by Monica James
I also want to apologize to Polly for pulling a gun on her. My temper got the better of me, and even though that’s no excuse, I still have to try and make amends. I have no doubt she’ll tell me to shove it, because I know that’s what I would do if I were her, but I’m not her. So I have to at least try.
This whole situation has my already nauseated stomach doing somersaults, and when Quinn enters the room with hands full of an assortment of food, I choke back my queasiness because I know he means well.
We woke up and went about our morning routine like usual, however, we obviously both woke up on the wrong side of the bed, as our patience was wearing thin, and it was only 8 a.m. Quinn being Quinn allowed me to wallow in my self-pity for roughly thirty seconds before he told me to knock it off. I flipped him off and slumped low into my seat, where I still remain twenty minutes later, attempting to concentrate on reading the paper, but failing terribly. I paid him no attention when he stormed out of the room in an unexplained huff, but now I know he went to get us food. No matter our circumstances, Quinn’s stomach always comes first.
That thought has my lips tipping up into a small smile as I attempt to read this article on war and world peace for the third time.
“Why doesn’t it surprise me that talks of war can make you smile,” Quinn playfully mocks, tossing the brown paper bag in front of me.
As I look at the oil-stained bag, my stomach growls in protest, and I instead reach for the coffee cup sitting beside our breakfast.
“Is it your time of the month?” I ask with a smile, lifting the caffeine gold to my nose and taking a small whiff. “Because you sure as hell are acting like a little bitch.” Probably not the best thing to say to an already irate Quinn, but my mouth and brain are not friends today.
One minute I’m sitting on my seat, just about to drink my coffee, and the next I’m being flung onto Quinn’s lap, side saddle. The intensity of his green eyes always takes my breath away, but today they look heavy and drawn. I instantly feel awful, because I know I’m most likely the cause of his exhaustion.
“Sorry,” I say, running my fingertip across his cheekbone. “For acting like a spoiled brat this morning and lashing out. You didn’t deserve that. I mean after everything you’ve done, I should be more grateful.”
Quinn watches me, not showing any emotion, and my heart picks up the pace, concerned that he has finally seen the light, realizing I’m no good for him.
“Quinn?” I question, hating that my voice sounds so small.
Quinn sighs, rubbing a hand down his face before he replies, “It’s okay. After the past few days, months, years, I think you have every right to lash out. Hell, I want to lash out. I just wish one thing could work out for you. I mean, the fact you’re still smiling and making jokes after everything instead of going out on a murder spree baffles me.”
I give him a small smile. “It’s because I have you to take my homicidal tendencies out on.”
Quinn smirks and my heart melts.
“What are we going to do now?” he asks, although he knows what my answer will be.
Taking a sip of my black coffee, I savor the bitter taste before I reply, “I thought I would keep up the crazy and go see Cynthia.”
Quinn grins as he wraps a hand around my nape and gathers my hair into a loose ponytail. “You’re right, that is crazy,” he says, tongue in cheek.
“I never claimed to be sane,” I reply with a playful shrug, and my hair slips free. “This is your last chance to run screaming for the Canadian hills.”
“I think you mean the Rocky Mountains,” he corrects with a smirk, kissing the tip of my nose.
I love that regardless of our situation, Quinn and I can always be goofballs together.
Wrapping my arms around his neck, I toy with the hair at his nape, which is sitting in a low man bun. “Your hair is getting so long.”
“Don’t you like it?” he asks, chewing on his lip ring, which is totally distracting.
“Like what?” I ask, enthralled by his actions.
No matter how many times I see him tug at that hoop, I can never get enough.
“My hair,” Quinn chuckles.
“Oh right,” I reply, my eyes shyly meeting his. “There’s nothing I will never like about you, Quinn Berkeley.” And I mean every word of it.
My comment has me thinking about his tattoo, and also, his confession about the sins of his past. What has he done that’s so bad he could never forgive himself?
Looking into his gentle eyes, I know that whatever it is, it’ll never change how I feel about him. I mean, we all have skeletons in our closets, I should know. But whatever he has done, we all deserve a second chance, right?
