The Choices We Make

by Barbara C. Doyle

  “Did you ever try to stop him?” I project, taking out my aggression on the counter with a damp rag. “Did you ever defend me? You never offered me any type of help. My own mother.” I shake my head. “I’d never let you watch my child, Mom. How can I possibly trust you with her? I’m proof enough that you’re not capable of the kind of love she deserves.”

  A hurt expression carves into her face, and I don’t feel any remorse for putting it there. That frown, those furrowed brows, mean nothing to me. Not when we both know I’m only speaking the truth. She was never a maternal woman, never tried to contact me after Dad kicked me out.

  Hell, this is the first time we’ve talked since his funeral, and that was nearly a year ago.

  “Opal, please—”

  “No.” My voice cracks and I hate it. I hate how weak she makes me. How much she makes me feel after all this time. It’s easy to bury those emotions when you have enough time to realize the people that caused them don’t care enough to help you heal.

  Taking a deep breathe, I force myself to stand strong. “Just because Dad is dead doesn’t mean you get to walk back into my life—into our lives—like everything is okay. You were just as much of a problem as he was, you were just the lesser of two evils.”

  She stares at me with wide, tear-filled eyes, finally seeing the truth. I’m not her daughter anymore. I’m a stranger that shares her blood.

  Slowly, she stands up from the stool, brushing out her perfectly pressed dress. That’s Mom, always the perfectionist. Even after Dad passed away and she didn’t need to play the role of the happy housewife. She’s still under his control.

  And maybe I should find pity in that or feel bad for her, but I can’t muster up any sympathy because my pettiness is too strong.

  “Well, I best be going then.” Her fake confidence rubs me the wrong way, but I still see the defeat shadowed under it. If she expects me to stop her, she’s wrong. Instead, I watch as she strides out of the café, not once looking back over her shoulder.

  It takes me a few minutes to regroup, and it’s not until Roy comes over that I snap out of it. Based on the way his greying brows wrinkle in, he heard the whole thing. Even though he helped take me in when I was thrown out of my parents’ house, he never truly hated them like I did. I could never understand why. He has kids and would never put them through what mine had.

  “I’m not in the mood for a lecture,” I inform him under my breath, drooping my shoulders as I lean my lower back against the counter.

  “Wasn’t going to give you one.”

  Doubtfully, I study him.

  He smirks. “Well, maybe I was going to give you some unsolicited advice,” he admits casually. “One day you’re going to want to forgive her because holding on to old grudges never gets us anywhere.”

  A grudge? Is that what this is? It seems like so much more than that. This isn’t about some girl stealing my date to prom, or an old rival stealing my thunder at some event. This is about my parents realizing they don’t want me because of one bad judgment call. They decided their reputations were worth more than having a daughter.

  They might as well have had a wake for me the day Dad tossed my clothes out the door. Ever since then, I was dead to them. No calls or second glances. I stopped existing the day I told them I was pregnant. Clearly, I had every right to be terrified of admitting it to them, because even sobbing they chose to disown me.

  “I’m not holding a grudge, Roy,” I argue, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m just doing what I think is best for Addy, and what’s best for her is keeping Mom far away.”

  He frowns, but nods. I can tell he understands even though he wants more for me. Maybe there’s some backstory that makes him attached to my situation, which is why he took me in so easily. Or maybe he just likes being the mediator.

  “Some relationships aren’t worth mending,” I whisper aloud.

  He mocks my stance and asks, “Are we still talking about your mother?”

  Stealing a glance at Addy, I see so much of Bash in her. Every day she does something that reminds me of him. She has his energy, his craving for adventure, and when she loves, she does it with her whole heart. Unconditionally.

  Playing dumb, I push off the counter. “Who else would I be talking about? Mom had plenty of chances in the past. She made her choice and now she has to live with it.”

