Frost: An Otherworld Tale (The Otherworld Tales Book 1)

by Chelsea Clemmons Moye

  “Well, she can try, but she can only take what you’re willing to let her take." Audrey's voice was full of both caution and censure. "I know you don’t want to fight with anybody, but you’re really going to have to think about standing up to her.”

  I sighed and shook my head. “If I do, I’m afraid it’ll ruin my relationship with my Dad, or what’s left of it.”

  “Are you really willing to let her run over you 24/7 just to keep your Dad happy? If so, I think you need to step back and evaluate just how messed up that is.”

  I winced, knowing Audrey wasn't wrong. “I just really, really don’t want the confrontation. Sure, I might be completely miserable, but why does that matter if everyone else is happy?”

  At first, all I heard was stony silence, but when Audrey finally responded, her voice shook with rage and incredulity. “It matters because you’re a human being, and your feelings are just as valid as anybody else’s, for Christ’s sake!”

  “If I say something or stand up for myself, it’s just going to cause a fight, I’m going to look like a complete a-hole, and it’s not really worth the conflict to me. I only have to be miserable for roughly five more months.”

  “Five months could mean the difference between keeping your sanity and human dignity, or leaving your Dad’s house with your familial relationship in shambles and a queen bitch gold digger redecorating your room and turning it into some kind of weird sex dungeon, or worse.”

  “What’s worse than a weird sex dungeon?” I suppressed another gag at the mental image the words "sex dungeon" conjured.

  “A nursery." Audrey's voice was hard and serious. "If she gets pregnant, she’ll take your dad to the cleaners when she finally gets bored and leaves him. And you’ll have a helpless little half-brother or sister that I can just about guarantee she will use to manipulate your father with.”

  I went weak in the knees and sat down hard in my desk chair. “Oh my God. Jesus, Audrey! I’m going to have nightmares for the rest of my life, now. Thanks.” I shuddered, and my anxious stomach started boiling with nausea all over again.

  “Look, hon, I know your Mom is all about that old-school British stoicism, and your Granny Betty has the stiff-upper-lip Southern belle thing going on, but I really feel like you need to break that pattern. Have you ever heard ‘This Ain’t My Mama’s Broken Heart’ by Miranda Lambert?”

  “Yeah." I felt my forehead wrinkle with confusion. "What about it?”

  “Listen closely to the lyrics, please. Your granny embodies the mother in the song. I just really think it would be healthier for you if you found a way to break out of following in those footsteps, and the song might help.”

  “I just wasn’t reared to show my emotions like that. I was definitely brought up in the suppress your feelings and project the best possible image school of thought. I'd rather just keep my mouth shut and hope they eventually figure it out.”

  Audrey scoffed and tsked at me before speaking. “You can’t expect people to read your mind and guess what’s wrong with you. Nobody can fix anything if you don’t tell them it’s broken in the first place.”

  I sighed, shaking my head. “I’ve spent my whole entire life putting everybody else’s feelings before mine. I don’t know how not to be that way. And I’m definitely not comfortable with trying to figure out how to talk to people about my feelings.”

  "For your mental health and sanity, I'd recommend that you try to figure it out," Audrey growled, ever the protective best friend.

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'll try, Audrey. If I sound distracted for a minute, it's because I'm trying to bump my flight up online so I don't have to handle it when I get to the airport."

  "What are you going to do if they charge you to move your flight date?"

  I shrugged, again aware that she couldn't see I was doing it. "I've got plenty of money in my account to cover it. Dad and Ric actually paid me pretty well for the concept art I did for Wytch World Online. Plus, I make some royalties off the game since I came up with the plot for story mode."

  "Your dad and Ric might be insipid, childish jerks, but it's cool that we haven't even graduated yet, and you've already started your career as an artist because of them. I'm kind of jealous."

  I winced, all of a sudden keenly aware of how different our lives were. "There's nothing to be jealous of, I promise. You're going to make millions off your books if you ever decide to publish them."

  “Well, if you’re bumping your flight up, I can give you a ride to the Pensacola airport." I didn't miss the semi-forced brightness in her voice. "That way, you don’t have to pay to park your car.”

  “I am, for sure. Thank you.”

  “All right. Finish packing your stuff, and I’ll be over soon.” All the strain was gone from my best friend's voice, usurped by her usual motherly tones. The gentle, well-meant bossiness was somehow comforting.

  “Thanks, Audrey. You’re the best."

  I hung up, tossed my phone in my purse, and grabbed the floral backpack I always used as my carry-on. I closed my sketchbook, tucked it in the backpack, and followed it with my colored pencils and my favorite sharpener. I added Charmed and Dangerous, Changeling, and the entire Dark Seas trilogy by Debbie Herbert to my bag. I'd been obsessed with her books ever since I discovered Siren's Secret just before summer break ended, and I was dying to dive into her Appalachian Magic series over the Christmas holiday.

