Amber to Ashes

by Gail McHugh

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, a blush burning her skin.

  “You kind of . . . complete me,” I answer, honestly feeling it.

  Without a word, she wraps her hand in mine and we ride the rest of the way in comfortable silence, enjoying the growing closeness between us.

  Once at the restaurant—a popular Italian joint overlooking the harbor—the hostess leads us to a private room, where everyone is already seated. The second we walk in, I immediately notice that my father has ordered several bottles of wine. My mother’s sipping away at the expensive merlot, her face an impassive mask as she starts to loosen up. She’s removed her sunglasses, her arm lazily draped over the back of Brit’s chair as I examine the deep lines scratching her forehead, the heavy black bags beneath her eyes. My chest tightens, my body aching as the tortured appearance of the woman who gave me life pummels me down to my core. Another sip, the stem of the wineglass dangling between her fragile fingers as my pulse rises. Instincts alight, the thought of tonight’s imminent embarrassment kills me as I unbutton my suit jacket, pulling out a seat for Amber.

  Releasing a breath, I take the chair next to Amber’s and glance around the table. Everyone else seems to be in good spirits, the chatter flowing freely.

  I use the opportunity to speak. “I want to thank everyone for coming tonight.” The pitch of my tone wavers as my attention connects to my mother. I search her expression for a hint of life. It’s not there, nothing but a desert filled with the skeletal remains of who she was when I was a kid. “It’s not often we get together, but it’s nice when we do.” Most of what I just uttered is a lie—it’s usually intense, painful bullshit brought up from the past when we see each other—but I want my mom to know that even though she doesn’t want me in her life, no longer loves me because of Brandon going missing, I continue to love and need her in my own way.

  “Thank you for inviting us,” Mark says with a warm smile, drawing my gaze to his. “This place is really nice, Brock.”

  I choke back the emotions threatening to destroy me and return his smile. “They make killer food. This Italian princess over here loves it.”

  Amber taps me in my ribs with her elbow, an embarrassed shake of her head following suit. The waiter comes over and we all order some appetizers.

  After he’s departed my father strikes up the first conversation of the evening. “So, Amber, what are you studying?”

  “I’m majoring in psychology,” she replies.

  “Why that field?” My mother inhales a hearty sip of wine, her venomous glare pounding into my girlfriend as she places her glass on the table.

  “I grew up under really bad circumstances, and now that I’ve somewhat found a way out, I want to help others like me.”

  My mother’s brows raise. “And what difference do you think you can make to people who’ve experienced real tragedy? Sometimes you can’t help those who’ve lost everything.”

  “That’s not necessarily true,” Amber states, her voice thoughtful though her eyes are anything but. They’re narrowed, a snake ready to attack. “You have to want help in order for it to work. I’m sure there are plenty of people who want their lives to be different.” She pauses, her attention unwavering from my mother’s. “Coming from someone who’s seen, felt, and tasted real tragedy, I know I want my life to change for the better. Sometimes it’s just hard to accept help from those who’ve never been through anything themselves. Hence my wanting to guide others like me toward a mentally healthy existence.”

  My mother lets out an exhausted sigh, her eyes rolling as she finishes off the wine lingering at the bottom of her glass.

  “I think that’s great, Amber,” Brittany chirps, breaking the tension starting to thicken the air. “Helping people in need is a noteworthy job.”

  “Agreed,” my dad concurs. “And what else do you do besides school? Are you working?”

  Amber sits back, ease covering her posture. “Yes. I pull a few waitressing shifts a week at a seafood restaurant down in Riva.”

  “And she makes good grades too.” Cathy’s warm voice reaches across the table. “You’re working, going to school, doing all the right things for your future. Mark and I are so proud of you.”

  Amber smiles, her face flushing from the compliment.

  Intent on adding to her noticeable embarrassment, I feather a finger over the arch of her cheek. “Yeah, she’s a great girl. I’m one lucky man.” Amber turns toward me, her eyes heating by the second. “Not only is she smart and responsible as all hell, she’s also ridiculously cute.”

