I’m halfway up the central staircase when Odette’s robed silhouette comes into view, sending a hard start to my heart. I suck in my breath and clutch the handrail for balance.
“You scared me,” I said.
“Where were you last night?” She peers down her nose at me.
“I went to Petty Cash,” I say, “and then we went to someone’s house afterward. I crashed there.”
The way she studies me makes me feel sixteen again.
Sliding her hand along the polished banister, she gives me nothing more than a snide humph before disappearing into the master suite. I’m sure she’ll mention something to my father—then again, maybe she won’t given his current state.
I peel out of my dirty clothes, take an extra hot shower, and wash Wyatt Buchanan from every last inch of me.
But hours later, the image of him watching me drive off still haunts my mind. The pained expression on his face and the way he stood there so perfectly still, like he was lost in his own thoughts, gives me pause.
I mentally catalog everything like a lovesick teenager trying to determine if a boy likes her or not. He told me he keeps my picture because he misses me, and he chose that line shack because it felt like home. Last night he admitted there were times he also forgot we weren’t pretending. And on several occasions he says he can’t tell me why we couldn’t be together. Not that he won’t—but that he can’t.
Something—or someone—came between us ten years ago.
And heaven help the bastard when I find out who it is.
24
Wyatt
* * *
“Sleep in today, did you?” Mama asks when I show up for breakfast. Glancing at the wooden clock on the wall she adds, “You’re usually here before the sun comes up.”
Cash shoots me a look from the head of the table, occupying the spot our dad used to claim until ten years ago. The dent in the wall where he’d bang his fist every time we were fighting at the dinner table has yet to be patched. Hart wanted to leave it for “sentimental reasons.” It’s the kind of memory my brothers laugh about now when they’re reminiscing about the good old days. They used to find it hilarious when my father would get riled up. But I suppose those kinds of things can be funny when they’re not targeted directly at you—or your innocent mother.
Hart didn’t see half of what I saw growing up. Neither did Tripp. If Cash ever noticed, he never said anything to me about it.
They didn’t see Daddy put his hands around Mama’s neck Christmas morning when he accused her of spending too much on presents. And they didn’t see the marks he left because she wore turtlenecks for two weeks after. They never saw the way he’d grab her when he’d been drinking too much and wanted a piece. It didn’t matter how exhausted she was or if she gently rebuffed him—he’d force her into the bedroom. To this day, the pop of their bedroom lock still makes me flinch.
For reasons I’ll never know, Mama and I were the scapegoat and whipping boy of the family.
Some nights, when my brothers get to telling stories, I watch my mother smile and pretend to get teary-eyed and put on a wistful facade for their sake. But deep down, I know she’s relieved he’s not around to hurt her anymore. And while they’re exchanging the same old tales, I take comfort in knowing the rough-skinned hands that once struck the woman who loved him and those lips that spewed hateful venom to the son who saved his life … are rotting six feet under.
That pathetic pile of ash and dust has no power over us anymore.
Blaire asked me last night if I had any regrets.
I regret that things didn’t work out for us the way we planned—not that I had any control over that.
But I’ll never regret doing what I had to do to save my mother from that monster.
25
Blaire
* * *
“We couldn’t help but notice you didn’t come home last night,” my father says as we start our afternoon walk. We’re taking it slower this time, just one lap around the block. The doctors sent him home with a cane, but he refuses to use it. He says it’ll make him look older than he is, but I told him he lost that excuse when he let his hair go white a few years back.
“Didn’t Odette tell you? I went to Petty Cash then crashed at a friend’s,” I say. Nudging my elbow against his arm, I add, “I’m not in high school anymore. You don’t need to keep tabs on me …”
He chuckles. “Old habits die hard, Blaire. And a parent’s job is never truly done. You’ll learn that someday when you have children of your own.”