“Your mother says it doesn’t have to be this way, just because we’re both empaths.”
I choked on my chocolate. Shock and panic broiled around us as I wheezed and hacked into the sleeve of my shirt. After a few seconds, my dad got to his feet, coming around to my side to clap me on the back hard enough that it knocked me into the table. When I finally got my coughing under control, he moved back to his chair, slid my mug across the way. He dumped half of what was left into his cup and, when I glared at him, he just pointed at me as if cowing me into not complaining.
“I don’t know,” I said finally, rubbing my eyes to get rid of the tears. “It was just always a thing, you know? I thought everyone did it, and then I found out it was only me, and maybe you, but you never brought it up and we were—are always fighting. So I figured maybe it was wrong—that you—I mean, that I was alone and maybe you did something else.”
“Something else? What something else? Jesus, Gwen, you didn’t even ask.”
“You didn’t ask, either!” I argued, feeling that horrible feedback of irritation and insult arc between us like lightning. It made me chest hurt, tightened my jaw, and made me want to hit something. “That’s your job! You’re the parent.”
“Your mom didn’t tell you?” he asked, voice strained. I fought the urge to bite his head off for throwing mom under the bus, even though part of me knew that probably wasn’t his intention.
“Don’t make this her fault!”
“It’s your fault!” he argued. Then, like it physically pained him to say, “and my fault.”
“Damn straight. You knew what I was feeling, what I was going through as a teenager and you never even tried to help!” I accused, my level of anger rising to combat the embarrassment making my cheeks go pink. Dad tapped his head and then pointed at mine.
“Don’t be a brat, you know exactly what I did for you.”
Unsure what to do next, unwilling to admit I had no idea what he was talking about, I lifted my mug, downed the last of the liquid, realizing in an instant that it was still too hot. Glowering his way, I got to my feet, stomped to the sink and dropped the cup inside.
“Rinse it out,” my father ordered.
“I know!” I growled. “You don't have to be a jerk. “
“Neither do you. You're a grown damn woman, you should be able to control your own emotions. I shouldn't have to do it for you. “
“What are you talking about?” I all but screeched.
“You know what I'm talking about!” he boomed, getting to his feet. Mimicking my action, he sucked down the last of his milk and thumped over to me to slam his cup down in the sink. “You play dumb, but the only way you haven't figured out how you got through your teen years so happy—” I scoffed, but mostly just to needle him. “—is if you're an idiot. And you're my daughter, so you're not an idiot.”
“Apparently I am because I have no idea what you're talking about.” I was on the verge of yelling, though I probably wouldn't have been if I'd been arguing with anyone else. My father threw up his hands in frustration and then clapped them over his eyes. It was a gesture I’d done myself a time or twelve. He took a second to breathe heavily into his palms before forcing himself to calm down.
“Talk to your mother. I'm going to wake Dorian up.”
“Of course you are,” I snapped. To my surprise, I felt a stab of hurt inside him as he twisted and plodded toward the stairs. I watched him go, my jaw set, before turning and heading for the living room. I could hear J.J.'s open-mouthed breathing from inside one of the blanket forts and Natalie was stretched out on the couch. Sighing that there was nowhere for me to sit, I glanced around the room before deciding to crawl into the fort Natalie had holed up in the day before. I stretched out, tucked a knot of blankets under my head and tried my best to calm down.
Chapter Ten
I woke up an hour later with my mother laying next to me, watching me sleep. I jolted as soon as I saw her, swore an oath that made her roll her eyes.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
“Watching my baby sleep.”
“Thomas is the baby! Go watch him sleep!”
“He's awake, making breakfast. You and your father woke the whole house.”
I grunted in response, leaned slightly away as I worried I might still have chocolate breath. Mom reached out and rubbed a hand over my arm.
“What were you yelling about?”
“I don't know; he was bitch—complaining that I'm ungrateful or something. That he's the reason I was happy as a kid. I think never being here with him was the reason I was happy.”
“Well, to be fair, that was partly his doing.”
“No,” I argued, unable to keep the pout off my face. “That was Stan's doing; as soon as I started dating him, I was over at his house all the time. That wasn't because of dad.”
“Well,” mom drawled and shifted a bit. Discomfort and embarrassment puffed out of her and I felt my pout slide toward a frown.
“What?”
“He did convince me to let you to go over to Stan's so often.”
“Because he didn't want me here?” Mom rolled her eyes at that.
“No, because he remembered his own teen years. He remembered being able to feel everything going on around him, especially when your grandparents …” Mom trailed off, rolling her wrist to gesture toward me with an open palm; I continued to frown at her. Apparently she also thought it was impossible for me to be an idiot; she shifted to repeat her gesture toward me, but slower as if that would help me understand what she was hinting at.
“What?” I finally demanded. My mother let out an uncomfortable laugh and then sighed.
“Once we realized you had his power, he was terrified of …” Her voice slowed, as if her words were warm caramel, half stuck in her throat. “Of … of getting to … know. Me. With you in the house.”
I blinked at her, still completely clueless. Exasperation exploded from her limbs as she shoved at my shoulder.
“Sex!” she finally snapped.