  I glanced around my room, decided against bringing my laptop with me because it was always a pain to pull it out for airport security, and ran downstairs to wait on Audrey to pick me up.

  2

  Overreaction?

  My breath froze in my chest as I bolted from the safety of the warm cab into a sleet-filled Massachusetts night. Chicopee was silent and bathed in the relative darkness of the wee hours of the morning as I scurried across my mother’s small, snow-coated lawn with the help of the dim street light. I was soaked and shivering by the time I reached the porch of the somewhat worn Victorian home she shared with my stepfather and picked my way up the aged steps, trying to avoid the creaky spots. I shook ice out of my coal-black waves as I pounded on the peeling, powder blue door and cringed when the foyer light blinked on.

  The door creaked open, and my mom squinted at me in sleepy confusion until she realized that I was, in reality, shivering on her doorstep. Concern clouded her classically elegant Audrey Hepburn eyes, and she wrapped a protective, if dainty, arm around my shoulders, pulled me inside, and shoved the protesting door shut with her foot.

  “Lauren, darling, what are you doing here? It’s two in the morning, and you’re not due to arrive for two more days.” Her British accent was always thicker when she was tired.

  I took a deep breath, bit my lip, and stared down at the dusty pink roses on the threadbare hunter green hall rug. “I felt like I had to come early, Mom. Dad's eloping with Michelle in Las Vegas while I'm here for Christmas.”

  “He what?” Her pale brow furrowed, and a frown tugged the corners of her full, perfectly shaped lips.

  “Dad's taking his girlfriend Michelle to Las Vegas for Christmas, and she's somehow talked him into getting married while they're there. They packed and left this afternoon. I had to get Audrey to give me a ride to the airport.”

  Mom stared at my bare arms and legs, and I could tell by her expression that she was debating whether to chew me out right then or save it for later. “You didn’t even stop to change clothes?” She batted her wild black curls back out of her face and glared up at the ceiling. She was either counting to ten or sending a few intense, exasperated prayers heavenward. “It’s late December in Massachusetts and my daughter shows up in the middle of the night wearing a tank top, shorts, and flimsy canvas sneakers!" She turned and called up the stairs to my stepdad. "Brian, could you please bring some towels down here?”

  I shrugged and hugged my torso a little tighter so my shivers wouldn’t be quite as evident. “I was so mad I didn’t think about clothes. I didn
’t even pack a suitcase. I didn't want to wander around Dad's house by myself for two and a half days, so I had my flight moved up, called Audrey to come pick me up, and hauled butt.”

  Mom shook her head and her hair fell back in front of her warm, caramel brown eyes. “And how did you pay for the date change?"

  "Not with Dad's money, if that's what you're wondering." I shrugged. "I had a good bit of money in my account from the commission he and Ric paid me for the concept art for Wytch World Online. And I make some royalties off the game, too, because I came up with the plot permutations for story mode."

  "You father is likely to have a bloody heart attack when he figures out you spent that money to have your flight moved up just because you were upset.”

  "It's not his money to have a heart attack about, Mom," I snapped. "It's mine. I earned it, and I can spend it however I see fit, upset or not." It sounded unnecessarily defensive, but I didn't care. "If he gets upset about how I spend the money I earn, I guess that's just too bad. I almost had a stroke when I found out he’s marrying my childhood bully.” My stomach churned at the very thought of my forty-two-year-old father and his barely twenty-one-year-old girlfriend—wife. Dad had been delighted to share the "romantic" story of how they met…how he just happened to be having a drink in the bar where she was celebrating her twenty-first birthday, how their eyes met across the crowded room. So gross.

  “Honey, are you telling me your father's marrying Michelle Cain? The kid who tortured you until she graduated from high school? That Michelle?” my mom asked, pulling back to the present.

  “I mean, she’s only four years older than I am,” I went on, pacing now. “And as if things aren’t bad enough, she flirts with Neal when she thinks Dad, Ric, and I aren’t around to see them. My father’s soon-to-be-wife flirts with his business partner's son, and yet he's somehow still convinced that she loves him!”

  “Honey,” my mom tried again, gently catching me by the arm as I passed by her.

  “How disgusting is that?” I asked, not really expecting an answer. My mom’s mouth opened, but before she could get out a single syllable, I was off again. “She’s a gold-digger and the only one who can’t see it is Dad. Do you know that she showed up at Grandpa Alex’s funeral half-wasted and looking like a hooker, for God’s sake? I thought Granny Betty was going to have an aneurysm before I could get Dad to make Michelle leave. To make matters worse, all they do is party when he's not working.”

  Mom stared at me in open-mouthed horror, the brown of her eyes turning turbulent and stormy. “Party? Are you saying your father’s drinking again?”

