“Sorry,” I croak, twisting my lips, then flipping through my book simply to have something else to look at.
“It’s not the best example, but let’s explore this more,” the instructor says. She leaves her seat and returns to the front of the room. Meanwhile, I boil where I’m at, and don’t retain a single word for the rest of the class.
I can tell that Brandon wants to talk to me when the session ends, probably about spending more time with our boys—or his ultimate goal, having them live with him closer to the city. And if I had actually learned anything about good co-parenting in this class, I’d probably stick around and hear him out. But I’m hurt, and rather angry. So I tuck my workbook into my tote bag the minute our instructor tells us what to read for next week’s class, then make a beeline out the door, straight to my van. I’m out of the lot first, and in my driveway in less than fifteen minutes.
I should head to my parents’ house to pick up Holly, but I’m too worked up. I don’t want to drive angry when I have kids in the van. I just need a few minutes to sit by myself. I used to believe in the power of meditation. It got me through honors classes in high school. Maybe I need to revisit that practice.
I consider pulling out my yoga mat as soon as I get inside, and I’m nearly to the front door when I realize something is off. The door is actually open. Not fully, but a crack. The door jamb is bent too, near the lock, as if someone pried it back with a crowbar. My heart races.
“Hello?” I say, my voice loud enough to carry into the foyer without me stepping foot inside. I hold my breath and listen for clues, praying whoever did this is not still inside. I pull my phone out and dial nine-one-one, then press my phone to my ear while I take one more step toward the house.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“I think there’s been a break-in at my house. I’m going to get back in my van and leave, but can someone check it out to make sure whoever did this is gone?”
“Yes, ma’am. I want you to get in your car right now, but stay on the line with me. Can you put the phone on speaker when you’re in your car?”
“Yes,” I say, backing up rapidly. I run once I’m in front of the garage, and practically toss my purse, phone, and self into the driver’s side seat of my van. I crank the engine and back out of the driveway while giving the operator the address. I head straight to my parents’ house, rushing inside while I’m still on the phone. I hold on through it all, the operator alerting me when the officers arrive, and when they give the all-clear. They snap a few photos and send them to me, and I nearly fall over taking in the view of papers thrown all over the house, books torn in pieces, glass shards on the kitchen floor, and holes punched in several of the walls.
“I can’t stay there tonight,” I say, both to the operator and to my parents.
“Mom’s making a bed up,” my dad says, his stutter from his stroke nearly gone thanks to months of vocal therapy.
I end the call with the operator and mentally prepare myself for a visit from the detective within the hour. Holly is fast asleep, something I wish I was. The only thing left to do is to call Brooks. And he’s on a field somewhere in the Ozarks, probably in the third or fourth inning of a game.
I dial him anyhow, and when I get his voicemail, I try to keep my voice from quavering.
“Hey. It’s uh . . . it’s me. I don’t want you to worry, but there was a break-in at the house. I’m fine. Holly is fi?—”
“This voicemail is now full.” A beep sounds in my ear, followed by dead silence. I dial Brooks again, and the call simply goes nowhere once the rings give out.
“Shit,” I mutter, my mom the only one close enough to hear me. I flit my gaze to her, and we give each other a shared look that basically says the same thing I uttered.Shit.
That message cut off at the worst possible time. At some point tonight, Brooks is going to freak the fuck out. And he’s going to be in Lake of the Ozarks when he does.
FIFTEEN
BROOKS
Things are weird. Sex makes things weird. I knew it would, but I did it anyway. And now that I know what it’s like to be with Lindsey, to taste her and feel her naked body next to mine, I don’t think I can stop. I don’twantto stop.
But it’s not up to me.
And Lindsey hasn’t said a goddamn word aboutus,or what happened, or . . .ussince I left for my workouts three mornings ago. Of course, since my dad showed up again, I haven’t exactly been in the frame of mind to have the kind of conversation that Lindsey and I deserve. I’ve been distracted, but more than that, I’ve been angry.
Lindsey’s avoiding me, and this morning, it reached new levels. That’s probably for the best because I don’t know what’s liable to come out of my mouth. I’m meeting my dad at Earl’s in ten minutes, a concession I made and instantly wanted to take back. I think that’s what bothers me most—I’m still weak around him after all this time. It’s different than when I was a kid, though. I’m not giving in because I’m afraid of what he’ll do to me. I’m giving in because he looks so fucking pathetic and unwell that I feel obligated to give him my time.
But that’s the thing. It’smytime. And he had zero hand in anything I’ve done to get where I am.
I rinse out Holly’s bottle, prop it on the drying stand by the sink, then kiss my daughter’s head before heading out the door to my own damn doom. Maybe kissing her will be a good omen for me. I kind of doubt it, though. My father isn’t just a dark cloud; he’s a black hole that sucks me in then forgets I exist.
I purposely didn’t aim to get to Earl’s early. I said this man could have twenty minutes, and he’s not getting a single second beyond that. But as he promised, it seems he arrived early. His thinning hair pokes up around his ears, and the collar on the button-down shirt he’s wearing is crooked, half of it flipped the wrong way. He keeps running his hand over his head, probably trying to flatten the various cowlicks.
The clock in my SUV flips to the top of the hour, so I kill the engine and head inside. My dad scurries out of his chair when he spots me, and he rocks back and forth on his feet as I approach. He doesn’t hold out a hand or make a move to hug me. That’s good. I think I’d have to turn around if he did that.
“I wasn’t sure what you’d want, but I figured coffee probably, so I ordered you a cup of that. I got it black, but she’s bringing over the sugar and cream.” My dad’s gaze can’t seem to settle on any one thing as he nervously scans the inside of Earl’s.
“Ah, there she is,” he says, holding up a hand as Daisy approaches.