  A full flush runs the path of her skin, her lips twitching in a soft smile as she clears her throat. “You’ve raised a very smooth talker, Mr. Cunningham. He’s never short on strategically timed endearments.”

  My father nods at Amber, seemingly amused by her statement. “Oh, he’s a very smooth talker. There’s little doubt about that.” His eyes flash to mine, clearly insinuating just how smooth I must be to have snowed these people into thinking I was a decent human being.

  I look down at my drink, effectively put in place by the self-righteous asshole. Lucky for me, Cathy and Mark don’t pick up on his little dig and continue to chatter away with Amber and Brit about the local touristy shit they want to check out.

  I just wanna check the fuck outta here.

  We’re interrupted when a waiter enters the room with appetizers in hand. Drinks are refilled, dinner orders taken. It’s in this moment I realize that Amber’s a natural around undercover lunatics, her face glowing with a comfortable easiness I have yet to see—one I can’t wait to be a part of. In the midst of watching my girl in action, I catch Mark striking up a conversation with my dad regarding what he does for a living. My father’s more than happy to tell him how fucking awesome he is, going on and on about the several back-pat-worthy achievements the self-appointed imperial asshole’s tackled throughout his lifetime.

  Sickened by how high he is on himself, I finish off my whiskey in one large swallow, hoping to catch a decent buzz. A buzz strong enough to help get me through the rest of this night. Inwardly cringing, I yank my attention away from the blue-suited dick, only to have it land on his “better half.” Another cringe as I lace my fingers through Amber’s, trying to ignore my mother’s hateful stare pinning me to my seat. As long as she keeps her mouth shut, I couldn’t give a fuck how she looks at me. Still, I fidget in my chair under her silent scrutiny, unable to keep my mind from drifting off to the decent days we spent together before our lives fell apart, before my careless act changed what the future of my family was supposed to become.

  Nervous movements catching his attention, Mark turns to me with a wide smile. “Amber tells us you’re quite the football star. How’s that working out for you?”

  My stomach clenches at the topic as my eyes shift to my father. His face is sealed to mine, the dip in his brows showing he’s eagerly awaiting my response. I release Amber’s hand and tighten a fist under the table, knowing I haven’t been that dedicated to the sport the last couple of weeks.

  “I don’t know about all that,” I answer with a chuckle, trying to keep my tone light. “It’s been a good season, though. We’ve had a couple scouts come by the field to watch us play. So who knows, right?”

  My father’s expression betrays the calm soothing his voice. “I’m glad to hear that,” he says, pretending to not even register Mark’s start of a reply. “However, a business associate, whose son also plays for Hadley, informed me that you’ve missed several practices the last couple of weeks. I hope you have a decent excuse for that.”

  “Of course he does.” My mother snorts, tipping her glass to her lips. “This is Brock we’re talking about, John.”

  Amber butts in by clearing her throat, her words spoken sharp. “He was sick with the flu, Mr. Cunningham. That’s why he’s missed a few practices.” The lie drips easily from her mouth, th
e situation starting to make my pulse pound as I look at her. I wasn’t sick and Amber knows it. Truth is, I had something come up and, in my line of work, that happens more often than not. Being that my coaches rarely give me shit about it—the two former potheads letting my and Ryder’s dirty piss tests slide by—I don’t know why my father feels the need to bring it up.

  I shake my head at myself. Who am I trying to kid? I know why he fucking brings it up.

  My father acts like my judge and jury. He hovers, trying to control my existence as though it were his own. If it involves my life, and it’s something he knows about, then he’s all over it like flies on shit. Not because he wants me to make good decisions or avoid getting hemmed up in trouble—that would be one thing. But it’s all about not blemishing his name, the façade he’s built in the community surrounding his Cunningham clan. It drives me fucking nuts. Even though I’ve died trying, there’s no pleasing these people.