  “Not as bad as he used to." I shrugged, feeling as if I'd tattled on him for no good reason. "It’s just an occasional thing." If you count any excuse Michelle can think of as an occasion.

  For a moment, all Mom could do was shake her head. “You can't dictate his choices. Neither could I. Your father is a grown man, Lauren, although he doesn’t act like it sometimes.”

  “Ever.” I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt.

  “We’re just going to have to figure out a sensible way to deal with this.”

  “Deal with what, Gillian?”

  Mom turned around and I saw her husband, Brian, at the base of the stairs with a massive stack of fluffy pink towels in his arms. He looked like a tired, confused Robert DeNiro, with a slightly gentler face.

  “Nicholas is eloping with a twenty-one-year-old girl while Lauren is here for Christmas.”

  Brian sighed, shook his head, and handed the towels to Mom. He shuffled into the kitchen and called over his shoulder. “Tea or Cocoa?”

  His offer coaxed a small smile out of me. “Cocoa, please.”

  “Tea for me, dear.” Mom wrapped me in one of her gigantic bath sheets and we settled in at the antique kitchen table sharing a collective sigh. I tugged the towel tighter around me and glanced at the hand-painted kettle on the stove. It was powder blue with soft pink heart-shaped polka dots. I remembered the day Mom and I had painted it together with a fond, wistful grin.

  “I wish Dad were as considerate as you, Brian. He never thinks about how things will affect me before he does them," I blurted.

  “Your father doesn’t mean to hurt you, darling. He’s just too immature to stop and think about what he’s doing until it’s too late.” Mom’s voice was gentle and her tired eyes told me that she knew better than anyone, although she’d never say it aloud. That only succeeded in cementing my desire not to go back to Bay Minette. I looked down at the table, feeling her worried gaze. I couldn’t look her in the eye. If I did, I would have cried.

  I took a deep breath and held it for a moment. “That’s why I’ve decided I want to move in with you and Brian. I need a more stable lifestyle than the one I’m getting with Dad and Michelle. I can't deal with the partying and the melodrama.” I studied her expression out of the corner of my eye and a sudden wave of doubt crashed in around me. Oh, God, what if she and Brian don’t want me to move in? Things get a little cramped while I’m here. Maybe they don’t have room for me full-time? Brian set our drinks down on the table and leaned back against the counter without a word.

  “What about your friends? It’s your senior year. Are you sure you want to leave at this point? You only have one semester left,” Mom said, leaning forward, taking my hand, and giving it a gentle squeeze.

  “I’d miss James, Maria, and Audrey,” I admitted, thinking of my best friends.

  “And what about Granny Betty?" Mom probed. "She’s the only grandparent you have left. She’d probably be devastated if you left right now, too,” Mom added.

  “I know. I don’t want to leave Granny Betty,” I sighed, letting my head fall onto the wooden tabletop with a defeated sigh.

  “Please, don’t misunderstand me…” Mom rubbed my hand soothingly, her voice patient and reassuring. “You’re welcome to move in with us if that’s what you really want, dear. I just want to make sure that you’ve really thought this through. It’s a big choice to make.”

  “I really don’t think I can stand to live in that house now that Dad’s marrying Michelle. She hates my guts, and the feeling is pretty much mutual,” I said, my voice muffled by the table.

  Mom cleared her throat and gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. “I have a suggestion, and you don’t have to make the choice right now. I’m not saying that I’m opposed to you living here with Brian and me, I’m just offering another perspective that may not have occurred to you yet.”

  I sat up, pushed my hair out of my eyes, and chewed on my bottom lip, my stomach a tight ball of nerves. “Okay, what is it?”

  “Have you considered moving in with your Granny Betty? She’s on her own now that Grandpa Alex has passed, and she would probably love the company.”

  “Honestly, I was so upset with Dad that moving in with Granny Betty didn’t even cross my mind. I would be able to finish out my senior year with my friends, and I wouldn’t be abandoning Granny Betty. The only problem is that this might cause a fight with dad or hurt his feelings.” I drummed my fingers on the scarred wood tabletop. I would still occasionally have to deal with Dad and Michelle, but I wouldn’t have to desert my friends and my last living grandparent.

  Mom frowned and shook her head at me, her expression forewarning me that she was about to bust me with some cold, hard logic. "Darling, I know you've never dealt well with confrontation, but you're going to have to decide what is more important to you. Would you rather risk confrontation and hurting your father's feelings, or would you rather continue to live under his roof when he's marrying a girl who tormented you for the majority of your childhood?"

  I stifled a discontented whine and scrubbed my hands over my face. "I don't know! I really don't know what to do, Mom. All I know is that Dad and Michelle's party hard lifestyle just isn't for me."

  Brian stifled a yawn and patted my shoulder. “We’ll figure things out, dear. In the meantime, I’m going back to bed. I have to teach an 8 a.m. military history class.”

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