Page 25

“You’re selfish,” Dad spits, slinging his arm over Mom’s shoulder. “Always have been. You don’t care about your family.”

“Family?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Families don’t steal from each other. Family doesn’t lie and manipulate and⁠—”

“We’re your parents!” Mom wails.

There’s no way I’m sticking around for this bullshit. “No.” I unlock my truck with hands that shake from rage and hurt and disappointment. “You’re not.”

Parents wouldn’t make their kid take care of them. Parents are supposed to be nurturing. These two are leeches. I climb into the driver’s seat, but Dad catches the door before I can close it.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

I level him with a look loaded with venom and hate. How is it possible to despise someone this much? “Let go.”

Something in my face or tone makes him step back and swallow. I’ve never laid my hands on him, but I’m bigger than he is now and he knows it. I pull the door shut and start the engine. Dad is calling me names, telling me I’m heartless, threatening to show up at the house. The threats hit differently now that Lily’s staying with us. The thought of them anywhere near her makes my vision go red.

As I pull out of the parking space, Mom pounds on the side of the truck, her face streaked with mascara and tears. “Gage, please! I’m your mother!”

I drive away, but her voice follows me. In my rearview mirror, I watch them both standing in the middle of the parking lot, Dad gesturing wildly while Mom continues to cry. People are watching it all unfold but no one swoops in to help. Everyone in Big Ridge knows what they’re about. Everyone knows they’re terrible.

My chest aches as I turn onto the main road, and I have to pull over after a few blocks since my hands are shaking too hard to drive safely. I cover my mouth with my hand and stare out of the windshield, fighting the urge to break down completely. I know I shouldn’t bury it down, but it hurts too much. There’s a burning lump in my throat that I can barely swallow past. The hurt of everything they’ve done threatens to rip my chest open.

Breathing in, I lock it away, blinking hard to clear my vision. I can’t. I will not cry for them. Not anymore. The unhealthiest thing to do is to bury it all deep, but I have a shovel and determination. Three breaths is all it takes to lock away the pain until the only thing left is a hollow cavity where my heart should be.

The wood protectant goes on smooth, each brush stroke methodical and calming. The garage is quiet except for the low hum of the space heater and ventilation system. Working with my hands usually makes me feel good. Calm. Tonight, though, my thoughts keep circling back to the look on my mom’s face when she begged me for money. The way Dad called me selfish.

Fuck them both.

I hear the soft shuffle of movement on concrete and glance up to see Lily standing on the steps that lead to the house, holding a plate full of food. Guilt pricks at my spine. I knew she was making dinner, but I couldn’t bring myself to go inside. Not when I knew I’d be shit company.

She’s wearing an oversized shirt over her pajama shorts, looking like pure fucking temptation. Her red hair is pulled back in a messy bun. Even dressed down, she’s so damn beautiful it makes my chest ache.

Hesitating, she lingers by the door, gaze darting around the space as if she’s not sure if she should be here. I hate that she thinks she needs permission. I hate that I’m still raw and pissed off, probably giving off some ugly energy that’s making her nervous.

She takes a tentative step forward. “The work is beautiful.” Her voice is soft, almost reverent as she studies the table.

I set my brush aside and wipe my hands on a rag. “Did you bring me dinner?”

“Yeah. You never came in and I . . .” She trails off, setting the plate down on my work bench. “I didn’t know if you were hungry or not.”

After the day I’ve had, after the confrontation with my parents, having someone think about whether I’ve eaten feels overwhelming. The kindness of it wraps around me.

“Sorry I missed it,” I murmur, voice rough.

Silence stretches between us, heavy and awkward. She’s chewing on her bottom lip, and everything in me wants to reach out and smooth the skin with my thumb, to take away whatever discomfort she’s feeling. But I’m not sure that touch is all I want.

“Are you okay?” she asks carefully.

For a moment, I consider lying. Telling her I’m fine, that everything’s good. It’s what I usually do—keep the ugly parts of my life locked away where they can’t hurt anyone else. The way she’s watching me, genuine concern in that pretty face, breaks through my defenses.

“No,” I say with a heavy sigh. “I’m not okay.”

Her expression softens. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. “Nah.”

She nods like she understands, backing toward the door. “Okay. I’ll leave you alone then.”

Panic claws up my throat at the thought of being alone with my thoughts, with the echo of my parents’ voices calling me selfish and ungrateful.