Will he demand to know where I went? Or will he cock an eyebrow and pretend like he expected this all along?
However Nico D’Ambrosio might react to my absence, that’s neither here nor there. I’m not wasting any more brain power on him, even if I spent the better part of that entire flight dreaming about him.
But that doesn’t change the fact that I almost wish that he’s here next to me.
I clutch the handlebar of my luggage just a little tighter than I used to as I stare at the house I swore to Mom that I’d never return to.
It looks so ordinary. That’s the part that fucks with me.
If you were anyone else looking at this house, you’d be forgiven in thinking that it looks no more remarkable than the thousands of single-family homes in this part of New York.
Just another sagging two-story box on a street full of them, with an assortment of random stuff strewn about the front likethey’re meant to be there, and a porch light that’s clinging desperately to its final days of work.
But me? Even now, I can hear Mom’s screams amidst the rough laughs, and feel her tears soaking the front of my shirt as she sobbed in my arms on the bathroom floor.
I pull out my phone and look down again, expecting my texts to Mom to still remain on Delivered.
But to my surprise, now my texts sayRead.
My heart starts to beat faster.If she read them, why isn’t she responding?
The hair on the back of my neck rises slightly, and I swear I can feelsomebodyis out there watching me.
A slight shudder moves down my spine and I turn my head instinctively to look behind me, only to find nothing. The street is silent, and none of the cars make a sound. Not even thepingandhissof an engine coming down after a long drive.
I should leave. I should just turn around and leave while I still can.
But I got this far, didn’t I?
I tap the call button and hold the phone up to my ear. The phone rings. Once. Twice. Nobody answers.
But in the upstairs window, I see light pulsing against the curtains.
Mom…
Her phone is inside. Which means she must be inside as well. That’s the only impetus I need. It's like a floodgate has unlocked, and suddenly, I’m practically rushing forward to the front door.
I test the knob and find it unlocked. Pushing it open, the familiar smell of the final years of my childhood greets me after seven years. Instinctively, my shoulders curl inward at the scent and my breath goes shallow.
"Mom?" I call out into the dark. "Mom, it's me. It's Lydia."
Silence greets me.
I leave my luggage bag by the entrance, step inside, and let my eyes adjust. The streetlight outside bleeds through the curtains just enough to see by. Not that I need to see. I can navigate this house blind.
My foot finds the bottom of the staircase, and without meaning to, I step over the second one to avoid making it creak.
Something glints in the corner and I turn my head towards the light, and all nervousness dissolves away into implacable rage when I see the photo in that cheap gold frame Frank loved so much.
It’s Mom on her wedding day to Frank.
She stands in a white dress with flowers in her dark hair. Her skin is clear. There's no flinch in her shoulders, and no split to her lip.
God, she was beautiful.
She’d always been beautiful, and it was something thateveryonein the neighborhood knew. Before Dad died, people kept tellinghim about how lucky he was and about how he was punching above his weight.
I overheard more than my share of all the fucked-up comments both men and women made behind her back.
