“Britney was always selfish, but this... this is neglect. Pure and simple.”
“Then what about you, Ethan? Why aren’t you in his life? You should be the one raising him now that Britney is dead! I shouldn’t even be here!” Her voice rises with each word, and I can see the fire building in her dark eyes. The same passion that used to ignite between us in entirely different circumstances.
“Why am I not in his life? Why haven’t you been? It’s rich hearing you talk about neglect when you bolted eight years ago and never looked back. You want to assign blame? Let’s start with your bitch of a sister.”
“Are you fighting cause of me? Mama said I ruin everything. I’m sorry.”
The small voice cuts through the moment, and we turn to see Axel standing at the bottom of the stairs with his backpack.
“Axel,” Cassidy says, taking a step toward him. “We’re having a minor disagreement. Are you ready to go?”
The kid looks uncertainly between us, then nods his head.
I walk to the window and look out at my truck, which is rapidly becoming a white mound in the driveway. The storm has moved in faster than anyone predicted, and the road we came in on has already disappeared under a blanket of snow that’s getting deeper by the minute.
“Ethan,” Cassidy says quietly when she joins me. “We need to leave. Now.”
“We can’t,” I reply. “We’re trapped.” In this house. Together. For God knows how long. I run a hand through my hair. “Shit.”
Cassidy had retreated to the bathroom ten minutes ago, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the single-pane window. I check my phone for the umpteenth time, scrolling through nearby hotel options.
There’s a slim chance I could still make it to the Winter Bay Inn if I leave right now, storm be damned. It’s only a four-mile jog down the mountain.
“Are you leaving?” Axel’s small voice startles me.
I turn to find him standing in the doorway, his thin shoulders hunched against some invisible weight.
“I was thinking about it,” I admit, not seeing any point in lying to him.
He nods. “Can I give you something first?”
Against my better judgment, I follow him to the kitchen, where he opens a cupboard and pulls out a small jar. Inside are a handful of store-bought chocolates.
“I saved these,” he says, unscrewing the lid. “For Christmas. Mama doesn’t like Christmas, but I thought...” He trails off, then holds the jar out to me. “You can have one. Since you’re leaving.”
His innocent generosity shatters my composure. A spark of feeling ignites beneath eight years of indifference.
“Where did you get these?”
“The Christmas party at school. I ate one and saved these.”
I look from the chocolates to the worsening blizzard outside, and my resistance crumbles.
“I think I might have to stay after all,” I say. “At least until the storm passes.”
Relief flashes across his face before he schools his expression. “Okay.”
He screws the lid back on and returns the jar to its hiding place, arranging it behind a row of canned goods.
Everything about the gesture speaks of a child who’s learned to protect what little he has.
This little boy has been surviving on his own for years. A little boy with my eyes.
Simmering
Cassidy
Isplash cold water on my face in the tiny bathroom, trying to calm my racing thoughts. Through the frosted window, snow falls in thick, relentless sheets. The wind howls around the corners, rattling the glass and making the whole structure creak.
