“Leave, Mom,” he grinds out through his teeth. “And don’t come back here again.”
“I’m not moving until you promise to do the right thing.”
“The right thing? What’s that, Mom? Is it throwing me at the staff to raise me? Or maybe it’s trying every trick under the sun to get rid of me when you were pregnant with me. You even took the very drugs you look down your nose on, right? But I was stubborn and insolent enough to come to life. So you decided neglect was the next thing you’d use to kill me. Nick was already there, so my presence wasn’t needed, but I lived and he fucking died and that’s not the right thing. It should’ve been the other way around. I should’ve been in that crash. Isn’t that what you told Dad back then? Why did Nicholas die? Why not Nathaniel? Why did it have to be Nicholas?”
Slap.
The sound reverberates in the kitchen after Debra slaps Nate on the cheek.
I lose it then. Because the fire is burning me now. The thought that his parents treated him this way makes me stabby on his behalf and I want Debra gone. I want her to stop hardening his walls and turning him into a stone.
Even though his words were calm, I can sense the frosty coldness behind them. I can taste it on my tongue, and it stings.
So I practically jump from my seat and step in front of him, facing her. “Get out of our house. Now.”
“You, shut up.”
“No, you shut up. And get out before I call the police to arrest you for trespassing. I don’t remember inviting you in. And believe me, a trespassing charge won’t look good in the press.”
She purses her thin lips together into a line, then releases them. I don’t stop glaring at her the entire time, my arms crossed and my sneakers tapping on the floor.
“This isn’t over,” she announces before she spins around and leaves, the sound of her heels echoing down the hall.
I breathe out a puff of air and release my arms as I slowly turn to face Nate. I didn’t expect him to be proud of me, but I didn’t think he’d have a frown etched deep in his forehead either.
“Don’t ever, and I mean ever, talk to her again.”
“Yes, I will. I won’t allow anyone to hurt you.”
“That’s not your fucking place, Gwyneth. My relationship with my mother or anyone else is none of your business.”
“You’re such a jerk.”
“Now that you know that, stop meddling and go to work.”
“If you keep pushing me away like this, you’ll have no one left.”
“I’m fine with that.”
“I really hate you right now.”
“I don’t give a fuck. Now get your ass in the car and go to the firm.”
He’s breathing harshly, I realize, his chest muscles stretching his shirt and the apron with every move. And it’s like he’s on the verge of something—what, I don’t know. I shouldn’t care either, because his words have dug a deep, black hole in my chest.
Is it too late to add his name to the negative words list?
Because I desperately need to be desensitized to him. I need to stop hurting because he got hurt by his parents. I need to stop being in pain because he’s cold and frigid and his tall forts are closing in on me, crushing me in the middle.
So I grab my bag and storm out of the house, and I drive so recklessly, it scares me. Maybe this is how Dad was that day. He knew something was wrong and got into an accident.
That ominous thought makes me gulp and I slow down, way down, and put on a mash-up playlist of Twenty One Pilots and NF because they calm me. They’re special, like I am.
Special people are misunderstood and that’s okay. Special people get hurt and that’s also okay. Because we’re special that way. No forts would destroy us or keep us out.
After a while of soaking in the music, I’m ready to get engrossed in something different than the clusterfuck of this entire morning. But I don’t go to the firm straight away, I head to the car company, where I have to sign some paperwork and show ID to prove I’m Dad’s next of kin so that I can get the dashcam’s files.
Then I drive to the firm and snuggle up beside Jane in IT to enjoy the peace away from Nate’s watchful eyes. He has a meeting with the other partners anyway, so I’m safe for a little while.
Jane offers to help me sort through the files’ different dates.
We both sit with headphones on, listening to the recordings and watching the feeds. I choke on my own tears the whole time. Seeing Dad talking, driving, and alive forms a ball in my chest. It expands with each second and I don’t think it’ll ever deflate. Or maybe I’ll have some sort of a heart attack. Panic attack. Or any attack.