I wasn’t sure if my mama was just as shallow as the man before me, or the stress from the lack of money made her insane with rage. I’d always heard money problems were the number one reason for failed marriages. After growing up in my household, I believed that statistic. I’d even gotten a job as soon as I turned sixteen to help contribute to the funds. It hadn’t helped.
“Yes, sir,” I said, turning and heading back down the porch. My subconscious had warned me that this was a stupid idea. I should have listened. I’d come to fill an ache in my chest and comfort Brooke, and I was leaving with an even bigger ache.
Mr. Kingsley stood on the porch, watching with tight lips and hard eyes. I turned the key in the ignition and put my truck in reverse. My eyes just happened to flick to the upstairs bedroom, and there was Brooke, leaning against the window frame staring down at me, looking like a princess in her tower. Instead of a prince coming to her rescue, she’d gotten the pauper. She hugged her arms to herself, an apologetic smile on her face. I couldn’t be sure, but from here it looked like she’d been crying.
“Go on,” Mr. Kingsley called, “leave.” His tone was like what one might use with a stray dog. With one last look up at Brooke, I reversed down her drive.
“Brooke!” My father’s voice boomed from downstairs. Cringing, I stepped away from the window and moved toward my door. My parents were bound to find out about Dylan eventually. Nothing stays a secret for long in Roseville.
“Yeah?” I stood at the landing, staring down at my father below. His face was redder than normal, and his eyes thinned as he watched me watching him.
“You wanna tell me why that lowlife was here, asking to speak with my daughter?”
Internally, I smiled at Dylan’s bravery. It couldn’t have been easy to approach our doorstep. On the outside, I kept my facial features neutral.
“Who, Daddy?” The corner of my mouth twitched, and I fought to keep the smile off my face when his eyes widened at my confusion. I knew it wasn’t the right time to poke and prod my father into a rage, but he deserved it for treating Dylan like shit.
“Don’t you dare pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, and you better have a damn good excuse as to why that boy and you even know each other.” Silence settled between us as I tried to decide what I should tell him. Dylan was never my boyfriend, so I couldn’t say we dated, which was probably a good thing because my father looked on the verge of a heart attack. One hospitalized parent was all I could handle at the time. Were we friends? Not really. We’d never hung out in high school.
“Well?” The impatient edge to my father’s voice grated on my nerves.
“It’s a small town,” I said in way of explanation.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means,” I told him. “People don’t stay strangers for long in a small town. We went to the same high school.” I shrugged. “He’s fixed the tire on my car before. Our paths have crossed.”
My father slid his hands into his pockets and looked away. I knew he wasn’t really looking at our parlor, but thinking what this meant and how he could berate me for it. While in college, I’d gotten a false sense of independence. Standing in front of my father, I realized he still very much controlled my life. If not for him, I wouldn’t have tuition for school. I would never fully be free of his control until I stood on my own two feet and earned my keep. Unfortunately, that was still four years away.
“You are not to see him, understand?”
“You can’t—”
“I can, and I will,” my father interrupted, ire burning behind his eyes. “I did not work my ass off to give you everything just so you can squander your life away with the likes of him.”
“But—”
“Enough, Brooke!” His thunderous voice bounced off the walls, penetrating my eardrums and pumping adrenaline into my veins. “You will not see him again. No more discussions about it.” He released a heavy breath, his shoulders sagging the slightest bit. When his eyes met mine again, the fire had fizzled some. “Trust me on this. The Crawfords … they’re bad news, okay?”
“Why?” I asked, noticing how shaky my voice sounded. “Because they’re not rich like us? It’s not Dylan’s fault he wasn’t born rich.”
“Money has nothing to do with it—”
“Whatever,” I snorted, turning back toward my room. To my father, Dylan would always be from the wrong side of town, punished for being born without a silver spoon.
“Hate me all you want,” he said, his words hitting my back. “You may not agree with me, but this will be best for you.”
“Like you would know.” I shot him one last disapproving look and disappeared into my room.
* * * *
I sat beside my mother’s hospital bed and curled my fingers around her limp hand. I didn’t recognize this version of her. She’d always been so put together—crisp, clean, and strong. To see her so vulnerable, so broken, caused a catch in my throat. Deep purple bruises colored her face, and a large gash ran from her temple to her cheek, the stitches puckering her skin. My hand shook against hers as I took in all of the cords and tubing coming from the machines. The lighting was low in her room, just the beep, beep, beep of her heart monitor disrupted the silence.
“Mama,” I whispered, leaning forward until her bed sheets brushed my shirt. “Mama, if you can hear me …” My eyes blurred with tears until there was no holding them back. Droplets trickled down my cheeks, splashing against her cover.
“If you can hear me,” I continued, swallowing around the pain, “I want you to know I am here, and you are loved. You have to pull through, come back to us.” She didn’t move a millimeter, hadn’t since they brought her in. I thought of the last time I’d seen her and all the times I’d seen her cry and ignored it. I should have done something, said something. Her pain was right in front of our faces, and we’d turned a blind eye because it was uncomfortable for us to acknowledge. My father brushed it off as a silly feminine emotion, and I’d grown so used to her depression that it wasn’t strange to me anymore.
