“But I like them.”
“You’ll stop it and that’s final.”
“No.”
“Gwyneth.”
“I don’t tell you to stop talking to Aspen. I’m being an adult, even though I hate her, so you can’t tell me either.”
I narrow my eyes. She’s becoming more and more shrewd at negotiating and putting her foot down. But I’ll deal with those two fuckers and whatever information about clubbing they’re feeding her.
I pour hot water into the pot and bring it to a boil, all while she observes each of my movements. “And why do you hate Aspen?”
“Because…because she’s mean.”
“Has she been mean to you?”
“She doesn’t even talk to me.”
“Exactly. So why do you think she’s mean?”
“Everyone at W&S thinks she is.”
“I’m not going to dig into everyone’s reason for thinking that. I’m asking about yours.”
“Well…Dad hates her.”
“You’re not your dad, Gwyneth.”
“Whoever Dad hates, I hate. It’s that simple. We’re one like that.”
“Is that why you haven’t visited him in a week?”
She jolts at that, her lips clamping shut. So, I was right. She’s been avoiding him or her feelings about what happened to him.
Silence stretches between us for long moments and only the sound of the boiling water can be heard in the air.
She clinks her nails in that fast, manic way that betrays her inner turmoil.
“Answer me, Gwyneth.”
“I…just got busy with the internship. I’ll do it later.”
“Later when? Tomorrow? Next week?”
“Just later.” She turns to leave, probably to go hide in the nearest closet.
“Stop.”
She flinches, her nails still clinking together, but she doesn’t face me.
“Turn around, Gwyneth.”
The shake of her head is so strong, so forceful, it shakes her entire frame.
“Baby girl, look at me.”
At that, she does, so slowly, until her eyes meet mine. They’re muted, the gray spreading all over the other colors, covering them until each eye is too gloomy, too lifeless.
“Tell me why you don’t want to visit King anymore.”
If it’s because of me, because she feels too guilty that we’re doing this while he’s in a coma, fuck, I won’t be able to handle it.
My guilt is fine, I can deal with it, but I can’t bear the thought that she’s being strangled to death by hers as well.
I’m older and have dealt with enough life situations and criminal cases to control it. She hasn’t. She’s still too young and inexperienced.
Despite her inability to sleep sometimes and her claims of having an empty brain, she’s still innocent.
And pure.
And I shouldn’t be so eager to fucking tarnish all of that.
She grabs a rag, wets it, and starts scrubbing the counter. Hard, fast, and with precise movements. But she’s staying in the same area, stuck on one spot that she’s scrubbing clean over and over again.
“Because I don’t want to think about him being gone. Because when I go to the hospital and smell that godawful stench of antiseptic and step into his room, I know he won’t smile at me or hug me or call me his angel. Because he’s there, but not really. Because when I read for him and touch his hand and cry, I don’t think he hears me. If he did, he’d come back. He said he wouldn’t leave me alone, that he’s not Mom. But he didn’t keep his promise. He abandoned me like she did, and now, he’s not here. And it hurts too much to think about it or him or that my parents hate me so much that they both abandoned me at two different phases of my life. So no, I won’t go tomorrow or next week or next month. If I do, I’ll see him but not talk to him, and I’m a little mad at him because he didn’t keep his word. So I’ll just think of him as if he’s gone on a long business trip and will be coming back soon. That’s the only way I can keep myself together.”
She’s breathing heavily by the time she finishes and there’s a tear that has run down her cheek and is forcing its way into her mouth, but she doesn’t pay attention to that as she scrubs and scrubs, faster, harsher, longer.
I slowly approach her and grab her hand. It’s wet and has turned red. She also scraped her nail against the surface until a few droplets of blood came out.
She’s still clutching the rag tightly, like she did that piece of glass the day I told her about King’s accident.