“Remember what happened in New York, Poe? If you don’t want me to bruise that appendage between your legs you’re so proud of, I’d back the fuck up.” I shove my way past him and struggle into my sweater and leggings while trying to remember where my phone is. Spying my boots on the other side of the room first, I stride over to them and quickly slip them on, noticing my phone on the dresser in front of me.
“FUCK!” He yells from behind me. I hear his huge intake of breath, and his next words are stiff and quiet, obviously not coming easily to him. “Have you stopped to consider I didn’t know how to tell you without losing you? That the thought of not being with you is terrifying to me because I’m falling in love with you?”
Tears fill my eyes, and everything inside me feels like it’s on fire. Swiping my phone off the dresser, I spin and throw it across the room. It hits the wall just above Poe’s head with enough force to crack the case on contact, and to shut him up.
“I HATE YOU!” I scream, pouring years of pent up emotion into those three words, emotion that has nothing to do with him. “I hate you for being the last one to see my mother when it should have been me! I hate you for lying to me about it! I hate this fucking cursed house!” My words turn softer, but every new accusation still makes him visibly flinch. “I hate you for making me love you, and most of all, I hate you for being the first person in my entire life other than my mom to say those words to me.”
Leaving him standing at the foot of his bed, shirtless and tattooed, beautiful and tainted, I run from the room with no idea where I’m going.
Chapter Fourteen
Sunday’s reaction to what I just told her would be funny if the whole thing wasn’t so bloody awful. She seems unable to kick her vocal cords into gear and just sits there, eyes huge and mouth agape. If she doesn’t blink soon, I’m going to have to hose her down with Visine before her lids get stuck to her eyeballs. Finally, the stare and the silence get to be too much for me.
“Sun, can we just go somewhere, please?” My request is simple enough until I realize I’ve got nowhere to go. Not only did Poe know about my mother, but so did my aunt. That stacked on a whole new level of betrayal, so Tweedvale was out. I’m sure as fuck not going back to the Halliday Hellhouse, and my apartment in New York was officially not mine anymore.
My best friend must have finished processing what I just told her because her lights suddenly flick back on, and there she is, mouth closed, eyes blinking. She apparently figured out how I feel about Cecily’s involvement because she never once suggested taking me home.
“Casa Easton is empty. My parents went to some bougie charity gala in LA and decided to make a little getaway of it. They won’t be back for another couple of days. There won’t be anybody around to ask questions.” She’s rambling as she puts the Rover in gear, and I don’t blame her. The dumpster fire she just rolled up on would make anybody a little shell-shocked.
The drive to her place is short, and I’m grateful when we pull through the gates and into the garage. It’s quiet here. Other than dropping her off when we got back from New York, I’ve never been to Sunday’s place. No memories are hiding in the shadows ready to gut-punch me, there are no haunted corners. We make our way upstairs, and the sight of my best friend’s bedroom stops me in my tracks. Expecting pink and fluff and girlie, I’m equal parts stunned and appreciative of the boho-meets-punk-princess aesthetic that greets me instead. It must show on my face because she stands next to me and slings an arm over my shoulders.
“Right?!? I’m a constant fucking surprise.” Her laugh is more timid than usual as she leans the side of her head against mine, and it fades much more quickly. “It’s gonna be okay, Stell,” she says softly. “You and me, girl. Ride or die. We’ll get through this together.” My guts twist, and I shut my eyes against the tears threatening to overflow.
“Which one are you, Thelma or Louise?” I joke, trying my damnedest to keep it together while she reaches for her phone and slides it into the docking station attached to the speakers on her dresser. Tyga’s ‘Taste’ glides smoothly through the room.
“As long as we get to play with Brad Pitt, I’ll be whoever you want me to be,” she giggles. Giving a little booty shake, she grabs my hand and pulls me over to sit on her giant low-profile platform bed. “Stay here while I grab a few things from downstairs. Do you want anything?” she asks.
