Credence

by Penelope Douglas

  Shit. This can’t be good.

  I dial her back and hold the phone to my ear as I head back toward the house.

  “Tiernan,” she answers after the third ring.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  I climb the stairs and head for the door, my nerves on alert, hearing the alarm in her voice.

  “I didn’t want to call you,” she says, “but I don’t want you to find out about it through anyone else.”

  I swing the door open and kick the snow off my boots before entering the house. Found out about what?

  “The Daily Post published an article, claiming several sources, that your father…”

  Dread seeps in, and I almost hang up the phone. I hadn’t realized how nice it’s been, not letting the world in, and I really don’t think I want to know.

  But she wouldn’t have called unless it was important.

  “What?” I ask, pulling off my coat.

  “That your father was abusive to your mother,” she tells me. “That he forced her to die with him.”

  “What?” I blurt out.

  How would they come up with that conclusion? And they have sources?

  Because I don’t remember anyone else being in the house that night to witness anything.

  I clench the phone in my hand, but I immediately ease up. Why would anyone speculate something like that? What purpose does it serve?

  “Tiernan?” Mirai prompts.

  I swallow. “Yes.”

  I walk into the kitchen, the scent of the deer stew Jake has simmering filling the air as Kaleb and Noah enter the house behind me. Jake turns from the sink and meets my eyes. I look away.

  “We know it’s not true,” Mirai continues, “but there’s little we can do about this, and—”

  I shake my head, hanging up the phone. Grabbing my laptop on the table, I spin it around and bring up the Internet.

  Why am I aggravated? I don’t care what they say about my parents. Maybe it would reveal that they weren’t perfect, even if the current topic of discussion was bullshit.

  The guys surround the table, no doubt waiting to know what’s going on, but as the page loads, and I type in my parents’ names, the headlines assault me all at once.

  My heart pounds against my chest.

  “What does it say?” Noah asks, peering over my shoulder.

  I shake my head, anger rising up my throat, and I don’t know how to make it stop.

  “Sources claim my father was controlling,” I tell him, skimming an article, “domineering, and my mother feared him. He took her with him because he didn’t trust her loyalty once he was gone.”

  This is bullshit. My father lived to see her thrive.

  I click out of the article, scanning other headlines, Twitter mentions, and links to YouTube videos. Really? Conspiracy vlogs this fast?

  A hand grabs my screen and spins the laptop around, away from me.

  “Don’t look at it.” Jake slams the top shut. “You knew all the shit they were spewing, which is why you’ve stayed off the Internet.”

  I dig my nails into the table.

  “Well, is it possible?” I hear Noah interject.

  His father shoots him a look.

  “I mean… It’s not like it matters anyway, right?” Noah rushes to add. “They were jerks.”

  I take a deep breath, trying not to hear him.

  But he’s right. Does it matter? Why is this pissing me off?

  “This isn’t your problem,” Jake tells me in a stern voice.

  I raise my eyes, meeting his calm stare. Patient, but… ready if I need him.

  I stand up straight and pick my cell back up, scrolling my contacts.

  I dial.

  “Bartlett, Snyder, and Abraham, how may I direct your call?”

  “This is Tiernan de Haas,” I say. “I need to speak to Mr. Eesuola.”

  There’s a short pause, and then, “Yes, Ms. De Haas. Please hold.”

  Kaleb hangs back, leaning against a wooden beam between the kitchen and living room, his eyes lowered, while his father and brother stare at me from by the table.

  “Tiernan,” Mr. Eesuola answers. “How are you?”

  I spin around, facing away from the guys for privacy. “Have you seen the article in the Daily?” I ask quietly.

  “Yes, just this morning.” His voice is solemn. “I’ve already sent a Cease and Desist.”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “You want a retraction printed instead?”

  I sigh and start pacing the kitchen. “The damage is done,” I tell him. “Readers will believe it no matter what now. I don’t want it to happen again, though.”

  “You want to make an example out of them?”

  “Yes.”

