She said she’d be back. She promised.
How can a memory feel so vivid but fuzzy simultaneously?
I didn’t leave the porch until my dad returned early that next morning. I sat on the outdoor patio couch, perking up as his headlights shone through the dawn, his truck rolling up the hill.
I waited for her car to follow, but it never appeared.
And when he showed up alone and didn’t utter a word to me as he rinsed his bloody hands in the kitchen sink, the crimson water flowing down the drain, I knew she wasn’t coming back. Yet, I still held out hope.
Foolishly fucking held on tight to that little flicker of optimism that was buried deep in my soul.
When he offered no answers, no damn explanation, rage and agony consumed me completely.
I left.
I couldn’t exist in the same house after what he had done. Without a second thought, I drove to a place on the cliffs we stumbled across when my brothers and I were boys. A place that felt safe. Somewhere where I could yell and curse my father openly, however loudly I wanted to.
I may have bellowed curses to the wind, but I liked to imagine the bastard heard them.
Three days later, I remembered the promise I had made to her. Despite fearing my father, I went back for one reason only.
Them.
And I’ve never left since.
You think it wouldn’t take me this long to respond to an email when I answer tens a day—requests from privately owned markets, supplier inquiries, human resources, and environmental updates—but when I’m alone, my head is a chaotic little fuck.
I reread the email from our marketing director for the fifth time, and the words start sinking in.
Phillip is begging me to reconsider starting the harvest festival again, which my family used to put on every October in the field near the shop. Well, every October until my dad’s arrest. I wanted to cancel it that year, but everyone pleaded with me not to.
I wasn’t in the right headspace to host an event that used to be so joyous for my family, but I let it slide. Fair rides were set up, and our usual vendors and bands lined up to sell local products and play on the stage we’d had built the week before. The harvest festival went smoothly—that is, until a group of teenagers dressed up for the costume contest and a girl who went to Cedar Creek High with Cameron and Brennan showedup as the ghost of Jane Lindenvale in a white gown with blood coating the abdominal area and a shard of glass protruding from her stomach.
We couldn’t continue the tradition after that.
Fuck. I can’t deal with this email right now.
He knows what my answer is year after fucking year, and yet he continues to ask me.
After shutting off my computer and office lights, I head to my truck and make the minute drive home, trying to brighten my mood like I do every day before I step into the house.
It’s Jess’s last night home, and I don’t want my sour mood to rub off on everyone. It does that too often, which is why I stayed at the office a little longer and skipped dinner. When I get home, I’ll toss what they left me in the microwave.
When I step over the threshold, the last thing I expect is to see everyone, and I mean everyone, hanging out in the living room. The twins, Jess, and Elena, are in an epic battle of Monopoly, their loud, happy voices softening my temperament.
Scanning the room, I locate Tristan. His body is huddled up against…
Jesus Christ.
Taryn has her legs crossed on the couch in black yoga pants that cling to her curves, her blush pink tank top exposing the delicate swell of her breasts. She has his Switch in her hands, her fingers scurrying across the buttons as her features brighten at whatever’s on her screen.
Tristan’s body jolts in surprise. “Yes! You got the Scooby Snack without getting caught,” he smiles.
Oh, goddamn.
I haven’t seen Tristan smile like that in forever. Andshemade him grin like that. He never lets anyone touch his Switch. Cameron tried to play it once, and then Tristan didn’t say anything to us for a week. Ignored us completely.
“I knew you’d like it,” Taryn singsongs. “I told you this game was awesome!”
