A grin tugs at my lips. “In the car?”
“Yeah.” He chuckles. “I guess they didn’t want us to know they were fighting, so they’d go outside where we couldn’t hear them. We’d watch them from the upstairs window.” His voice goes hushed, smiling with the memory. “My mom’s hands would go like this . . .”
Rory’s arms flail above his head like an epileptic octopus.
“And my dad would be like . . .”
He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head—the perfect imitation of a man trying to reason with an unreasonable woman.
“What would happen when they came back inside?” I ask.
He thinks a moment before answering. “They’d, like, march around each other. They wouldn’t talk or look at each other. But after a while, things would just slide back to normal, you know?”
I don’t know, actually. I had a ringside seat for my parents’ “disagreements.” But I nod and tell him what he already knows.
“They were good parents, kid.”
He sighs deeply, with just a shadow of sadness. “Yeah.”
I finish off the rest of my drink. “Come on, it’s late. Back to bed.”
Rory hops off the stool and together we head up the stairs. When we get to the doorway of his room, he feigns a nonchalant attitude I’m now familiar with.
“I’m not a baby, you know. You don’t have to tuck me in.”
I tap his back. “Yeah, I know.”
But I walk in the room with him anyway.
As Rory crawls into the bottom bunk I glance up to where Raymond snores in the top one and pull up the covers that he’s kicked off. Once Rory’s settled, I smooth out his covers too.
“Night, Rory. Sweet dreams.”
“Night.” He turns on his side, snuggling into the pillows. I walk to the door, but before I step out, Rory’s quiet voice stops me. “I’m glad you’re here.”
And with shock, I realize . . . so am I.
I turn around, finding his small frame in the darkness, a shy smile on his lips. And I tell him, “Me too.”
Then he closes his eyes.
However, there’s someone who’s probably not so glad that I’m still here at the moment. And I head straight for her room. Because she and I need to talk.
? ? ?
I’ve heard people talk about anxiety. Nerves. But that doesn’t happen to me. I don’t get nervous before an opening statement or a closing one, not when my boss calls me to his office for a meeting, and sure as hell not before a hookup. I guess I just never cared about anything—or anyone—enough to be anxious about things not working out. I always figured I’d be able to fix it or find an equal option to replace it.
You know what I’m going to say next, don’t you?
Yes: standing outside Chelsea’s tightly closed bedroom door, I’m fucking nervous. My palms are sweaty, my stomach is clenched, my skin kind of itches, and I can feel my heartbeat in the back of my throat.
How do people live like this?
It’s awful. I hate it.
And the fastest way to not feel like this is to just get it the hell over with. Talk to her. Eat shit and smile as I chew. Which I’m fully prepared to do.
If I could just bring myself to actually knock on the door.
But that’s where the evil anxiety comes into play. It won’t let me knock on the door, because . . . what if she tells me to screw off? What if she doesn’t accept my apology? What if she’s concluded that I’m a violent asshole who’s unfit to be around her and the kids?
Shit.
A low movement catches my eye and I look down—Cousin It is staring coolly up at me. He’s not wagging his tail, and his eyes are mocking. I can almost hear him telepathically calling me a *.
“Shut up,” I snarl.
He turns from me in disgust and trots away.
I push my hand through my hair, take a breath, and knock twice. It’s a soft enough not to reach any of the twelve ears one floor up, but it’s decisive; women respond to confidence. The door opens faster than I anticipated—and only just far enough to frame Chelsea’s face. Her eyes are red-rimmed and wet.
I put my hand on the frame, leaning in. “Are you okay?”
Her chin rises, all stoic with attempted indifference, but she’s as bad at it as her foul-mouthed, car-stealing nephew is. “I’m fine.”
Then she shuts the door in my face. She doesn’t slam it—but I get the feeling she really wants to.
I knock again.
And again it opens—same width, same expression staring at me.
“I acted like an asshole to you.” I thought it best to skip the formalities and get right to the point.
This time her eyes travel up and down, gauging my sincerity. Her beautiful mouth remains in that firm fuck-you line. “Agreed.”
And closed goes the door.
When I knock again and the door cracks open again, I wedge my foot in there good to keep it open. “I’m sorry, Chelsea.”
Can she hear the strain? The regret that sounds absolutely nothing fucking like me? Does she know this new voice is reserved only for her?