“We should have done something,” I whispered. The salt of my tears coated my lips and my nose filled with snot. I hadn’t stopped crying since seeing her yesterday—couldn’t stop imagining what was going through her head the night of the wreck. You’d think that after knowing my parents for eighteen years, I’d have an inkling as to who they were. I didn’t. They’d been so closed off my entire life that I only saw what they wanted me to see. What had happened that caused my mama to spiral this out of control.
Standing, I grabbed the comb on the nightstand and began brushing out her limp hair. It felt greasy beneath my fingertips. I studied her eyes, praying to see them flutter. They didn’t. The doctors said she had busted her head against the window, which was what caused her coma. When the airbag released it had broken her left arm in two places. The doctor tried to comfort us by saying she probably hadn’t felt the pain due to her high alcohol content.
All of Roseville had heard about the wreck by now. My parents’ fake friends sent flowers and offered their condolences, all the while their eyes spoke of their judgments. It took all my willpower to bite my tongue and smile at their false sincerity. I knew for a fact Ms. Wilson kept the liquor store in business with her “habit.” The only thing my mother had done wrong was reveal her secret. The others were still safely hiding theirs.
I hadn’t realized I fell asleep until someone started shaking me. My eyes snapped open, my mind still racing to catch up. I blinked, flicking my gaze over to my mother’s bed. She was still asleep, her monitors still beeping away.
Looking up, I met my father’s eyes. He came at nights, after work. His selfishness pissed me off. He couldn’t be bothered to take off work, even when his wife was in the hospital. Was she so unimportant, so replaceable? Had there ever been a time in their marriage when she came first? I wondered—not for the first time—what my mama ever saw in him.
“Any word on her prog
ress?” my father asked, stepping closer to her bed. He didn’t touch or talk to her, just stood beside the bed and stared down at her. I hadn’t even seen his eyes tear up or hear a catch in his throat. He was all business, cold.
“No,” I said, standing. The blaze of the setting sun filtered into the room, highlighting everything in orange. I glanced over at my father, almost praying to see some semblance of emotion on his face today. He turned, tucking one hand in his pocket, and stared at me with indifference. I hated him—hated how unattached he was to the woman he’d shared twenty-five years with. There wasn’t a cell in my body that understood his unresponsiveness. His face never betrayed his heartless demeanor.
“Do you want a minute with her?” I asked, studying his facial features. Please show me that you’re human, that you feel something.
“Visiting hours are almost over,” he said, casting a glance over his shoulder. “We should get home.”
A tear slipped down my cheek. “Doesn’t this hurt you, to see your wife in a coma?”
His neutral features steeled. “Of course it does, but I can’t hang out in her room all day, Brooke. I can’t abandon my cases in hopes that today might be the day she wakes up. Besides, it’s not like she even knows we’re here.”
I shook my head, frustrated and pissed at his nonchalance. “It’s not like you were there for her before the accident,” I said between clenched teeth.
“Now listen here—”
I held up my hand, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. “I’m not going to fight in front of her. You may not think she knows we’re here, but I do. She deserves better.”
I headed out and hurried down the hallway. I didn’t want to talk to him or even be around him. All of the times I’d seen my mother frowning, crying … drinking, they all revolved around the man I called my father. I pictured all the times I’d seen her force a smile, all the while her eyes pained. How could I have brushed her pain off as nothing more than ‘Desperate Housewife Syndrome’? I’d been just as heartless as my daddy, and our avoidance of the situation had landed my mother in the hospital. If she died, a little piece of me would die right along with her.
“Brooke Lynn Kingsley,” my father called behind me, his tone steely.
I glanced over my shoulder but kept walking. I already knew what he would say, how he would try to bend me to his will. It wouldn’t work, not anymore. Dylan had helped open my eyes to certain things, but the wreck had been a revelation. I’d always known my parents had a loveless marriage, built on fake pretenses, but I always imagined there had to be a speck of love between them. Learning there wasn’t not only baffled me, it pissed me off. How had two people lived together for twenty-five years without an ounce of respect or love for one another?
Once I reached my car, I sat inside and leaned my head against the seat with my eyes closed. I sucked in deep breaths, holding for three seconds and releasing. I repeated the process until I felt myself calming down. When I opened my eyes, another thought struck me. Hadn’t I known all along that my parents barely stomached each other? Yes. So why was I acting as though this was news? Why the hell was I getting so upset over my father’s detachment? It fit the man I knew to a T. It was because I had kept Dylan at arm’s length, keeping him a secret because I worried what my parents would say. While I had hung out with Dylan, given him my virginity, I’d never considered him boyfriend material, even though he’d been more important to me than any other boy in my past. He had hinted at wanting more, staying in contact, and I’d squashed the idea. Not because I didn’t want him in my life, but because I knew my parents would never welcome him into it. The anger I held toward my father split. Now, I was just as mad at myself as I was with him.