Shaking my head, a wave of exhaustion hits me, and I realize how empty I feel.
“Help yourself to pjs—third drawer down. I’ll be back in a jiff.” With a twirl, she disappears into the hallway.
My feet are hot and aching uncomfortably after my trudge in boots far more fashionable than functional, and I sigh in relief as I kick them off. I reach to pull my leggings down and suddenly remember my lack of underwear or a bra. Too tired to do anything more than shake my head at my own idiocy, I crawl into Sunday’s bed fully clothed and pull the covers over my head.
Somebody, please, make it stop. I don’t like this ride, and I want to get off now.
Sleep descends on me before Sunday gets back upstairs.
Monday morning comes early for me. I wake, curled in a tight ball buried in Sunday’s soft plaid sheets and fluffy comforter, her sleeping form sprawled like a starfish on the other side of the bed. Moving carefully to avoid waking her, I slip from the covers and half tiptoe to the chaise next to the large picture window. Overlooking the thick forest behind the Easton estate, the large unbroken single pane of glass affords a unique view of the rising sun as it starts to thread its light through the leaves and branches.
Pulling my knees to my chest and resting the side of my face against the back of the chair, I watch the remnants of the night get chased away like naughty ghosts, fluttering and trailing their ragged ends. The feeling that permeates deep into my bones can only be described as helpless, as cold, unseen fingers write the pages of my story without any input from me. My path has been continually altered by a seemingly endless line of somebodies who’ve decided what’s best for me. The feather-light trappings of my hope keep getting blown away on the breeze, only to be replaced by murky darkness.
The shadows have stolen so much from me, just like they stole from her. And in the end, she chose to leave me to face them alone. Again. To let me fend for myself rather than stay and fight to keep me safe from the things that bump and curse in the night.
Did she ever really keep me safe from them though? Who was the chaser of ghosts more often than not?
Looking at our relationship and my childhood through a different lens, she kept food on the table, yes, but I kept her monsters at bay, my small arms swinging a bright lantern and singing her storms away. She was falling even then, and I never noticed it until right now—when circumstance ripped the blinders away and forced me to see. Loss is an ache gnawing away at my insides with hungry little mouths, and I know it will consume me if I let it.
The final abandonment by my mother.
The aunt I’d begun to trust who tarnished it all with a lie.
The boy I love whose words wielded the ax that cleaved my heart in two.
I’m so lost in the mists inside my head, I don’t even notice Sunday has gotten out of bed until she comes and sits down, facing me on the chaise. Reaching her hand out, she gives my shin a careful touch, trying her best not to startle me.
“Hey,” she says, her voice soft.
Staring at the single point of contact between her fingers and my leg, the thought occurs to me that I can’t remember my mother’s touch anymore. That I haven’t been able to for a long time. Sure, I remember times she hugged me, or held my hand, or bandaged a scraped knee, but those memories play like little stuttery old movies. I don’t remember what her touch felt like. Were her hands soft or calloused? Cold or warm? Those memory movies were all I had for so long. They seemed so bright and alive and consuming when there was nothing else, but now I see them for their faded glory.
Almost three years without her, and somewhere along the way, I
began to starve and shrivel. A lonely flower with just enough sunlight and water to survive, but never enough to thrive—and it was okay because I fooled myself into thinking that’s all there was. Then I came to Folkestone, and from the very beginning, I knew how wrong I’d been. My old life wasn’t enough anymore, not even close.
“My mom is dead.”
“I know, Sweets. I’m so sorry.”
My hand lifts to my mouth, and I start to bite my thumbnail.
“Sun, I don’t think this feels like it’s supposed to.” Lifting my head, I look at her with a ripple of unease, and she lightly shrugs one shoulder.
“I’m not sure there’s a ‘supposed to’ way to feel, Stell.” Her lips press into a small frown of concern. “Everybody handles death differently.”
