“And then you’re to go to your room and pack your bags,” he says. “Effective now, you’re no longer living here. And you’re no longer our responsibility.”
“Where am I going to go?” I ask. “And how am I going to get there without a car?”
“Perhaps you can call your boyfriend,” he says. “You’re an adult, Brighton. And you’ve demonstrated that you’re perfectly capable of making your own life choices. I’m sure you’ll land on your feet just fine.”
He’s punishing me under the guise of giving me exactly what I asked for.
I should have waited.
I should have waited until I had a couple of paychecks under my belt and an apartment lined up. That was my original plan. But it took longer than I thought it would to find a job, and the days were ticking by so fast—I had to tell them before they started making plans to move me back to school, before they got the first tuition bill or paid the deposit on a campus town apartment.
Reaching into my purse, I retrieve my bank card and my car keys and leave them on his desk. And then I walk out, head held high as I head up to my room and grab my biggest suitcase from the back of my closet.
I text Madden before I start packing, asking if he could come get me ASAP and adding that I’ll explain everything later.
I hate to burden him. He didn’t ask to be a part of this. And it isn’t his problem. But I don’t have anyone else right now.
My mother’s wails can be heard from down the hall.
Honestly, I’m shocked my father is doing this to her after everything he’s done to pacify her over the years.
I stuff my luggage full with as many clothes as I can fit, and then I grab a duffel bag and fill it with toiletries, hair appliances, a few framed photos of my brothers and I in happier times.
I don’t know when I’ll be back again.
Checking my phone, I notice my text shows as delivered but not read. I know the shop is closed on Sundays and as far as I know, he uses the day to relax and recharge. Sometimes he’ll spend the day with his sister and other times he’ll catch up on sleep or laundry.
I’m sure he’ll see the message soon enough.
When I’m finished, I take a seat on my bed, inhaling the soft, sweet scent of my childhood bedroom like it’s the last time I’ll ever breathe this air. Nostalgia comes in crushing waves.
I check my phone again, and again after another ten minutes, but he still hasn’t read my text. I send another.
ME: So sorry to bother you … I really need a ride. Are you around?
This one shows as delivered right away and stays that way.
He must not have his phone on him?
I try to call him, only it goes straight to voicemail—his phone is off.
Gathering my things, I carry them down to the foyer and park them along the wall before pacing and checking my phone every other minute.
Rising on my toes, I glance out the sidelight by the front door, though I’m not sure why. It’s not like he’s read any of my messages. It’s not like he’ll be pulling up any time soon. If his phone is off, he doesn’t know that I’m in trouble. And by the time he gets my messages, it’ll be at least another half hour before he can get here.
“Where’s your knight in shining armor when you need him?” My father’s voice startles me, and I turn around to find him standing at the bottom of the staircase. “I’ve always said, you can tell who your true friends are when you’re in dire straits. The real ones are there right away. The fake ones scatter like leaves to the wind.”
“You don’t have to be so condescending, Charles,” my mother steps out from behind him, surprisingly coming to Madden’s defense despite the fact that I very much know how she really feels about him. “The situation is already difficult enough.”
“Madden’s a good man with a good heart,” I say. “I’m sorry you two aren’t able to see that.”
My father scoffs. “He’s a small-town, uneducated tattoo artist with no future. I don’t care if he’s a good person, he’s not worth throwing away your entire career over.”
I ball my fists. “This has nothing to do with him. I told you that. The decision was made before I ever met him. And he has a future. His shop is one of the most successful businesses in Olwine. And he didn’t need to go to college. He’s a naturally gifted artist. You should see his work. It’s beautiful—the kind of talent they can’t teach in school.”
I don’t know why I’m telling them this.
It isn’t going to change their minds.
It isn’t going to make them suddenly see Madden as the self-made success story that he is.
“All we know is that ever since you started running around with him, you’ve been lying and making poor life choices, and you’re not the daughter we raised you to be,” my mother says.
I want to ask if that’s such a bad thing, but I already know how they’ll respond, so I bite my tongue and nonchalantly check my messages.
Still no reply.
Closing out of the app, I remember I have an Uber account—which is linked to my PayPal—which is linked to my bank card. Honestly, I’m shocked they haven’t asked for my phone, but then again, they wouldn’t have any way to reach me, and they would never do that to themselves.
They might be trying to teach me a lesson, but they’re still my parents and they’re not going to cut off their only means of communication with me.
Besides, how else would they be able to control me from afar?
Without saying another word, I sling my purse and duffel bag over my shoulder and wheel my bag to the front door, and then I close it behind me. With my belongings in tow, I walk to the coffee shop five blocks away and order an Uber to Olwine.
I just hope he’s home when I get there.
30
Madden
It’s dusk by the time I pull up to the shop Sunday night.
I spent all day at the cemetery. Sitting. Thinking. Reminiscing. Missing. Watching cars drive through and people stepping out to place flowers on headstones.