  I nod to myself like that’s all there is to it and ignore the way Roy stares at me. He can’t change how I feel about my mother. There’s no justifying the ravine put between us, or the lack of attempts to heal our relationship. And that’s no different than what’s between Bash and me … or what used to be.

  Nobody gets to choose when they want to step back into our life.

  “I have to make sure table four gets their refills,” I inform him, in hopes of letting go of the conversation. He doesn’t stop my poor excuse of avoidance even though we both know that the Hendersons never get a second order of coffee after their initial one.

  After making rounds, I hear Addy’s laughter bubble from the front of the store. Roy is whispering something to her, pointing toward her drawing. Considering she’s only six, she’s far more talented than I ever was. Addy tends to remind me how awful my art skills are whenever we sit down and draw together.

  “Mommy, what is that?” she asks, scrunching her face and tilting her head.

  “It’s me and you,” I reply, pointing toward the stick figures. One of them is shorter than the other, clearly a child and adult.

  Addy picks it up and studies it for a long moment. I can tell she isn’t impressed because her nose twitches like Bash’s did in disapproval.

  “Mommy,” she sighs, shaking her head. “That isn’t very good.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “I know, baby. But the important thing is that I tried.”

  When I make my way over to them, Addy smiles up at me with a wide smile on her face. I ruffle her hair, causing her to giggle.

  “What are you drawing?” I ask, my eyes turning to her masterpiece.

  There’s a male in the center of the page, a thicker stick figure with spikey hair and thin smile. Above it, she wrote the word “grandpa.” My eyes focus on the details she put into the figure, trying to figure out who she thinks her grandfather is. She’s never met either of Bash’s parents or my own.

  “It’s Roy!” she chirps happily.

  My eyes widen, bolting to meet Roy’s. His are already welling with tears, and the light on his face tells me the sentiment is one he can live with. Roy doesn’t have any grandchildren, and he loves Addison. There’s no question that he’s family.

  “Addy …” My voice breaks.

  Roy cuts me off. “It’s a beautiful drawing, kiddo.” His own voice is shaky as he bends in to kiss the top of her head. She beams at him, in her glory from the attention.

  I let out a short breath, unsure of what to say.

  “How about,” Roy suggests, looking at Addy, “we go out for some ice cream. Huh? Would you like that?”

  I watch the exchange in disbelief. Not because Roy wouldn’t normally offer something like it, but rather because I know that Addy has a right to know who her family is. For all intents and purposes, Roy is like a grandfather figure to her. But I can’t help but wonder if I’m making the wrong choices when it comes to Bash.

  He needs to know, Noah’s voice rings in my head. I kept agreeing because I knew he was right, but now I feel it imprinted on my soul.

  The truth isn’t going away. It’s like the sun. You can hide it away, but it’ll always show up again.

  Addy is the only true light I have in my life, and I can’t imagine the kind of darkness I’d be consumed in if she wasn’t in it.

  “I think that’s a great idea,” I croak, nodding slowly. “How long will you be gone? I have someone I should try seeing sometime soon.”

  Roy’s knowing eyes twinkle as he picks up Addy, setting her on his shoulders. They do this all the time, and it warms my heart.

>   “You can see him when we get back,” he promises, and I know he’ll make good on it. He tickles Addy’s side, making her giggle and squirm on his shoulders. A grin spreads on Roy’s face as they step toward the door.

  “Roy?” I call out. He turns. I pause, wetting my bottom lip. “Thank you.”

  There’s a lot that I’m thanking him for, but I can’t decide what specifically for in the moment. For loving Addy? For making me see that she deserves to be loved by both her parents?

  Despite everything that Bash put me through, there’s one thing I know for sure. His love is the strongest thing he has, and Addy may just be his greatest love of all.

  Because I know that I can’t be.

  Not anymore.

  The strong scent of paint permeates my nose as I put the roller back down in the tray. A mild headache is already forming from the fumes but studying the light mint color of the living room makes all the pain worth it. I only have my bedroom left to go but being shut inside for the last few days has gone on long enough.