  We’re both quiet, and hopefully he knows what I’m asking without saying it. I’m sure it must seem petty, and I may change my mind, but for all they know, I loved and adored my parents. It’s shitty to print a story you can’t prove when you know their orphan is watching.

  “We’ll talk soon,” he says, understanding me.

  “Goodbye.”

  I hang up and walk to the sink, drawing a glass of water.

  Jake comes to my side. “You could just make a statement.”

  I laugh under my breath, turning off the faucet. “Their daughter defending them? That’s believable,” I mumble. “If this goes to court, they’ll be forced to account for their sources.”

  “And you’re betting they don’t have any.”

  “I know they don’t have any.” I hold the glass to my lips. “Mirai and I lived in that house. No one controlled my mother. Next to him was exactly where she wanted to be.”

  I take a drink and spin around, heading out of the kitchen and toward the stairs. I need a shower.

  “Why do you care?” I hear Noah call after me. “They were awful to you.”

  I stop on the third step, trying to push myself to just keep walking, because I don’t know how to answer that. It takes a moment for me to turn around and meet his gaze.

  The truth is, I don’t know. My heart hasn’t softened toward them, but something has changed since I’ve been here. A line is drawn that wasn’t there before. There’s a limit to what I’ll tolerate now.

  I shrug, searching for my words, but I don’t know how else to explain it. “They’re my parents,” I tell him.

  His eyes narrow as they all stare at me.

  But that’s all I say.

  I turn and continue up the stairs, almost wanting to smile a little. My mom and dad may or may not deserve my loyalty, but standing up feels kind of good.

  I twist the wire, binding the twigs to the hanger I stole out of Jake’s closet. I only have plastic ones, so it was impossible to contort mine into a circle.

  Using the cutters, I snip off the excess wire and smooth the evergreens around the wreath, smiling at how they fan out but in a way that’s a little chaotic and wild. Growing up, my house was professionally decorated for the holidays, lots of white, and I’m excited for the more natural Christmas-y feel. And smell.

  I check the other bindings on the wreath and crawl on my hands and knees on the living room floor, the dogs passed out in front of the fire as I inspect the garland I made for the mantel with the branches Kaleb and I cut a few days ago. My fingers, the tips gold from the paint I used on the bookshelf tonight, peel back the foliage to see if more wire needs to be added.

  But awareness pricks, and I dart my eyes up to see Jake watching me as he sits on the couch. His eyes hold mine for a moment and then he blinks and looks away, going back to watching the movie. I move my gaze to Kaleb in the chair, and while his eyes are on the movie, he’s aware of everything in the room except the television. His jaw is flexed, and my cheeks warm.

  Noah checks the doors to make sure they’re locked and makes his way over.

  I pop up off the floor. “Help me?”

  He takes one end of the garland, and I take the other, the ache in my arm
growing stronger because the aspirin is wearing off. We lift the decoration and lay it over the mantel, the whole thing covering the ten-foot length. Noah backs away, letting me fluff and adjust it, and I bend over, swiping the wreath off the floor. Holding it by the hook, I hand it to Noah and gesture to the door.

  He hangs it, and I stand back, admiring all my handiwork. If only I had some red ribbon to add. Christmas is in a few weeks, and for the first time ever, I’m into it.

  But when I look at Jake, his eyebrows are raised like he’s expecting something more to happen for my hard work all night. Like for the twigs to start glowing or something.

  I retreat a little, chewing the corner of my mouth. “If you don’t like it…”

  It’s just a little holiday spirit. It’s not like I sewed ruffles onto his drapes.

  But he rises from his seat and brings me in, kissing my forehead. “It’s beautiful, Tiernan. I love it.”

  I smile. “Good.” I nod once. “You don’t want me getting bored.”

  He laughs, but Noah grabs me, pulling me down onto his lap on the couch. “If you need things to do…”

  He tries to tickle me, but I bolt out of his lap.

  Jake swats Noah on the head as he heads to the kitchen.