“Ahh!” I howled, shaking my head. I suddenly hated this conversation. My mother's discomfort deviated toward amusement and she reached out to pull me into a hug.
“No!” I whined, though I didn't shove her away. When she pulled back, the blush on her cheeks had disappeared.
“We went so many years only having sex while you were at school or over at a friend's house,” she griped. “Let me tell you.”
“I will not let you tell me! Stop telling me!” I rolled onto my back, pressing my fingers against my eyeballs. “It was bad enough feeling Robin getting to know Jake, or Thomas getting to know himself. I don't want to think about you and dad getting to know anything.”
“Robin and Jake?” mom asked, hand clutching my arm “In my house?”
“Uh,” I groaned, peering out from under one hand at her. “No?”
She slapped my arm lightly, shook her head. Her despair was mild but apparently I'd spilled the beans on something.
“She swore to me they'd never have sex without talking to me first.”
“They've had three kids. It's time you knew. Mom, they've had sex.”
Mom’s eye-roll was immediate, her breath a quick hiss. “But she didn't come talk to me about it until after she'd moved out. I assumed they were chaste while living here. I swear you girls were so secretive.”
“Well, you need to be more secretive; promise me you’ll never bring anything like this up ever again. As far as I'm concerned, you and dad have never had sex.”
She lifted a brow at me, her expression wry. “Gwen, we had three kids. I think it's time you knew—”
“We all budded asexually off your arm!” I interrupted, my voice breaking. “That's how it happened. End of story.”
Mom shook her head, grinning. While we sat in the blanket fort in silence, something else occurred to me. I dropped my arms.
“What did you mean about dad making sure I was happy before Stan?”
�
�You know,” she said, as if that explained it. I shook my head.
“Stop talking to me like I'm not an idiot. Explain what you guys are talking about.” Mom sighed.
“He absorbed your emotions when you were feeling down or angry or, you know, teenaged, that's all. He made sure he took on some the garbage feelings so you didn’t have to live with it. He did it for all three of you, though you were the biggest challenge.”
“Absorbed?” I was lost. “Like a sponge?”
“Yes,” mom said plainly. “Why, do you do it differently?”
I stared at her. My father could take emotions? That was on a different level that I was. No wonder we had so much trouble communicating; his powers apparently outweighed mine. He was not only feeling irate at me, he was absorbing the irritation I was putting off, which meant I was feeling his emotions and mine, and putting it right back on him.
“I've never done that,” I admitted. Mom's brows went up and I felt disbelief crowd her.
“Not on purpose, you mean?”
“Not at all.”
“Yes you have. You take everything everyone else is feeling. That's why you're so cranky. When you were young, your father would help, make sure you weren't overloaded. Once you grew up we assumed you'd learned to control it. He was hurt you never thanked him—or even brought it up, by the way.”
“Well I didn't even know he was doing anything!”
“Breakfast is ready,” Thomas said from outside the fort. He crouched down to pull open the sheet-door hanging over our exposed legs and look us both over. “Your friends are back, so I made waffles again.”
There was a bit of confusion there as Thom looked between us, but he didn't address it. He just gave a small smile, dropped the sheet, and walked away.
The morning went about the same as the one before, though with no more surprise visitors. Izzy disappeared back into the fort city with the kids, wearing the princess hat this time; the rest of us scattered around the house. After ignoring me at breakfast, dad disappeared with Dorian into his shed and Chloe and I went into the yard to sit in the sun.
“I still haven't gotten any straight answers from Izzy on what I'm doing here,” she said, her eyes closed as she faced the sky.
“That doesn't surprise me. It annoys me, but it doesn't surprise me.”
“Owen told you anything?”
“Nothing new.”
“What did he learn from the sasquatches?”
“I actually have no idea,” I realized aloud. Crossing my legs, I twisted in my chair to face her, tugged the blanket over my shoulder to compensate for my back no longer being pressed against the body-heated cushion. “I asked about them and then got distracted. Being Owen, he just didn't tell me.”
Chloe smiled and there was a nostalgic amusement there that I didn't quite understand.
“So ask him again and don't get distracted this time.”
I thought about how I'd been thwarted twice in my efforts to have sex. “I can't make any promises, but I'll do my best.”
Chloe cracked an eye open, tipped her head to look at me.
“When was the last time you had sex, anyway?”
“It barely counts but it was with Mel,” I said. Chloe made a humming sound like she disapproved and then closed her eye, rolled her face upward again.
“You could always go back to him, ask to try another position or something if you're desperate.”
“Bite your tongue,” I said. She giggled, shook her head.
“I'm just surprised; with how little restraint you have when it comes to things you like, that you don't use him for sex all the time.”
“I like sex but I didn't like sex with Mel; that's what you're forgetting.”
“So give him another chance, school him. Really whip him into shape. He's tough, he can take it.”
“I don't have the patience for that. I'd be old by the time he learned, too old to enjoy it.”
“Well, then just sit around alone eating cake every night for the rest of your life waiting for Owen to happen by.”
“I will,” I snapped. Chloe grinned and I felt a knowing sort of mischief around her before she spoke again.