I park my car, grab my keys, lock up, and head to the side door, only I stop in my tracks when I see a pretty blonde thing sitting on a giant suitcase outside my building.
Fuck.
“They kicked you out, didn’t they?” I ask.
“Yep.” She offers a defeated smile. “Tried getting a hold of you a few times, but your phone was off.”
Dragging my hand through my hair, I exhale. “Yeah. Sorry about that. Was with family.” I dangle my keys and point to the door. “Come on up.”
Brighton stands, gathering her things. I grab her biggest bag and lug it up the stairs once we’re inside.
“What are you going to do?” I ask once we’re in my apartment.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ll probably call a few old friends, see if I can stay with them for a few days at a time. Maybe apply for a credit card in the meantime.”
“They completely cut you off?” I ask.
“Everything but my phone.”
“Jesus.” I toss my keys on the counter. “You ever had a loan before? Or a credit card? Anything?”
She shakes her head.
“Then your credit score is probably shit. You won't get approved for anything,” I say. “And if you do, it’ll be thirty percent interest or some shit like that.”
Brighton takes a seat at my kitchen table, sinking into the chair, resting her head in her hands.
I’m going to have to help her.
She has nothing. Literally nothing.
“You’re staying with me until we can get you on your feet,” I say.
She peers at me from between her fingers, silent, like she doesn’t believe me.
“You can put in a few hours at my shop each day to earn some money over the next couple weeks,” I say. “Then when your job starts, you can at least afford to Uber there.”
My apartment is a whopping six hundred square feet. This is going to be tight, the two of us. I’ve never lived wi
th anyone else before and there’s a chance we’re going to get sick of each other sooner than later. I’m not sure how this is going to work out, but I’ll be damned if I turn her out on the streets like a stray cat.
Besides, it’s not forever.
Nothing ever is.
31
Brighton
Eight days.
That’s how long I’ve been shacking up with my fake boyfriend.
I dump the burnt Rice-A-Roni into the garbage, ruined pan and all, and open all the windows to get the smell out.
I spent all day making this place spotless. An hour ago, it smelled like lemons and clean laundry.
Now it smells like burned starch.
Guess we’re ordering pizza for dinner.
Again ...
Madden doesn’t act like he’s burdened by my being here, but I can’t help but feel guilty anyway, so doing small household chores makes me feel a tiny bit better about being such an imposition.
Of course I had to make it clear to him that I wasn’t trying to play house—that I was simply trying to be a gracious houseguest.
The apartment door opens, and Madden steps through the haze of clouded smoke that remains in the kitchen. It’s just past six, when he usually runs upstairs for a quick dinner break before heading down to finish up his evening appointments.
“I botched dinner.” I hang my head. “Going to order pizza. I’ll have it delivered to the shop.”
He fans the smoke out of his face, coughing. “Place looks good.”
“It smelled good too—until about ten minutes ago.” I make my way to the sink, filling the left half with warm water and soap to finish cleaning up the mess I made.
“You don’t have to do all this,” he tells me, hooking his hands around my waist and kissing the top of my shoulder.
I smile, though he can’t see it from behind me.
As fake as this is … sometimes it feels so real it’s scary.
“There are other ways to earn your keep, you know.” He kisses his way up the side of my neck, sending tingles down my spine, and then he presses his hardness against me before turning me to face him.
His lips crush mine, and I reach for his belt buckle, but he brushes my hands away.
“Later,” he says, his mouth on mine. “I’m going to head back down.”
He gives me one last kiss and playfully smacks my behind before he leaves, and I find my phone and order a pizza before returning to the dishes.
Every morning, Madden has me work a few hours in his shop before it opens. I stock shelves. Take inventory. Clean whatever needs cleaning. Make appointment reminder calls. Basically most of Missy’s job … which I don’t think she’s too happy about, but she hasn’t complained yet. Besides, she knows it’s only temporary.
I start my new job on Monday, and by the time I get my second check, I’ll have enough to put a deposit on a studio apartment just outside Olwine, five miles from here and five miles from work.
As soon as the kitchen is clean, I light a vanilla mint candle and take a seat on the couch, thumbing through some old text messages.
It’s strange going this long without talking to my parents, but I can’t say that I miss them. At least not yet. I’m sure this is destroying my mother though. I’m still shocked that my father did this to her. Either way, I’m trading in shock for excitement.
Good things are going to happen, I can feel it.
I’m about to put on some music when my screen turns black and Graeme’s name comes up on the Caller ID.
I haven’t spoken with him in weeks—I don’t even know if he knows what happened with Mom and Dad.
Clearing my throat, I answer. “Hey.”
“Brighton,” he says.
“What’s up?” I sit up. The sound of city traffic fills the background. It’s an hour later where he is. He’s probably just getting off work.
“Heard Mom and Dad made you move out. You doing okay?”
“Yes. I’m doing well. I start my first job on Monday. Going to be doing medical research,” I say. “Ethical medical research.”