  “What?” he blurts out. “That’s not what I meant.”

  Yeah, right. He’s trying not to laugh, but his smile is devilish. I can’t help but want to smile, too. I look away, so he can’t see.

  When I do, though, Kaleb still sits in the chair, two deep creases between his eyebrows as he stares at the television but doesn’t watch.

  A chill runs up my legs, bare in my silk sleep shorts, and I pull down my matching sweater, covering the patch of stomach against the cold.

  “Here,” Noah says. I turn, and he rises from the couch, taking my hand. “Come on.”

  Jake disappears into the shop, closing the door behind him as Noah and I walk into the dark kitchen. He backs me up to the sink and pulls out a chair, sitting down as he reaches under my sweater.

  “Gimme your arm,” he tells me.

  I slip my arm out, and he pulls over the first-aid kit we left sitting out on the counter, and begins unwrapping the bandage as I hold the sweater over my bare breast.

  I watch him clean my wound, his worried eyes darting to me as I hiss. The swelling has gone down, but any pressure still feels like a hot poker in my skin.

  His touch is gentle, and we fall quiet, me chewing nervously on the inside of my lip. He’s only quiet when he has things to say.

  “I’m glad you’re standing up for your parents,” he says in a quiet voice. “Even if they might not deserve it.”

  I watch him, his unusually sincere tone all the more poignant because it almost never happens.

  “I know I’d do the same for my dad,” he explains. “But he would deserve it.”

  I’m glad he realizes that.

  He tosses the wipe down and laughs bitterly. “I’m such a little shit. He’s been all alone these years. Doing everything alone. Fighting for this family alone.” He shakes his head, more to himself. “We haven’t really ever taken care of each other. Until now.”

  I remember Jake’s surprise the other morning at Noah helping out without an argument. They’ve always taken care of each other. Food, shelter, work… I guess he means something else. Like how I’m happy and not thinking about my past. When you’re cared for, you care for others.

  Noah’s breathing turns shallow, and he still won’t look at me. “What happens when you leave?” he asks.

  But it’s more like he’s thinking out loud. Will they still be invested in each other as a family?

  And then it occurs to me… What happens to me when I leave? This has become a home.

  They’ve become my home.

  He wraps a clean bandage around my arm and stands up, hovering over me.

  But he still won’t fucking look at me, and my eyes start to sting. I’m not leaving for months. I don’t want to think about this now.

  I turn his chin toward me, and he immediately comes in, dropping his forehead to mine.

  “What if I never let you leave?” he murmurs, his breath tickling my lips.

  My chin trembles.

  “What if…” His arms circle my waist, and he pulls me in tight. “What if a lot changed before the summer?”

  I listen.

  “What if…”

  He grabs my bottom lip between his teeth, making me suck in a breath before he releases it.

  “What if we pumped you until you were pregnant?” he whispers.

  “To keep me here?” I challenge.

  Knocking me up on purpose?

  But he shakes his head. “To keep you with me.”

  I narrow my eyes.

  I open my mouth to speak, but I don’t know what to say. Noah is who I should be with. If anyone. He’s young, kind, attentive… He talks to me. I can grow with him.

  He’s good.

  So why don’t I tell him that?

  I take his face in my hands, not sure what I want to say, but before I have a chance to speak, a dark form appears behind him.

  I look over his shoulder, seeing Kaleb. I drop my hands from his brother.

  Noah turns, and we both see Kaleb’s gaze on fire as he looks between us. He reaches over, I almost wince, bracing myself for him to grab me or hit Noah, but he simply takes my hand and holds my eyes as he calmly pulls me over to him.

  I go, heat instantly traveling up my arm from where his fingers hold me.

  He rubs a tendril of my hair between his fingers as he looks into my eyes.

  I open my mouth to speak, but I don’t know what I want to say. He’s young, not kind, and not attentive. He doesn’t talk to me, and I can’t grow with him.

  Kaleb’s not good.

  But he’s the one I want. All to myself. Right now.