With that thought, the decision to go see my mother feels all the more fitting, because even she deserves a second chance.
Although, what if that second chance isn’t enough?
Chapter 7
Surrender
Looking at the palace through the windshield of our stolen truck, I sigh, totally unprepared for how round two will go.
The closer we get to Cynthia’s home, the more I regret my decision. But now that I’m here, there’s no turning back. I’ve dealt with worse before, so I tell myself to slip on my big girl panties, because I’m not leaving this lavish mansion until I get some answers.
Patting Lucky on the head for luck, I exit the truck and interlace my fingers through Quinn’s warm hand. I scoff when I see a dancing Santa and his entourage of reindeers and elves displayed on the front lawn. I never noticed this ridiculous Christmas exhibit when I was here last, and that’s a good thing, as I would have taken an axe to it.
Quinn sees me eyeballing the reindeer, and chuckles. “What did Rudolf ever do to you?” he asks, as we walk the long gravel driveway to the front steps.
“His carol sucks,” I reply. “Out of all the Christmas carols, it’s Rudolf the fucking Red Nose Reindeer that gets stuck in my head for days. Rudolf needs to go into retirement, or stop having such a damn shiny nose,” I add as we climb the marbled stairs.
Quinn laughs at my outburst. “Okay then, how about I just call you The Grinch from now on?”
“One nickname is more than enough, thank you very much,” I reply, leaning forward and ringing the doorbell without hesitation or second thoughts.
As the heavy sound resonates inside, I squeak, realizing that due to my anti-Rudolf rant, I have alerted the occupants that I’m standing outside. I need time to prepare, and maybe do some breathing exercises to calm me down. But there’s no time for that as the white door opens, revealing a sooky faced Polly.
As soon as she sees me, she attempts to slam the door shut, but I wedge my boot into the frame to stop it from closing.
“Polly, please hear me out,” I say, inching closer and using my arm to hold the door open.
She narrows her eyes at me, and her red painted lips pull into a tight scowl. “Why? So you can shoot me? I don’t think so. Get lost,” she says, attempting to shut the door.
I use my body weight to stop it from moving an inch.
“Look, you have every right to be mad, I get that. I’m sorry for pulling a gun on you, that wasn’t cool,” I say quickly, hoping she’ll see reason.
“You think?” she spits. “I should have you arrested—you’re a damn maniac!” she cries, but thankfully her hold on the door slackens.
“Look, I said I’m sorry,” I grit out through clenched teeth, as her attitude is pissing me off.
“So what? Sorry isn’t good enough. Now leave,” she says, feebly attempting to shut the door.
“Mia?” a weak voice asks. “Mia, is that you?”
Both Polly and I freeze when we hear the voice of our mother, and I can’t deny she sounds like shit.
“Polly, is that your sister?” Cynthia questions, her heels clicking on the tiles as she quickly approaches the front door.
Polly doesn’t turn to face her when she replies, “Yes, Mother, it’s Mia. The gun wielding lunatic,” she
adds under her breath as she finally opens the door.
I return the stink eye she is currently bestowing on me, but my mouth parts in shock when she has the audacity to flip me off. Quinn bites his lip in amusement, but all hilarity disappears when Cynthia stands in the open doorway next to Polly.
I actually recoil backward a small step when I see her because she looks like death. Her long black hair is sitting in a messy bun, with defiant tufts sticking out at odd angles, giving her the appearance that she stuck something shiny into an electrical socket. Her clothes are the same ones I saw her in when I was last here, but she’s wearing mismatched heels. One is black and the other is purple. She has a serious case of raccoon eyes, and her grimy stench is masked under the perfume of cigarettes.
I should take pleasure in seeing her look so damaged, but I don’t.
“Oh, Mia,” she sobs, running toward me and throwing her arms around my neck.
I don’t have time to move, but there’s no way in hell I’m about to return her embrace, so I stand rigid, watching Polly glaring at me over Cynthia’s shoulder. Once she’s done with the PDA, she lets me go, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a rose printed handkerchief.
