Dad pulled at my thick ponytail. “Now that my sweet pea is lucky number seven—”
“No luck, only God grants us another birthday,” Momma replied.
“That’s right, only God.” He reached down, exaggerative in prayer as he tried to lift Momma and me in his arms at the same time. We all fell in a fit of giggles.
“You’re so silly, Dad. You carried us both last week.”
“But you’re seven now; Daddy’s big girl.”
* * *
As the memory fades,I’m tormented by the uncertainty of which pain has a hold on me. Though most people view me as a glass-half-full person while I grin and refresh their drinks, I’m secretly not. The quest to suppress my memories over the years has failed to eradicate certain feelings. Feelings like being wrapped around my father’s arms or holding his memory in my heart, no matter my attempts to forget. It’s as if when my parents’ hearts stopped beating, mine started marching in double time.
To be honest, I’d rather erase every fond feeling of him and keep a vise grip on the bad ones. Only, the bastard never gave me a single harrowing memory. Not until it was too late. Wrought to the core, warring thoughts snake through my mind:
Momma was never there to make me chicken noodle soup to relieve a sore throat. She was never there to give me advice. I’ve had to tell myself to take risks, be bold, gracious, humble. She was supposed to be my other best friend. The one who helped me try on wedding dresses and hide them from Leith.
Daddy should’ve been the standard to which I judged my future husband. Damn, all I saw from him wasthe standard. How I hate that he missed the Father-Daughter dance. I hate him for it. And I hate myself for not having the capacity to numb myself on Momma’s behalf.
With one swipe of my palm across the island countertop, all the ingredients shatter against the marble floor. Amid the sound of a billion jagged shards fragmenting, I exhale. Dangerously sprinkled over the marble floor are the pieces of my heart that never belonged to Leith MacKenzie. I still love my father with all the broken pieces. It’s a shame that I’ll never tell a soul.
While grabbing the broom, the water I fought flows from my eyes freely. As I sweep, the good times and the one single nightmare that tore it all apart vanish from before my eyes. I dry my cheeks, sweeping away the tears.
“There,” I tell myself, releasing a cleansing breath. I mumble the credo that’s gotten me through many years of life: “I’m good.”
Chapter 18
Leith
The sky’s as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat when I drum my palms on the driver’s side window of a Chevy Colorado. Startled awake, my cousin Firth hits the horn. As the alarming sound resonates along the still street, he instinctively wraps his grubby paws around the Glock in his lap.
I watch his incompetentarseheave a sigh at the sight of me. The window zips down. “Witthefeck, Leith?”
I point a stiff finger. “This is howye watchmehouse, eh?”
“Och. First, I’m doin’ ye a favor,” Firth begins, running a hand along his ginger beard. “Second, I could’ve watched the wife whileinsidethe comfort of yer home. Third, yer da came by around midnight with Mia. I didna know whether to wave or duck down in my truck.”
At my wits’ end, I rest my forearms on the window ledge. “Firth, did he see ya?”
“Nae.”
“Then shut thefeckup ‘bout it.”
Steam billows from his ears, and while he sasses me, I mind the conversation I had with Knox earlier. They envision me as a man divided between my loyalty to the clan and devotion to my wife and weewean. Well,fecktheir perception. I’m not them; I’m me. Same as I told mybrathairstonight on the way from Phelps’ home. Brody vocalized his anger that I kept him in the dark. Camdyn took up his cellphone, saying when I was ready to tell him, he’d be there.
Him? Myfeckin’weebrathair. Nae,thankye.
“Ye done?” I cut into his outburst.
“Ye auld crabbit.” Firth mutters about my lack of appreciation, sifting around his jean pocket for his keys.
As I tap the roof of the truck, a nod of my head is all the ‘thanks’ he’ll get.
He whispers into the night, “I’m gonna take ajobby—shit—in yer coffee next time I see ye.”
“Och, ye’re taking it there, aye?” The bloodybawbag’sgonnashitein my coffee! I click my tongue, gripping the driver’s side window ledge and taunt. “Here’s yerfeckin’jobby, and I raise ye a swarm of midges! Aye! I hope ye get attacked by midges next timewe visit our clan back home. How ‘bout that, Firth?”
Satisfied that I’ve won the argument, I turn and meander along the sidewalk toward the house.