Without another word, she stands and heads for the door. “Mel?” I call.
She pauses, glancing back at me. “Yes?”
“Do you ever miss Mom?”
I swear, for a second, I see a pained look flash across her face, but it’s gone before I can be sure, and her expression becomes blank again. “I left that part of my life behind. Nothing good comes from looking backward.”
This time when she leaves, I can’t muster any hope that we’ll connect again.
I feel…hollow.
EIGHTEEN
Being in the house without Mel feels strange now. She caught a flight back to California this morning, and there’s been no sign of Landon since I overheard them arguing in the kitchen.
My chest aches with the departure of my sister. Worse, my ego stings at her dismissal, and it takes massive effort to pull myself out of bed, bury my hurt, and push forward.
What other choice do I have?
On the drive home after my Sunday shift, I give Dad a call. He doesn’t answer—we’ve been playing phone tag for a week now—so I hang up, not bothering to leave a message. A part of me is relieved that he’s busy, because the picture I’ve painted him of my reunion with Mel is in all the wrong colors, and I feel more than a little guilty about it. I know I’ll have to come clean to him at some point and tell him what’s really been going on, but the thought of doing that today is way too overwhelming.
Iwilltell him the truth, though…eventually.
Slowing to a stop outside the house, the Rolls-Royce in the driveway is the first thing I notice, parked right behind Eli’s truck. I nearly groan at the sight. Not only that, but the garage door is open, and Landon’s car is nowhere to be found, which must mean it’s only the estranged father and son in the house. That can’t be good. Thatreallycan’t be good.
Idling at the curb, I weigh my options. Either I can turn the car around and go camp out somewhere for a couple hours, or I can creep quietly inside and try to go unnoticed. In the end, my desire for a shower, a snack, and a nap outweighs my fear of wandering into the middle of a family feud, so I put the car in park and pull the keys from the ignition. Taking a deep breath, I slip quietly into the house, bracing myself for anything and everything on the other side of the door.
Raised voices drift down the hall from the kitchen, and I freeze, wondering what it is about this house that makes people hate each other. Maybe it’s the muted tones…or the invisible strings tied to Landon’s parents, tangling everything up behind the scenes.
“-and after everything, look where you are, Elias,” booms Nathan’s voice. It’s severe enough that I should probably turn right around and book it back to the car, but I don’t. “You’re back surrounding yourself with the people you called toxic and entitled. Back clinging to your brother like a parasite after preaching your bullshit about self-sufficiency and independence.”
“My stay here is temporary,” Eli responds. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t? You ran off to Hawaii with those surf bums until that lifestyle became too hard to maintain. Then you crawled back here to your brother, just as your mother and I always predicted you would. You’re pathetic, Elias. Your behavior is pitiful.”
Eli laughs, but I detect a false note in his usually carefree tone. “You need some new material, old man. The pathetic disappointment speech is getting a bit stale, don’t you think?”
“Don’t be a smartass. Landon doesn’t need this right now. He needs to focus on his career, not spend his time catering to his burden of a brother.”
“Landon’s a big boy,” Eli says with a snicker. “I think he can make his own decisions on how he spends his time, unlike Junior, who needs you to wipe his ass for him.”
“You make fun of Junior, but he’s more successful than you’ll ever be. No, he doesn’t have Landon’s brains, but he’s malleable, he’s loyal, and he works hard.”
“You know, you’re right. I really envy Junior’s ability to kiss your ass twenty-four-seven. The talent!” Eli claps his hands. “You must be so proud.”
“Watch your mouth, you ungrateful little—”
I shift, my weight causing the floorboards to creak. The kitchen goes silent.
“Landon?” Nathan calls.
Shit.
Hurrying back to the front door, I drop my purse on the entry table, making it appear like I just returned home. “Um, no. It’s Violet,” I call hesitantly. “Sorry to interrupt.”
No one responds, and I wait, my heart pounding as Nathan emerges from the kitchen. His expression is composed, but I can see the heat rising up his neck.
“Violet,” he says, distaste evident in his tone. “Still leeching off my son, then?”