“I’m so glad you’re here.” She sniffs, dabbing at her eyes.
I grunt in response, as I have no idea what to say, seeing as when I was here last, she was asking me to leave.
“Come inside, Mom,” Polly says after a few moments of uncomfortable silence. “You’ll catch a cold.” She steps back, opening the door wider for her to enter.
Cynthia nods, her eyes brightening slightly when she says, “Mia, please come inside. And your friend too,” she adds, looking surprised to see Quinn, like she only just realized he was here.
“I’m Quinn,” he says, extending his hand, which Cynthia lightly shakes.
“Nice to meet you,” she replies. “Are you Mia’s boyfriend?” she asks, softly blowing her nose.
On that note, I pull Quinn by the hand and push past Polly, as I am so not ready to have that daughterly talk with my mother just yet.
Now that rage isn’t clouding my vision, I can see that this home is really pretty. There are all sorts of artworks adorning the walls, and I can’t help the sick feeling gurgling in my stomach, as I wonder if my mother still paints. It’s one of the only memories I have of her. I remember how excited she was to have her artwork chosen and displayed in a downtown gallery. It was her dream come true. But sadly, that dream wasn’t enough to make her stay. And that thought has me grinding my teeth as I enter some swanky living area off to the right.
This room is bigger than the other room I was in last time, and again, it’s really pretty and tasteful. And I hate it. I hate that I think it’s pretty. I hate that I’m not slashing at the walls, and breaking all the crystal figurines in rage.
“Sit, please,” Cynthia says, pointing to a black leather sofa.
I don’t resist and quickly sit, and Quinn takes a seat next to me. Polly and Cynthia also sit down, and this is where the awkwardness begins. How do you start off a conversation such as this? No matter how I intend to phrase it, or how many questions I ask, there only seems to be one word which sums it all up.
Why?
No matter what I ask, and no matter what she replies, the end result will always be why.
“Mia, I’m so sorry for my behavior the other day,” Cynthia says, breaking the silence.
Crossing my boot over my knee, I slouch backward, as I feel like I’m about to collapse. I really think she needs to be apologizing for a lot more than just the other day. But I give her a small nod, indicating I’m listening.
“I don’t even know where to begin.” Cynthia sniffs, wringing the handkerchief into a knot.
“How about you start off by telling me why the hell you left?” I bark, louder than expected as Cynthia jolts, startled by my hostility.
Quinn places a warm hand onto my bare knee which is sticking out through a hole in my jeans. He squeezes it lightly, and I know he’s asking me to calm down. I will never get the answers I so desperately seek if I behave like a raving lunatic.
So with that in mind, I sigh, slightly annoyed that I have to be the rational one. “Look, I know this isn’t easy for anyone…” I ignore Polly’s disgruntled ‘humph,’ in the background as I continue. “But you owe me the truth. No matter how painful, I want to hear it.”
Quinn softly strokes my knee with his thumb, and his action is like an anchor to staying sane. Focusing on his touch, I meet Cynthia’s eyes, demanding an explanation.
She nods, her hair shrouding her face as it slips free from her loose bun, hiding her from my expectant gaze. “You’re right. I do owe you the truth. From start to finish, you deserve to know it all.”
My heart thumps in nervousness, as this is the moment I have been waiting for my entire life. How will I handle the truth? Will it shatter my already weak mind? Or once I know everything, will it empower me to start anew? There’s only one way to find out.
I look at Cynthia, waiting for her to speak, but she doesn’t. She just buries herself further under her veil of hair, sobbing quietly. I know she needs a moment, as I have no doubt these memories are painful for her to relive—but too freaking bad, as I’m not leaving this house without answers.
I look at Quinn, hoping he’ll give me some magical solution to get her to talk, but he only shrugs and toys with his hoop.
Polly is the first to speak. “Mom, are you all right?” The concern she feels for her mother is clearly evident in her soft tone.
