He’s wearing a pair of flannel pajama pants and absolutely nothing else.
And he’s currently bent over the kitchen counter, reading a newspaper, while my mother—mymother—is standing behind him, wearing one of his oversized work shirts and nothing else, playfully slapping his backside with a spatula.
“Oh, you’ve been a very bad boy, Thomas,” she coos, a sound I will be hearing in my nightmares until the day I die. “The lawn is acceptable, but the gutters… the gutters still need your attention.”
Tom lets out a chuckle. “I’ll give you attention, Diane. Just as soon as thecoffee—”
He freezes. My mother freezes.
I am currently experiencing what I believe is a clinical state of shock. My vision is tunneling. My heart is doing a dance against my ribs. I’ve seen open fractures and the inside of the human colon, but nothing has prepared me for the sight I’ve just witnessed.
“Beckett!” my mother shrieks, dropping the spatula. It hits the tile with a clang. She immediately tries to pull the work shirt down, which only succeeds in revealing more leg than I ever needed to see.
Tom slowly stands up, his face turning a shade of red I’ve never seen before. “Hey, Beck. We didn’t know you were stopping by, son.”
“The lawn,” I say. “The lawn is very straight.”
“Beckett, honey,” Mom starts, stepping toward me. “It’s not what it looks like. Well, it is. But Tom was just… he was helping with the—”
“The gutters,” I finish for her, my brain finally deciding to shut down for its own protection. “He was helping with the gutters. I see. Crystal clear.”
“Beckett,” Tom says, trying for calm. “Listen, your dad would have—”
“Don’t,” I bark, holding up a hand. “Don’t bring the dead into this. The dead are lucky. They don’t have eyes. They aren’t currently seeing what I’m seeing.”
“We were going to tell you!” Mom cries. “We wanted to make sure it was serious first.”
“Serious?” I repeat. “Mom, he’s in the bad-boy spatula phase of the relationship. I think we’ve crossed the serious threshold and entered the traumatizing-for-the-offspring territory.”
I start backing away.
“Beckett, wait! Let’s talk about this!”
“No,” I say, hitting the front door. “No talking. No processing. I’m going to go find a bottle of bleach and pour it directly into my retinas. Have a great day with the gutters.”
I sprint to the SUV, my hands shaking as I fumble with the keys. I pull out of the driveway so fast I leave rubber on the pavement.
I always suspected. I’d seen the looks, the way Tom lingered after dinner, and the way Mom’s eyes brightened when he walked in. But suspicion and confirmation via a spatula are two very different things.
The foundation of my childhood just shifted six inches to the left. Tom isn’t just the uncle figure anymore. He’s the guy my mother is with.
I need a drink. I need a distraction. I need a woman who has no relation to my family and a very high tolerance for my mental breakdown.
I grab my phone and dial.
“Madison,” I gasp as soon as she picks up. “I need you. And I need you to never, ever buy a spatula.”
“Beckett? What happened? Are you okay?”
“I’ve seen the dark side of the moon, Madi,” I mutter, turning the corner toward our building. “I’ve seen things that cannot be unseen. I’m coming home.”
Forty-Four
Madison
I yank the door open. “Beckett? What—”
“I need my crisis girl.” His eyes are blown wide, and he’s muttering something about “the dark side of the moon” and “spatulas.”