Last night I’d watched Dylan’s truck drive up to my house. I watched him get out and walk up the porch steps. I had heard my father’s nastiness toward him, seen him head back down the steps, his broad shoulders slumped. He’d come for me, shown bravery, and I’d just watched him drive away. I could have used his comfort last night, his strong arms encompassing me. What Dylan and I had shared in three days was more real than the twenty-five years of marriage between my parents. It was so strong that even four months later it still caused my heart to ache, and I had thrown it away over fear of what a heartless man would say about it. I didn’t want to become my mother—a woman who’d married a man based on his status rather than his ability to love her. I would rather live in the gutter than a polished cold castle with a belittling master.
Dylan had shown me his brave side, and now it was time to show him mine.
I tried calling Dylan first, but when I got his voicemail, I went by his place. His truck wasn’t in the parking lot, but I hoped Jase might have it. Walking up to this building, I opened the main door and headed down the hall. I paused outside of his apartment, my hands clammy and heart racing like a thoroughbred horse. I quickly realized I looked like crap in my jeans and ‘Bama t-shirt. My hair was up in a ponytail, stray strands having escaped from my nap at the hospital. I hadn’t put on a lick of makeup, and my eyes were still red and puffy from crying.
I knocked and counted the heartbeats in the time it took someone to answer. Why was I so nervous? Obviously Dylan wanted to see me; he’d come by my house last night. I’d seen the look of … longing in his eyes at school.
The door swung open, and the first thing I noticed was the sound of a girl giggling. My heart fell to my feet, shattering on the worn carpet beneath my shoes.
“Brooke?” That wasn’t Dylan’s voice.
My eyes connected with Jase’s face, and I felt my entire body sag in relief. When I raced over here, I hadn’t even considered that Dylan could be home with one of his many admirers. Just because I realized how much I wanted to be with him didn’t mean he felt the same way. Sure he’d come by my house last night, but that could have been for many reasons.
“Is Dylan here?” There was still a possibility that he was home and the giggling girl was with him, not Jase.
“No, he’s at the garage,” Jase said. “I heard about your mama.”
My eyes flicked away, not wanting to think about her right now. I was on a mission, and I couldn’t accomplish that if I allowed the pain inside.
“I’m sorry,” Jase continued. “How is she doing?”
I swallowed, my mouth dry. “She’s in a coma.” Her sleeping face filled my head, the way her skin felt clammy against my fingertips, and my eyes began to burn.
“I gotta go,” I said. “Thanks for the condolences.” I hadn’t expected to hear them from Jase, of all people; it wasn’t a secret that he didn’t like the wealth of our town. At that, I turned and headed back down the hall.
“Hey, Brooke,” Jase called, and I stopped, turning back around. He said something to someone inside the apartment and shut the door, stepping into the hallway. We considered each other for a few seconds, his eyes roaming over my face as though looking for something.
“He’s missed you, you know. After you left ... I’ve never seen him so depressed and moody. As far as I know, he’s only had sex a handful of times.” I frowned, hating the image that put in my head. Jase must have noticed my unease.
“I’m not saying that to rub it in your face. I’m telling you because that is way out of character for him. Before you, he fucked his way through the week. After you, it was like he couldn’t care less if he got laid or not.”
I appreciated what he was telling me, but the look in his eyes held a warning. He closed the space between us, stopping just in front of me.
“I’m all for the two of you being together,” he said, “but don’t contact him if you’re not serious about wanting to be with him. Don’t get his hopes up only to leave him behind again. I’ve known Dylan my entire life and that boy’s crazy about you. I can’t take any more of his mopey ass.”
I smiled, the pain inside my chest dissolving a little. “You’re a good friend, Jase.”
Jase snorted. “Mind relaying that to Dylan?”
&
nbsp; I’d had countless friends in school, and none of them would hesitate to talk about me behind my back and smile to my face. My world may have been shiny and glamorous, but Dylan’s world was real and honest.
“I promise that I never intended to hurt Dylan, and I have every intention of making it up to him.” I gave him one last smile and turned to head back down the hall.
Five minutes later, I was pulling into the garage parking lot, and my lips formed a huge smile. The sign that once read: The Pit, now read: JD’s Garage. They’d done it; they’d saved the money and bought the shop. The building was small and grimy, the paint peeling in various places. Duct tape formed a jagged line across one of the front windows, probably covering up a crack through the glass. For all its flaws, it was beautiful to me. It was more than a modest building; it was someone’s dream come to life.
Hesitantly, I walked up to the front door and caught sight of Dylan through the row of small windows lining the garage doors. He stood, leaning over an older car, his hands perched on either side as he stared down at the engine. Smears of grease and grime coated the thighs of his jeans and continued to his gray t-shirt. He wore a blue baseball cap that shielded his face from me. Country music reverberated against the walls, echoing out to my ears.
Taking a deep breath, I tried the door handle and was surprised to find it turn beneath my hand. I stepped into a small office and moved through the second door that led into the garage part of the building. The scent of motor oil filled my nostrils, and I found myself inhaling deeper. I’d smelled it on Dylan before, mixed with a scent all his own. It was proof that what I felt for this boy was irrevocable. I’d take the smell of grease over expensive cologne any day of the week, so long as it was his skin it came from.
Turning Home (A Small Town Novel) Page 16