“Nice. You’ll get to put that pre-med degree to good use.”
“Exactly.”
“Listen, the reason I was calling was because I’m thinking of doing Doctors Without Borders again … was thinking this fall? Honduras more than likely. Thought maybe you could come along? Like old times? I know it’s short notice, but I’ve got a classmate from Rothschild who’s going to be in the city for a few months and he said he could cover my practice, so …”
Fall is a short couple of months away. I won’t have more than a few days of paid leave accrued by then.
“Graeme … I’d love to,” I say. “But I don’t know if I’ll be able to get the time off work.”
“I understand.” His upbeat reply is laced with disappointment. “Just thought I’d ask. That’s always been our thing.”
“Yeah.”
A car horn sounds behind him.
“You doing okay though?” he asks. “Mom said you were living with a boyfriend?”
There’s a hint of a chuckle in his voice. I'm sure the unexpectedness of this amuses him.
“I am,” I say. “But only until next month. Then I’m getting my own place.”
“Good for you, Brighton. I’m really proud of you.”
At least someone is …
“Listen, I’m meeting Cara for dinner, so I’m going to cut you loose, but let me know if you need anything, okay?” he asks. “And you know my door’s always open if you ever need to get away.”
“Thanks, Graeme.” I end the call and sit my phone beside me, only to have it slide off the couch cushion and bounce onto the floor.
Reaching down to retrieve it, my hand brushes against something hard. A book or a journal of some kind sticks out from under the loveseat. How I missed this before when I was cleaning is beyond me, but I slide it out and take a closer look.
It’s a sketch pad, the cover worn and cracked.
I flip to the first page and find a detailed drawing of an old muscle car. The next page is some elaborate tattoo design where all of the pictures blend together as one, almost like a mural. The following pages contain various sketches, each one better than the one before it. There’s a rose. A portrait of a young woman. A bejeweled skull. Practice tattoos, maybe?
I page through the rest, admiring the raw talent, when I notice something in the lower left corner of each and every page.
A name.
Dallas.
In the two months I’ve known Madden, never once has he mentioned anyone by the name of Dallas, and judging by the fact that this notebook was tucked away, hidden from plain sight, I don’t think he planned to.
I’ve known two Dallases in my life—one male and one female.
This Dallas could be anyone.
An old friend?
A former business partner?
A family member?
An ex?
With nothing but time on my hands and curiosity coursing my veins, I grab my phone and perform a quick internet search of the name “Dallas Ransom” on the off chance this person is somehow related to him … like a brother or even a former wife.
No Results.
Weird.
I close the sketch pad and place it back under the sofa exactly how I found it.
32
Madden
Sleep evades me tonight, so instead I lie here watching Brighton, her creamy skin basked in moonlight from the open window beside her, a peaceful, dreamy expression on her beautiful face.
It’s funny how life can be moving along, perfectly hum-drum and uneventful, and then you get the mail one Saturday morning and everything changes.
I haven’t heard from my father in years. In fact, the last time he wrote me, it was my twenty-first birthday, a few years after he’d been locked up. I wrote him back and told him never to contact me again.
I should’ve tossed the damn thing in the trash, but instead I opened it,
curious to know what the asshole felt the need to say to me after all these years even if I knew it was going to piss me off regardless.
And of course it did.
My old man had the nerve to ask me to come visit him.
Nothing more, nothing less.
No I’m sorry or I miss you or I love you or how’s your sister … just a simple request that I come visit him.
I ripped the letter in half several times before throwing it in the garbage on top of a rotting banana peel. Brighton was still in the shower and by the time she came out, she was none the wiser and I’d had several minutes to cool down.
As far as I’m concerned, the bastard is dead to me. And that’s what I tell people when they ask about him. I say, “He’s no longer with us.” They all interpret it as if he’s dead, no longer living, but it’s all the same to me.
Brighton rolls to her side, her back to me, and she brushes her cheek against her pillow, releasing a soft moan in her sleep. She does that sometimes. Little moans here or there. It’s the cutest, sexiest thing in the whole fucking world.
Tomorrow marks two weeks since she moved in, and I have to admit that it hasn’t been as bad as I thought it’d be.
Sure, there are times when we both need our space, but we make it work. She’ll go to the coffee shop or the library and I’ll go for a drive, and at the end of the night we’re back in bed, unable to keep our hands off each other.
I roll to my back. Staring at the ceiling, my mind drifts back to my father’s letter. Sometimes I think about him. Not often. Just sometimes. And I always wonder how he spends his day. If he’s made friends. How he passes the time. If anyone’s kicked his ass yet for running his mouth.
I can’t imagine spending the rest of your life in a metal and cinderblock cage is anything but hell on earth, but at least he’s alive.
Which is more than Dallas can say.
33
Brighton
The apartment smells like Chinese takeout and Madden is stepping out of the shower when I get home.
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