“Tate, I’m so sorry, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” Laurelin says in a rush. “This is the worst-case scenario, and I just need some time to explain.”
“Okay.” Summoning my blankest, calmest face, I look her dead in the eyes. “Explain then.”
Laurelin hesitates, just for a second, and that’s enough.
“Time’s up.” I walk past her as if she’s a ghost, as if I can’t even see her.
“Wait!” Laurelin cries. “This can’t be it. This just can’t be the end.”
I whirl around, rage making my features ugly.
“It is,” I rasp before looking her curvy form up and down with hardened eyes. To my own self-disgust, my body responds and actually stiffens a bit, seeing those creamy curves wrapped in nothing but a towel. But then I turn my back. “Grab your shit and pack your bags; I don’t really care what you take. Just get out, you fucking cunt.”
I can’t imagine how much I’m hurting her, how painful my words must be. But I don’t care. I can’t. If I allow myself to care, or allow myself to feel any iota of emotion, I’m going to break down worse than I ever have in my life. I can’t afford to do that, especially not now.
I stalk back to the kitchen and immediately pour a double shot of tequila. It burns like hell going down my throat, but I barely feel it. Then, I hear Laurelin slowly coming up the stairs from the basement. She’s crying quietly, obviously trying to muffle the sound. Good. I don’t turn around as the door opens. Her footsteps pause for a moment, and then she heads upstairs, moving slowly like a wounded animal.
I pour another double shot.
After I down it, I put the tequila away, and sit down at the kitchen table, my back to the front door. I do everything in my power to control my breath, keeping it calm and even. I took a tai chi class many years ago and learned how powerful the breath is. It’s a source of strength and right now, I can’t let my emotions spiral out of control. Not now. Not yet. Not ever.
I lose myself in the ticking of the clock on the wall, breathing in and out in a steady rhythm while letting the tequila work its dubious magic. Soon, Laurelin will be gone, and I’ll be able to return to my normal life. It’ll be awkward to see Channing again, but if I tell him I want to avoid the subject, he’ll understand. We’ll never speak of his sister again. She’ll be dead to me.
Suddenly, a memory flashes into my brain, as if on a big-screen TV. A year or so ago. A birthday party. Channing’s daughter. Introductions around the room to various friends and family. A gorgeous, svelte blonde with an infectious laugh, who leaves me during the party to go play with her niece.
Laurelin.
I have met her before, and I didn’t remember.
I slam my fists on the table, and a small gasp sounds behind me. I don’t even bother to turn around. “How long have you been standing there?” I growl.
“Just a second,” she promises, her voice shaking. “I wanted to apologize. Tate, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this, I swear.”
“You can swear all you want,” I say in a tight voice. “But it happened. So leave.”
She’s silent for a minute. Then, I hear the faintest “I’m sorry,” and after what feels like an eternity, the front door opens and then closes with a solemn, somber click.
I don’t say goodbye. I can’t. I don’t say anything at all.
9
Laurelin
* * *
What else could I have done? What could I have said? After all, my brother caught us at the most unfortunate moment, with Tate’s seed in my mouth and my pussy convulsing from the man’s ministrations. Channing was at his absolute worst with those endless “yo yo yo’s” but it’s not my brother’s fault. It’s mine.
Now, months have passed since I left Tate’s home for the last time. Channing’s called at least twelve times to apologize, or to ask what the hell was going on, or a combination of the two, but I never answered, and eventually, my brother stopped. I haven’t spoken to him since. The leaves have fallen off their branches, and the days go dark early now. Everything is turning cold and barren, appropriately so, I think.
But what else could I have said?
I torture myself with this question every single day. It haunts me as I take a shower, and as I’m brushing my teeth. It invades my mind when I’m taking a walk through the park, or volunteering at the shelter, or playing with Toodles. I beat myself up when I wake in the afternoon and before I fall asleep, usually in the small hours of the early morning. I doze fitfully, torturously, but it’s the only relief I can find from this question, the question I can’t stop, won’t stop asking myself.