“Ms. Cassidy?” came the calls from the backseat.
“Yes?” Cassidy responds, her voice careful.
“Do you hate me?”
Cassidy goes very still in the passenger seat. I glance in the rearview mirror and see him watching her with those too-serious eyes.
“No,” she says finally, turning in her seat to look back at him. Her voice is softer now, gentler. “I don’t hate you, Axel.”
“Mama said it was my fault you never came to town,” he continues. “She said it’s why I don’t get Christmas presents.”
Cassidy’s breath catches, and my hands tighten on the steering wheel. Of course, Britney would blame an innocent child for her fuck-ups. Of course, she’d make him carry that weight.
“Well, your mother was wrong, Axel.” Cassidy’s voice is steady now. “It’s... more complicated than that. But none of it was your fault.”
The kid settles back against the seat, like her reassurance is enough to ease whatever worry was eating at him.
We drive the rest of the way in silence. The snow is falling harder now, accumulating on the road and making the truck slip as we navigate the increasingly treacherous dirt path. By the time Britney’s house comes into view, there’s already a thin white coating on everything.
The house is small and weathered, with peeling paint and a sagging front porch that looks like it might collapse if you sneezed on it. The windows are dark, and there’s a general air of neglect that makes the place feel abandoned.
This is where Axel has been living. This isolated, falling-down shack.
I park the truck and sit for a moment, staring at the house and trying to process what I’m seeing. The wind is picking up, making the bare trees around the property creak and sway. In the distance, the sky has turned an ugly yellow-gray that promises serious weather.
“We need to move fast,” I say, more to fill the silence than because I think either of them doesn’t already know that.
Cassidy nods, pulling her coat tighter around herself as she studies the approaching storm. “How long do you think we have?”
I check my phone, frowning at the weather alerts that keep popping up. “Hour, maybe less before the roads become impassable. Storm’s moving faster than they predicted.”
Axel doesn’t say anything. He just unbuckles his seatbelt and climbs out of the truck.
I follow him out, my expensive dress shoes slipping on the slick ground. The air cuts through my suit jacket, and the wind carries the sharp bite of serious snow.
“Christ,” I mutter, looking up at the sky. “This is going to be bad.”
But Cassidy is already following Axel toward the front door, her shoulders hunched against the cold. I can’t help but notice the sway of her ass as she walks, even bundled up in that coat. Some things never change. The kid pulls a key from his pocket and lets himself in.
I follow them inside, already knowing with sick certainty that I’m not catching my flight back to L.A. tonight. The house is dark and cold, with a damp, biting chill. It smells of stale cigarettes and something sour.
“She paid her electricity at least,” Cassidy observes, flipping a light switch. The overhead bulb flickers to life, revealing a living room that’s seen better days.
“Go get your stuff, kid,” I say.
“Okay,” Axel says quietly, already heading upstairs. “It won’t take long.”
His footsteps disappear up the staircase, followed by the sound of a door opening. And then Cassidy and I are alone for the first time in eight years.
“Jesus,” Cassidy breathes, looking around the living room with horror. “Look at this place.”
I follow her gaze, taking in the water stains on the ceiling, and peeling wallpaper. The furniture looks like it came from a thrift store’s reject pile, its fabric worn thin and stained. Empty beer bottles line the windowsill, and there are cigarette burns on every surface.
“How could she live like this?” Cassidy’s voice is tight with anger. “She raced me to motherhood and had him living in this... this...”
“Shithole,” I finish for her, because that’s exactly what it is.
“Did you see how he just... accepted it?” Cassidy continues, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Like he expects our resentment. He asked if I hated him. What has she been telling him about me?”
