Maybe Mum left to give us space to talk?
My question is quickly answered when Mum backs into the room so she doesn’t bump into the door with the two brimming mugs of tea in her hands. She hits me with a look so filled with sadness and sympathy that my heart splinters in my chest.
He left.
Eef: So… how bad?
Rhiannon: He left.
Clee: Like… to cool down?
Rhiannon: Like… out the front door.
Something that feels dangerously close to grief claws up my chest —not for what he said, but for what he didn’t. The silence hurts worse than any roar. I’ve spent my whole life earning his approval by surviving his noise. What am I supposed to do if there’s nothing to fix?
He’s never walked away before. He yells, I take it, I cry, we reset. That’s the ritual. If he’s not yelling… what the fuck am I supposed to do?
A noise that sounds like a sob catches in my throat as Mum puts the cups down on the coffee table before sitting next to me and patting my knee. “Give him time, love. He’ll come around.” Her voice is soft, automatic—the same toneshe uses when she tells the kettle to boil faster or the laundry to dry before an impending downpour. Words she’s said so often they’ve lost their meaning.
Will he? Have I broken something unfixable here? My chest threatens to cave in on itself while the racing in my veins picks up more speed.
“You know what he’s like.” Another comforting pat.
I do, or at least I thought I did. But this isn’t about him, this is about me. After years of hearing her say them, her passive words sound hollow, a lot like “don’t rock the boat any more than you already have” advice that, looking back over the years, doesn’t seem to have done me any favors.
I’m so fucking tired of waiting for men to calm down and stop being so emotional.
Mum sits in silence with me, cradling her cup in both hands while I hold my mug with one hand and trail the edges of the ink on my collarbone with the other. I wanted to talk it all over with Dad, not necessarily get his blessing, but I’d have liked a nod at least that he agreed with the plan.
The more I sip on my tea, the worse my brain descends into spiral after spiral. Maybe I should call off the whole fake-dating thing. Maybe Órlaith was wrong, maybe things will calm down by themselves.
I take too big a mouthful, and it goes down the wrong way.
Maybe I shouldn’t make decisions by myself. Maybe I should have brought Dad into the room to talk to the PR woman and hash something out between them.
My brain buzzes with self-doubt, and the house is so eerily quiet my stomach sloshes.
Is the silent treatment from Dad over this fake-dating thing worth it so I don’t betray myself? Making the decision to play along with this relationship plan felt like a step forward, like taking back some kind of control over the situation, and ifI’m truly honest with myself… my life… going back on that, letting Dad decide what I should do… that feels like erasing progress.
Is the progress so bad that it needs erasing?
It’s not long before Mum gets up to do the laundry. It slaps of her cleaning up his mess just enough to give me pause.
I want to scream, punch a pillow, get drunk and ugly cry. My hands are still shaking, and the floor beneath my feet feels unsteady, but the decision sits quietly in my chest. I’m done mistaking silence for peace. If he can’t look at me, that’s on him.
If he won’t stand beside me, he can stand out of my way.
CHAPTER 15
Robert
“Pass the popcorn.” Mum’s demand can be heard over the 1992 American thriller,The Hand That Rocks The Cradle.
In response, I throw a piece at her head. “Say please.”
Emma snorts. “Yeah, Mum. Sayplease.” She tuts, rolling her eyes. “Who even raised you?”
Mum returns Emma’s eye roll with an eye roll of her own. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. “Please, Robert, could you do me the distinct honor of passing me the fucking popcorn.”