  “Sick?” my father says. “Unless you’re in the hospital tied to an IV pole, you can’t miss practices, Brock. You’re on scholarship and your future is on the line. It looks bad if you aren’t giving a hundred and twenty percent. You know that.” His eyes are icy, his struggle to maintain his composure something you couldn’t miss a mile away if you tried.

  “I got it. It won’t happen again,” I mutter, the bullshit flowing out of my mouth as easily as it did Amber’s. This isn’t the place nor the time to discuss my nonexistent football career.

  Amber’s hand grazes my thigh, causing my attention to shift to her. She smiles at me before turning to her foster parents. “You guys will have to come to one of Brock’s games. He’s amazing on the field.”

  “Oh, I bet,” Cathy says, her gaze set on Amber. “I still can’t believe you watch football. He would have to be something special for you to go to a game.”

  My mother cackles, her I’m two sheets to the wind pitch making me cringe. I wish I could yank the fucking alcohol off the table. Better yet, I wish I could yank her from the table. But I can’t. I’m as unable to dictate this situation as I am every other time I’m around her or my dad.

  Amber’s grip on my thigh tightens as she glares at my mother. “I’m surprised too. God knows I couldn’t stand the sport before Brock.”

  “Don’t worry, Amber.” Brit takes a sip of water. “You’re not the only one who despises it. I’d rather clean my house than watch a bunch of sweaty dudes throw a ball around. And me saying I’d rather clean is saying a lot.” She nudges my arm, a smirk twisting her lips. “No offense, bro. Though I love you to death, I’d take a month spent with the vacuum over watching you play any day.”

  A laugh moves across the table, the easy banter continuing as I fix my attention on my mother, who’s refilling her glass with a near-empty bottle of wine. I watch, sickened, as she barely takes a breath in between gulps, her entire body trained on the plum-colored mixture as though it’s her lifeline. After inhaling the entire glass in under a second, her gaze catches mine. She raises a perfectly arched brow, my pulse jumping at the darkness dashing over her features.

  Shit’s about to go south. I know it, can feel it. I’ve seen this more times than I can count. I grab the sides of my chair and brace myself for whatever poison is about to fly through the room.

  After a second, then a third heavy sip of the merlot, her sharp voice hits me in the center of my chest. “How’s Ryder doing, Brock?”

  I meet her stare head-on, wondering how quickly the situation is gonna deteriorate. I know my mother, can see her demons slowly dragging her back to her inner hell. The bomb’s about to go off: that I can’t prevent. All I can hope for is a mild explosion.

  “He’s good,” I answer, my voice remaining calm. “Working, school, football—the same old stuff.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she hums, tapping her nail on the rim of her glass. “I bet he hasn’t missed any practices.”

  Silence simmers midair, a thick tension compounding as I say, “I don’t know, Ma. You’d have to ask him that. I don’t usually keep a tally on what he does or doesn’t do when it comes to practice.”

  A mirthless smile lifts her lips as she once again refills her glass. “I don’t need to ask him anything,” she hisses. “Ryder would never throw his future away.”

  “Neither would I.” My words come out tame, despite my wanting to scream them. “I’m thinking about a business law class next semester. Will that work for ya? Make ya proud of me?”

  “Not sure anything will work or make me proud when it comes to you, Brock,” my mother points out through a sardonic laugh. “You look at life like tomorrow’s guaranteed. Who knows what will happen? Bad decisions and hedonistic attitudes take away people’s will to live.” She openly glares at me, then Amber, her hatred palpable as she dangles her glass in the air. “Especially when they’re running around with white trash.”

  Angers surges hot and fast, but before I can react, Brittany lets out a quiet moan. “Put the wine down, Mother.”

  Cathy and Mark look at each other wide-eyed, not as familiar, obviously, with my mother’s lack of couth. Normal people, which the Cunninghams aren’t, don’t expect someone to be so vicious about another human being, least of all one sitting at the table with her parents.

  Though I’m seeing red, I glance at Amber, my eyes flashing an apology as I wrap my hand around hers. She tosses me a tight smile, which only further ignites my anger.