“That’s just it, though. She’s been gone so long. It’s a terrible thing to say, but I think I got used to the idea she was never coming back. Whether she was dead or just stayed away didn’t really seem to matter much after the first year or so—either way, she was gone.”
Unable to sit still, I stand and stretch my arms over my head before shaking them out and starting to pace the width of the bedroom. Moving to my recently vacated spot on the chaise and leaning back, Sunday watches me in silent contemplation.
“It’s as if I already mourned her, Sun. For the first two months after she left, I could barely eat—the heartbreak and grief were so overwhelming, so devastating, that they made me sick to my stomach. I used to cry so hard, and so long for her, I would start to choke. One of the women at the group home would cut my nails super short because when I finally fell into an exhausted sleep, I would clench my fists for hours. The palms of my hands would have bloody gouges in them when I woke up.” My eyes lift to the ceiling and blink rapidly a few times to clear the tears threatening to spill. “I loved her so much. She was my mom. But she never came back for me.”
Waving my hand dismissively when I see her about to interrupt, my words come more quickly.
“She made a choice to leave me, and I made a choice to learn to live my life without her. After I ran from the group home and found my way to Sally and the Juneberry, I realized it was either choose myself and survive or drown in my misery and lose myself forever. Even at sixteen, I was smart enough to know that.” Stopping mid-pace, I close my eyes and pull in a deep breath, letting it out in a whoosh. “From then on, I stopped feeling sorry for myself, stopped hoping somebody was going to come along and magically make everything better. I mourned the loss of my beautiful, creative, tragic mother, picked up my pieces, and learned how to take care of my own shit. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve missed her every damn day, but over time, the hurt and desperation faded.” Seeing my best friend’s face awash in emotion, I try to lighten the mood and poke fun at myself. “Leaving me the well-adjusted, calm, and emotionally mature individual you see before you now.” My exaggerated, sarcastic eye-roll and quick and genuinely terrible attempt at a tapdance have her laughing.
“Since we’re in share mode right now, there’s something I should probably tell you,” she says, prompting me to groan loudly and dramatically throw myself onto her bed before she continues. “Don’t be mad, ‘kay? When I went downstairs to grab a drink last night, I called Cecily and told her you’d be staying with me for however long you needed.” Her words are hesitant. “I don’t approve of what she did at all, but I do think she deserved to know you were safe.” Even though I give her a bit of side-eye, I agree with her, but I’m not going to say it out loud.
“Please tell me you didn’t call Poe,” my guts twist painfully just saying his name. She flops down on her bed with me, maneuvering herself around until she’s laying across my legs.
“That guy I did not call.” There’s a Kardashian-sized but at the end of her sentence, so I wait her out. “Buuuuut, I did text Payne. Just one short line he can pass on to Poe. That way, he can at least take ‘love of my life run over while fleeing my stupid jackass self’ off the list of shit he’s beating himself up over.”
The rational part of me knows she did the right thing, but the more significant part of me right now, the furious and feral part, feels like he deserves to flounder in the mess he made. Shying away from thoughts about Poe in general and Sun’s love of his life comment specifically, I opt for a subject change when I realize the time.
“Sunday Grace, you need to get ready for school. I’m bailing today, so you’re on your own. There’s a conversation that needs to be had with my aunt, and I’m supposed to be stopping by the hospital to get blood drawn for the paternity test.” I bemoan my lack of a phone for about three seconds until I remember the satisfying look of shock on Poe’s face when I threw it at his head. “Can you call me an Uber, please?”
“Yeah, no. There’s not a chance I’m letting you go and take that test by yourself. You’re stuck with me today. Let me change and wash my face, and we’ll go see your aunt.”
She really is the best friend ever.
“How could you have known this whole time and not said anything? On what planet did it seem like a good idea to not tell me my mother was dead?” My voice shakes with barely contained emotion. Cecily’s eyes are bloodshot, and her face is drawn.
She looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks. The same look she had when I first showed up in Folkestone. On what I now know was the day after she found out about her sister.
“You were so overwhelmed with everything, to the point of puking and passing out at my feet that first day, if you remember. My plan was to tell you that evening, but when I met you, everything changed. You seemed so strong, but there were visible cracks in your armor. I was so afraid that one wrong step would shatter you into a million pieces, and you’d leave and never come back. That would have devastated me. So selfishly, I chose not to say anything and filed it under ‘for her own good’. Once you had time to find your footing here in Folkestone, I thought we could sit down and talk about it. By then, I figured you’d be settled enough that you’d be able to forgive me for not telling you sooner.”
My silence and stony face are my only response.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Stella,” she tries again. “Lies of omission are still lies, and I made a mistake.” Honesty is shining from her face, and I realize I need to let go of my anger toward her even though I'm still hurt.
“Thank you for the apology, Aunty. I do forgive you, but I need some time to get back to normal, okay?” I pause, my shoulders slumping forward on my sigh. “There’s been a lot lately. A lot a lot.”
She tries to keep her murmur of relief to herself, but I hear it, and it lifts the corners of my lips slightly.
“You should know,” she drums her fingers on the counter, choosing her next words carefully. “Poe didn’t tell you at first because I made him swear not to, so please don’t hold that against him. That boy is loyal to a fault.” She gives me a lopsided attempt at a smile. “I guess his loyalty shifted though, and rightfully so. He felt you needed to know the truth, and he’s a bigger man than I am. I kept it from you because I was afraid you’d leave, and he told you knowing you would. That was a big sacrifice on his part, putting you before himself. Most forty-year-olds can’t do that, let alone an eighteen-year-old boy in love.”
That makes me laugh bitterly.
“Let’s not talk about Poe and love, okay?”
“Mmmm-hmmm,” her and Sunday say at the same time. Flustered and not wanting to be reminded of another part of my life that’s completely fucked up and broken, I take a risk and admit to Cecily how I feel regarding my mother’s death.
“Look, something’s been bothering me, and I probably need to get it out before I can even think of starting to deal with any of this mess.” I relay the revelation I had while pacing at Sunday’s, embarrassment and shame flushing my neck and cheeks. Expecting my aunt to be horrified, or at the very least shocked, I’m stunned when she admits pretty much the same thing I’ve been feeling.
“Honestly, Stella, I never expected to
find her. When Poe called to tell me the lead was good, and she was there in Georgia, I wondered why I felt the way I did. Don’t get me wrong, I was happy, but something in me felt guilty for not being ecstatic.” Busying herself with brushing imaginary crumbs off the counter, she’s silent for a minute or so before continuing.
“When the second phone call came, I was hysterical. Full disclosure though, part of it was the shock of finding her and losing her again so quickly and so permanently, and part of it was the result of me berating myself for not being absolutely devastated by grief. My sister had just died. I should be wailing and gutted. Except I wasn’t. Sad and upset, yes, but it wasn’t the desperate melancholy I felt when she first disappeared. Catherine was gone for almost twenty years,” she sighs. “It’s not pretty, but it’s true. Some would call me cold or callous and clutch their pearls in righteous indignation, but death is a tricky thing. When it happens after somebody’s been gone for so long, and you’ve already had to make your peace in order to survive, it’s even trickier. So no, I don’t think you’re defective or a bad person for feeling the way you do, because right or wrong, I feel it too.”
Hearing my aunt’s words, some of the guilt I’ve been feeling lifts from my chest and allows me to breathe easier. Sensing the tension in the room start to dissipate, Sunday asks the question before I can.
“Where is Catherine now, Miss B?” When Cecily says my mother’s ashes have been interred in the Bradleigh family crypt, the request is out before I can stop it.
“Can I see her?” I hear myself ask.
Chapter Fifteen
What the fuck have I done?
Fractured Things (Folkestone Sins Book 2) Page 11