  In the shower, dark and just us, with his arms around me.

  Stupid girl.

  His dark eyes dart to his brother, and he jerks his chin, ordering Noah away.

  I hear Noah shift on his feet. “You okay with this?” he asks me.

  Without taking my eyes off Kaleb, I nod.

  I’m sorry, Noah. Some lessons can only be learned the hard way.

  Noah lets out a sigh and walks into the shop to join his father as Kaleb threads my fingers through his, leading me up the stairs. I’m sore, I’m tired, and I feel guilty, like I should be confused about a lot right now, but I’m not. All that matters is the next five minutes. The next hour. However long I’m with him.

  Instead of leading me to his room, he pushes the door open to my room and pulls me inside, swinging me past him. I stumble as he releases my hand, stopping myself.

  What the hell?

  I spin around and look at him standing there. He looks to my bed, his eyes suddenly hard, and jerks his chin, ordering me.

  What?

  It takes a minute to figure out what he wants.

  “Sleep?” I ask.

  He wants me to go to bed?

  “It’s barely nine o’clock,” I argue.

  He points his finger at me and then the bed, ordering me again, this time with a scowl on his face.

  Then he twists around and leaves the room, slamming the door shut behind him. What the fuck?

  And then I hear it. Metal against metal. A bolt sliding. My eyes widen.

  I run to the door, twisting the handle. “Kaleb?”

  The door won’t open, and I pound with one palm and jiggle the handle with another hand. “What is this?” I shout. “Are you serious?”

  I knew that was too good to be true. His calm downstairs was bullshit. He was pissed.

  I yank and pull on the door, beating it with the hand of my healthy arm. “This isn’t funny!”

  He bolted my door? There wasn’t a bolt on it this morning. When did he put it on? Is he kidding? Oh, my God.

  “Jake!” I shout. “Noah!”

  But they can’t hear me, because they’re in the s
hop.

  I hear his footfalls down the stairs, but instead of tears, anger boils my blood. I’m going to fucking kill him. Jealous, immature, batshit son of a bitch. I’m going to kill him!

  I kick and pound the door. “What if I have to go to the bathroom?” I bellow.

  Ugh!

  He circles the bed, not taking his eyes off her dark form under the covers. She exhausted herself. She bellowed for a fucking hour in here when he locked her door, and now she’s passed out.

  Streams of moonlight glow across her floor, the silence in the house making the snowfall against the glass doors almost like a metronome. Tap, tap…tap. Tap, tap…tap.

  He climbs on the bed, hovering over her on his hands and knees as she sleeps.

  Thankfully, his father and brother never knew what happened. They were in the shop, far away from her little tantrum, but even if they weren’t, he was ready if they decided to come to her rescue.

  He’s sick of her slutting around. Fucking him today in the barn, letting his father touch her and kiss her tonight, and then about to give it up for his brother when his back is turned.

  He’s sick of seeing her smile when she works on her dumb shit in the shop.

  Sick of her excited by the snow or happy when she feeds the horses.

  Sick of seeing her hair fall across her cheek as she reads at the dinner table or how she twists her lips to the side when she’s concentrating on an assignment.

  Sick of her cries at night and how pathetic she sounds during her nightmares.

  He stares down at her, cocking his head as her breathing turns shallow and she fists her shirt up at her collar. Her face tenses, and she jerks. The nightmare is starting.

  Leaning in, he brushes her nose with his, closing his eyes and feeling her panting and how her body tenses and flexes as she dreams. Her brow creases, and her chin trembles, and part of him wants to do what he always does. Take her in his arms, calm her, and put her back to sleep right.

  But this isn’t who she is when she’s awake. She’s mean, and he’s done forgetting that.

  Sinking his mouth to hers, he kisses her, her whimper disappearing down his throat as her body tenses and then eases. He almost laughs. He could be anyone right now. He’ll drop her panties and slip inside her, and she won’t even open her eyes to tell which one it is, because it doesn’t really matter.