“Or I could always lend you Izzy if you're that hard up.”
For the second time that day, I nearly vomited into my own mouth. “Auugh! Stop! I'd rather have sex with you.”
Chloe laughed, lifting a hand to shield her from the sun as she turned to me again.
“What's wrong with Izzy? He's adorable.”
“Yes, but … I don't know. His brain is like Jell-O.”
“You love Jell-O!”
“But that's not even it! I don't know. I just … I could not be less attracted to him if we were dead. It would be weird and I … I don't know why.”
“You're too similar, maybe. You'd spend all your time arguing over who gets to eat the last slice of cake.”
“Forget the last slice; we'd get in a fist fight over who gets the whole thing.”
“Slap fight, more likely. I've seen you punch and it's a mess.”
“Whatever.” As I glared her way, wondering where my dignity had gone, I heard my mother call from the kitchen. I glanced across the porch, wondering if I could see her or politely communicate with her from under the warm blanket.
“What?”
“I said come here!” mom demanded. Chloe did almost her best to hide a smirk. Grumbling, I wrapped the blanket as tightly around me as I could, got to my feet and dashed into the warm house. Mom looked over at me under the cabinets hanging above the stove.
“Can you run to the store?”
“Me?”
“Unless I have another middle daughter, yes. List’s on the fridge.”
I gaped at her, confused, but I didn’t consider it worthwhile to argue. I could hear Thomas, Izzy, and the kids in the living room, yowling and growling and possibly deciding the fate of an entire, imagined world. Robin and Stella were probably napping and I had no idea where Jake had gone.
“Yeah, okay.” Leaning out the door, I yelled for Chloe. “Come on, we’re going to the store.”
“Okay,” she said, tossing away the blanket and getting to her feet casually, as if she wasn’t exposing herself to cold and wind. She smiled at my mother when she came in and went straight to the fridge. Mom glanced back to see Chloe grab the shopping list and then turned to me.
“Take my debit card; my purse is in my room.”
“That’s okay,” Chloe said. “I got it.”
“No, no,” mom started. Chloe patted her on the shoulder and then turned to me, jerking her head to the side to indicate we should leave.
“You’re feeding us and putting up with Izzy; it’s the least I can do,” Chloe told my mom.
“Nonsense, it’s my pleasure to have you.”
“But it’s not Marvin’s pleasure,” Chloe pointed out. Amusement bubbled through my mother and she nodded, gave a half-shrug.
“That’s true. Don’t buy this one any more sweets. I’ve already confiscated the candy in her bag.”
“Hey!” I snapped, wondering if she was bluffing. “I paid for that!”
“You really want to go that route? Because I could bill you for all the diapers you used and, let me tell, you, it would not be pretty.”
Chloe let out a snorting laugh, repeated her head jerk. “Come on, Gwen. Let’s go before she remembers all the money you owe them from raiding their change jars.”
“How did you know about that?” I asked, moving through the kitchen. Chloe stuck out her tongue.
“Trade secret.”
“Where are the beans?” Chloe asked me. I shrugged.
“I don’t remember. It’s been ten years since I shopped here. Over there, maybe?” I didn’t gesture. Chloe had already turned and pushed the cart down the aisle closest to us; it held chips and junk food. When I paused by the rack of bagged candy, I felt a slap of irritation from Chloe.
“Come on,” she demanded, grabbing my arm. “Don’t make me put
you in the cart and push you around.”
“I don’t think my legs would fit in the little holes.”
“Yeah, because you eat so much candy.” She smiled at her own joke, pulling me around the corner and down another aisle; this one had mostly condiments, oils, honey, etcetera. I did eye the honey jars but Chloe gave me a stern glare.
“Keep up. For all we know, Izzy brought me here to protect you from a horrible grocery store accident.”
“And what exactly would that entail?” I asked. Chloe shrugged a shoulder, scanned the list my mother had given her and grabbed a few things off the shelf.
“An entire row could collapse and crush your legs unless I’m here to stop it.” She scanned the back of one of the cans, before setting it in the cart and turning back to me. “Or maybe there’s a robbery and I have to take a bullet for you.”
“It’s empty in here, I doubt they have any cash to rob,” I said, before actually considering the scenario. I’d seen Chloe in scary combat situations and I had no doubt that, if anyone could jump fast enough to get between a speeding bullet and me, it would be her. But the idea made me sad.
“No,” I reconsidered, “if anything, Izzy would want me to take a bullet for you. He worships you.”
“Well, then keep an eye out and get ready to dive.”
Before I could argue, I felt an intrusive sort of confusion behind me, mixing into shock and then delight that splattered across my back like Gatorade on a winning coach. I turned to find a woman I vaguely recognized standing down the aisle. She was holding a sack of flour in one hand as if she’d forgotten about it, and there was a little girl bouncing in the front of the cart. Our eyes met and her expression opened up.
“Gwen!”
“Yeah?” I said, still trying to catch her name among the fluttering confusion dashing around the inside of my memory.
“Meghan Chatterton!” she said, before realizing she was still holding the flour. She did a little back-and-forth before setting it back on the shelf and pushing the cart closer. “How are you?”
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