  I turn to my mother, making a point to look at her wineglass before speaking, my tone a harsh slap. “We all have different definitions of who’s considered white trash. In my book, a lush, such as yourself, is right up there in my top three.”

  “I can smell a tramp a mile away,” my mother huffs, glaring pointedly at Amber. “Lush or not, that takes the cake in my book.”

  “Excuse me?” Cathy’s jaw nearly drops into her plate of shrimp scampi. “Who the hell do you think you are calling my daughter a tramp?”

  Brittany pushes back in her seat, a mix of anger and embarrassment thick on her tongue as she rises. “That was uncalled for. I don’t care how much you’ve drunk, this is completely out of line. I’m taking you home before you make a fool of yourself.”

  “She’s already made a fool of herself,” I bite out, tossing my linen napkin into the middle of the table.

  “Don’t, Brock,” Amber whispers, gripping my hand tighter. I know she’s trying to protect me, trying to downplay what happened to save me from saying some shit I can’t take back. I shake my head at her, silently telling her it’s too late. I can’t back down, can’t let this slide. I refuse.

  With an aggravated sigh, my father intervenes. “All your mother’s trying to say is that you need to make all your practices. There’s no reason to miss any.”

  “Your wife just called my daughter a tramp, and you’re still talking about football?” Mark stands, his eyes fierce as he jabs a finger into my father’s chest. “I’m not about to sit here and listen to you put down my child or yours! I don’t know who you people think you’re messing with, but this shit’s about to get real ugly if you say another word about my kid!”

  “That’s not what she’s trying to say,” I tell my father, barely picking up on Mark’s comment. I shove to my feet, my fists clenched at my sides, itching to blast something before I blast someone. “We all know what’s really going on. She’s a goddamn alcoholic, but that’s still no excuse for her fucking mouth.”

  “Watch your language,” my father says, his tone a resounding warning. “She’s still your mother.”

  “Right,” I spit, losing every shred of sanity I own. “I’ll watch my fucking mouth when you get your wife under control!”

  Everyone in the room stills as our heated stares stay deadlocked. I’ve had enough of this bullshit. I knew nothing with them would ever be easy after Brandon was taken, but the last couple of years it’s been nothing but a clusterfuck of vile comments that h
ave compiled into a storm of hurt and anger. Before Amber, I was able to bury my feelings in selling blow, my choice of employment providing me with a sense of purpose. I couldn’t do that in my personal life. There’s nothing my parents want from me other than a son who plays football and provides them with some form of status in their elite circle. It ends tonight. They’ve crossed a line, a major fucking line. There’s one thing I won’t condone and that’s hurtful comments aimed at my girl. You wanna rip me apart, fine, go ahead. But Amber? I’ll fucking hunt you down, dismantle you limb to limb, not giving a shit who you are to me while I watch you suffer.

  “Take her home,” I continue, rage blistering my lungs. “Get her out of my fucking sight. She needs help, but you’ve turned a blind eye to her problem because you get away with more shit while she’s lit up. I’m done with it. She can’t keep going on like this. It’s gonna kill her.”

  My father stands, his shoulders straightening to full height as fury whips across his face. “Your mother’s fine, Brock. The only problem in this family is you.”

  “That’s not true,” Brittany states, her voice forceful. “She has to stop blaming Brock for what happened to Brandon. It’s unfair to not only him, but me as well. He’s my remaining brother and it kills me to see the way the both of you treat him.”

  My stare switches from Brit to my mother, who’s swaying back and forth, tears dribbling down her cheeks as she lifts her green eyes to mine.

  “You’re the reason he was stolen from me,” she whispers, slashing the knife of guilt—already buried deep within my gut—deeper. “Because of you, I don’t have Brandon anymore. I think it’s sick that I have to suffer while you get to go on with your life as if nothing’s . . . happened.”

  I hear Cathy and Amber gasp, my breath fucking off at the trail of sheer agony streaming across my mother’s face. The agony I caused her.