  My conscious told me to stop being such a chicken and go talk to Opal. After all, we’d see each other eventually now that I was settling back in town. The more we avoided each other, the more awkward it’d be seeing her later down the road.

  Blowing out a breath, I lower the volume on my stereo and start cleaning up. As I’m washing my hands, Bon Jovi’s You Give Love a Bad Name starts playing, and I can’t help but think, I know I do.

  Opal used to be obsessed with this song. I introduced her to Bon Jovi and uploaded nearly all his music onto the iPod I’d given her. She’d put it on repeat until I wanted to tear my hair out strand by strand. If it had been Living on a Prayer or Blaze of Glory, it might not have been so bad. Yet, I dealt with it because it made her happy.

  I’d do anything to make her smile again, even if it meant listening to that song with her a hundred times over.

  But she’s not here. So, I force myself to flip the song, letting AC/DC fill the silence of the room. Leaving out my paint brush to dry, I wipe my hands on the towel and head to my bedroom for my jacket. Maybe I just needed a walk to clear my head.

  Turning the music off as I open my door, my eyes widen at the ghostly face in front of me. Opal stands stock-still, looking like she’s ready to get sick as soon as we lock eyes.

  “Oh, God,” she blurts, backing up. She slips off the edge of the cement step, losing her balance. I bolt forward and grab ahold of her arms to catch her from cracking her skull open on the pavement.

  I can’t help but chuckle when she’s steady on her feet, because this is the same clumsy girl that I grew up loving, even though she was a hazard to herself.

  She jerks from my hold, causing me to drop my hands dejectedly to my sides. I can’t say I blame her after what happened between us, but it doesn’t stop rejection from settling into the cracks of my subconscious.

  “You’re still clumsy, I see,” I tease, trying to ease the obvious tension between us. You could cut it with a knife it was so thick.

  She blinks, any anxiety vanishing and leaving her eyes full of nothing. Her expression goes blank, void of emotion. It’s eerie.

  “Maybe it was the steps fault,” she defends, nodding her head once. “Mr. Dailey fell and broke his hip on his ex-wife’s stairs last year because they were cracked.”

  Both our eyes go to the intact step. There’s not even a scrape on it, much less a crack that could cause her to fall. She wiggles her foot on it for good measure, not wanting to admit she’s just clumsy.

  I hide a grin from forming on my face, trying to change the topic. “I didn’t know Mr. Dailey and Gale split up. They seemed so happy.”

  She scoffs. “Happiness doesn’t last forever, Sebastian.”

  My brows shoot up. Not just from the obvious hostility in her tone, which was a bitch slap to the face on its own. She used my full name, which she knows I hate.

  I clear my throat. “I guess you’re right.”

  She finally looks up at me, eyes the dullest shade I’ve ever seen. It breaks me apart knowing I’m the reason for that color.

  “So … what’s up?” I cringe at how lame the question is, but I’m still reeling over the fact she’s standing here.

  Her lips part to say something, then close like she changes her mind. The pinched expression on her face, how her forehead wrinkles in the middle of her eyebrows, tells me she has something to say.

  “Opal?” I step forward, and she winces.

  She. Winces.

  It tears me apart. She always used to walk into my embrace, find warmth in me when she couldn’t anywhere else. I used to be the person she could come to and trust.

  “This was a mistake,” she croaks, shaking her head and squeezing her eyes closed. “Sorry, I just thought I could do this. Everyone tells me that I need to, but I don’t think it’s time.”

  Her nervous babble would normally be cute, but it only serves more confusion to our already messed up situation. “Not time for what?”

  Somehow, she grows paler. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

  I curse when she starts swaying and decide to get her inside before she actually hurts herself. Despite her protest, I tug her into my house, leading her to the couch. The room still reeks of paint fumes even with the windows wide open, but it’s better than watching her crack her head open on the sidewalk.