Cynthia finally emerges from her nest, and looks over at Polly with a small smile on her face. “I’m fine, sweetheart. This is just very hard for me to talk about. I buried these memories long ago, and I just need a minute before I open the door on a past I wish I could forget.”
Well, fuck her. That past she so wishes she could forget involves me. Chewing the inside of my cheek to stop my string of profanities, I patiently wait, hoping her minute is nearly up.
When she meets my eyes, I tell myself, ‘This is it. No matter what happens, you stay till the bitter end.’
“Mia, is what you said true?” she sniffs, wiping away her tears.
“Which part?” I ask, annoyed that she’s the one asking me questions, and not vice versa.
“That you…worked for Phil?” she clarifies.
I have no idea how that’s important, as shooting the man she once loved, I believe, takes precedence over some lame ass drug dealer. But I humor her as I nod in response.
Her hand flies up to her mouth, and she muffles her cries as she begins weeping once again.
What the hell is going on? Why does she care about Phil? Shouldn’t she be questioning why I shot that pathetic excuse of a man who used to be her husband?
“I’m sorry, I can’t do this,” she whimpers, jumping up from her seat like it’s on fire.
But there’s no way I’m about to let her leave, so I too, arise, latching onto her arm as she storms past me.
“What the hell is going on?” I demand, squeezing her arm in anger.
She recoils from my touch as I know I’m gripping her hard, but I won’t let go without knowing what the fuck is going on.
“Mia, I—” she pauses, tears sliding down her cheeks. “I can’t do this.”
“Tough!” I rebuke, shaking her harder. “You owe me answers! After all these years, you owe me the god damned truth!”
I can feel my tears steadily approaching, but I bite down on my lip to stop them from falling.
“I know I’m a disappointment to you, but please,” I pathetically beg. “Please, just please, please tell me the truth.”
A betrayal tear slithers down my cheek, but I wipe it away with the back of hand, as I will not allow her to see my grief. But more only follow in its place.
Before I have a chance to wipe them away, Cynthia does something which catches me completely off guard. With trembling, apprehensive fingers, she slowly reaches forward, and brushes away my tear
s. I recoil from her touch, but the gentle, unexpected sentiment has more tears falling.
“You were never a disappointment to me, Mia,” she says softly, and her confession has me meeting her eyes, confused.
“Then why did you leave me? Why did you leave me with him?” I cry. “Why did you leave me with a monster?”
Cynthia bites her lip, swallowing her tears as she sobs, “I had no other choice.”
“What does that mean?” I shout, about ready to lose it with her evasive responses.
But she only shakes her head, indicating this conversation is over.
I feel like I’m about to be sick because every time she opens her mouth, I’m left with more questions than answers. Pinching the bridge of my nose in frustration, I’m just about to give my mother an ear bashing, but Pollyanna decides now is a good time to intervene.
“Enough!” she spits, yanking on her mother’s arm, pulling her away from me. “You need to leave!”
As I look at the trembling woman before me, who looks about ready to have a mental breakdown, I for once agree with her, because no one will surrender today.
But tomorrow, tomorrow I will get what I want.
Chapter 8
Wish Upon a Star
Quinn ensured he held me tight when we exited Cynthia’s home, as he no doubt was afraid I would repeat my Forrest Gump performance and run until I ran out of breath. But honestly, I have no energy to think, let alone run.
What the fuck was that back there?
If possible, I’m now even more baffled about my past than I was before. And the one person who has all the answers decides now is a good time to have a mental breakdown.
Since I left Cynthia a blubbering mess in the arms of her daughter, I have realized that I may never get the answers I so desperately seek. If these memories are buried so deeply within, what happens if asking Cynthia to unearth them breaks her? Or worse yet, what happens if she refuses to tell me?
I never took that factor into consideration, as Cynthia owes me nothing. I’m just a ghost of her past, one she no doubt wishes remained dead and buried. The honorable and decent thing to do would be to tell me the truth. But after today’s performance, I think getting the truth is going to be a lot harder than I originally anticipated—which of course¸ is just my luck.