Morgans’ backyard wasn’t only used for slightly dangerous, bruise-creating recreational activities; it was something of a haven to a young me. If I sat at the right angle, the thick trunk hid me from the view of both houses, leaving me to sulk in privacy over silly things, like my older brothers got my new clothes dirty or they cheated at a game.
Right now, my reason for sulking doesn’t feel so trivial.
The ground beneath me is freezing cold, as is the air against my bare skin, but I don’t mind. The privacy is worth it, being able to float into thoughtless oblivion is worth it.
It doesn’t last very long, though.
My eyes crack open at the sound of dead grass crunching beneath heavy footsteps, and I’m greeted by the sight of Nick bathed in wintery sunlight. There’s something to say about the fact that, even in dire circumstances, I can’t help but admire him. Concern suits him, I’ve learned. “Cass said to give you space.’
‘Looks like you didn’t listen.’
“I told you.” Dropping to the ground beside me, he leaves a healthy distance between us. Letting me come to him. “I’m a terrible listener.”
I breathe an amused noise. Liar.
In spite of his wry tone, Nick’s gaze is all serious as it burns the side of my face. His hands fidget where they rest on his lap, his whole body twitching slightly, actually. Only when I reach out and link our hands does the surprisingly soft-centered man settle, a sigh of utter relief escaping him. In a single, strong tug, I’m on his lap, my forehead pressed to the slope of his neck as he buries his face in my hair. Hands rub my back soothingly, silently, providing comfort whilst I struggle finding adequate words to describe how I feel.
“Fourteen years,” I croak, and arms tighten around me. “There were so many times in fourteen years when I might’ve needed her and she picks now to show up. I don’t get it. Why?”
It’s a rhetorical question and Nick knows it. Nothing I say is meant to be replied to, none of my ranting and raving, and he knows that too. Without a word, he listens as I spill every thought that clogs my brain, recall the limited memories I have of that woman, very few of which are happy because the only time she ever really paid attention to me was when she was scolding me simply for being a fucking child.
No, darling, you’ll get your dress dirty.
Girls don’t play rough like that.
That’s not very ladylike.
Fuck, if she saw the way I grew up she’d probably have an aneurysm.
The best memory I have of her—possibly the only positive one—is when she left me crying on the driveway. Because by doing that, she consequently left me in Lynn Morgan’s care. Lynn, the woman who brought me to dance classes and collected me from my school and gossiped with me about boys and coached me through my first period. My mother left me and I found my mom.
The world really does work in mysterious, fucked up ways.
“You should talk to her.”
My head snaps up so quick I narrowly avoid clocking Nick in the chin. “Why would I do that?”
“You have questions, querida,” he says like it’s obvious. “Ask them.”
Not quite sure I’m hearing things correctly, I clamber to my feet, gaping down at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “Are you serious?”
Apparently, he is; rising too, he nods.
“I don’t have questions, Nick,” I spit, forcing myself not to yell because while the tree might hide us from view, it does nothing to quell our voices. “I have complaints. I have anger. I have violent tendencies that involve wanting to break her nose for everything she put my dad through.’
“Amelia,” Nick frowns when I dodge his attempts to draw me close, “I’m just trying to help.”
‘Well, don’t.” Anger burns in my chest, begging to be released. It doesn’t matter that most of it is brewing for Diane; Nick is about to be the hapless victim, and I don’t think I could stop it if I wanted to.
Wrong place, wrong time, wrong decision to push.
Nick doesn’t know shit about what I’m feeling. He didn’t watch that woman walk away, completely uncaring about the crying child at her feet. He didn’t listen to my dad cry himself to sleep every night for a month or watch him walk around like a zombie for much longer or overhear the heartbroken conversations he had with Cass’ parents.
I’m allowed to be angry. I don’t owe her anything, not even a measly conversation.
So, I snap.
“You’re not my brother, you’re not my dad, and you’re sure as shit not my boyfriend so back the fuck off. I don’t need you.”
Nick does what I tell him, literally. Stumbling back a step, his head reels as though I slapped him clean across the cheek, and I wonder if that would’ve hurt both of us less. Because the distraught look on his face hurts, it physically makes my chest ache, so bad I have to drop my gaze to the ground because I can’t bear feeling guilty right now on top of everything else.
When he sucks in a breath, I don’t stick around long enough to hear what he has to say.