  “Let me get you some water.” I don’t wait for her to say anything before I’m digging out a clean glass from the cupboard and filling it in the sink. Dropping a couple ice cubes in it, I make my way back to a stunned Opal in the living room.

  She takes the glass without looking at me.

  I don’t want to risk freaking her out, so I sit on my armchair across from her. She stares hard at the glass in her hands, anything to avoid my curious gaze. After drinking about half of it, the color in her cheeks returns. Relief eases the tension coiling in my chest, but it doesn’t make it disappear completely.

  “Feeling better?” I quip, leaning back.

  Hesitantly, she nods.

  “Look at me.”

  It takes her at least ten seconds before her eyes trail to mine. They’re guarded with caution.

  Sighing, I scrub my palm down my face. “I don’t know how much this means coming now, but I am sorry. For what it’s worth, I wanted to talk to you sooner. A lot sooner, actually.”

  Her gaping expression speaks the silent question, so why didn’t you?

  I never wanted to break her heart, I just wanted to see her live life the way she wanted. Go to school far away and do whatever made her happy.

  A few months before she graduated high school, I climbed the oak tree next to her bedroom window like I always did when I wanted to see her. She wasn’t home yet, so I decided to wait for her. Her desk had acceptance letters tucked under her favorite books, as if she were trying to hide them.

  When I saw the letter from UCLA in the pile, I couldn’t help but smile. She’d talked about going there since we hit high school but told me she wasn’t going to apply. All because her father wouldn’t like it. He wanted her in the Ivy Leagues, which she dreaded. But Opal always did whatever appeased her parents.

  Her father wanted her to attend Yale or Harvard, just like him. But Opal wanted to travel and do her own thing. If she was accepted at any of his schools, she knew she’d cave and study a major she’d be miserable with just to make him happy.

  Opal’s intense stare on my face breaks me from my train of thought. “I wanted you to live your life the way you wanted. You always talked about going to California for school, and if I’d asked you to come with me on tour with the band you wouldn’t have gone.”

  For the longest time, she just stares at me. Her jaw is locked tight, and a spark of anger dances in her dark eyes.

  “Did you go to California?”

  I’d asked around that fall semester, trying to figure out if she decided to attend her dream school. But nobody would willingly tell me anything, and I assumed it was be
cause the town was upset over the breakup. A break up in a small town like Clinton meant sides were taken. Opal was loved by everyone, which made me the villain.

  “No,” she finally answers, “I didn’t.”

  My eyes widen. “Did you go to NYU?”

  She blinks, then shakes her head.

  Confusion consumes me. “Where did you go? You were dead set against Ivy League, so you couldn’t have gone there. Not if you finally decided to stand up to your father.”

  Pain carves into her features as she looks away from me. I instantly wonder if it’s because I brought him up, knowing how she felt about him. Had her feelings changed since his passing? Had she forgiven him?

  Her hair shields the profile of her face. “I never went to college, Sebastian.”

  My lips part in shock. “Come again?”

  “It just wasn’t in the books for me, okay?”

  “No,” I disagree. “I won’t accept that. All you ever talked about was getting your bachelor’s degree in English or education.”

  Her narrowed eyes dart to mine, and the fire flickering in them warns me to back off before I get burned. “Like I said, it wasn’t in the books. Things change, okay? After you left, everything changed.”

  Her voice cracks, and I’m struggling not to get up and hug her. I revoked the right to six years ago.

  “So, tell me about it,” I plead from where I’m perched on the edge of the chair. “Give me something, Opal. I know I screwed up, but I really thought what I did was better for you.”

  “Better for me?” she spits venomously. “Do you not see how humorous that is coming from you? You knew how my father was with me. I never got to make my own choices because he made them for me. For our entire family. There was nothing I could control because he insisted he knew better.” She stands up, fists clenched tightly at her sides. “I guess I was too blinded by what I thought was love back then. If you thought breaking up with me was what was best, you didn’t know me at all. Just like Daddy Dearest, you took away my right to choose.”