The sun beats down, making sweat trickle between my shoulder blades. The turtleneck clings to my already damp skin.
I’m going to melt.
Especially when I have to cycle over an hour, if not more, to get home. Abram’s surgery is the closest I can get to, but our small town is further up the mountain, and home is further up again.
My mouth twists as I swing my leg over the bike and grip the bars.
Uphill.
Getting here was bad enough.
I can do this.
I can.
Twenty minutes go by before I have to stop, my lungs screaming.
I shouldn’t have to do this.
One hour turns into two. Wide, open, neatly poured concrete turns into towering, endless stretches of forest. The road narrows to rougher tracks that harden under the summer sun and threaten to become impassable when the rains come through.
I pick up speed, gritting my teeth as I approach the main street of Widow’s Peak. I never come through here if I can help it, but it’s the fastest route from the clinic. I’m not sure I’ll make it much further otherwise. I keep my head down, but nobody pays me any attention.
The open street, lined with shops on either side, ends abruptly at the edge of the forest. A single main road winds up the mountain from there. I skid off it after a few minutes in favor of the familiar forest trail that’ll take me close to our tiny patch of land.
Thank the lord for shortcuts.
It’s getting dark by the time I pedal through the last of the trees, dripping in sweat and with a foul temper to match. I tip the bike to the ground and leave my wheels spinning, too tired to bother putting my bike away and leaving it in front of the trailer.
The sound of the television greets me as I push the door open. “That you, Kenz?”
“No,” I mutter. “Someone else.”
As if anyone else would come up here. Rick twists his head to stare at me over the back of the couch. “Where you been?”
My father probably used to be handsome, once. I’m not sure when that changed. Possibly when my mama dumped me on his doorstep as a newborn and took off into the night. Never to beseen again and leaving him with an omega daughter that he had no idea how to handle.
The dimple in his chin that probably used to be cute looks more and more like a drooping ass crack every day, even as his hairline creeps back. I think of it as symbolic of our relationship.
My backpack falls to the floor with a thump, my response forced through gritted teeth. “Where were you?”
His eyebrows fly up at my clear irritation. “What’s got your ass in a twist?”
“You.” Stalking into our tiny kitchenette, I yank the door to the refrigerator open and shove my head inside, trying to cool off and frowning at the lack of anything edible. “You were supposed to pick me up, Rick!”
Awkward silence is my only response. “Shit.”
“Yeah.” I slam the door, bringing a bottle of water with me. “Shit.”
“That was today?”
“Yep.” I’m soaked. I’ll need to do an extra dressing change. My whole damn body sings with pain as I turn to Rick. “You really didn’t remember…?”
I trail the words off before I can finish the sentence. Hurts a little less, that way, and I have more than enough pain to cope with as it is.
Me. He didn’t remember me.
I shouldn’t even be surprised by now.
