“Nick wouldn’t do that,” I say, hands clenched. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”
I can feel Ben come to stand behind me, and my mother’s gaze moves over him. “Of course not,” she soothes, an exaggerated wink on her face. She holds a braceleted hand out to Ben. “You must be the boyfriend, then.”
He stares at her hand, cold as ice. “Reggie asked what you’re doing here.”
I’m oddly glad that he’s not warm to them. Part of me cringes inside when my mother’s face shows blatant hurt, but I take a step closer to Ben, drawing from his strength. I’m torn. Torn because they look good and they’re being so warm and friendly, and torn because I know it’s all an act.
“We just worried about our little girl,” my father says, smiling so brightly. “Being protective parents and all.”
“And we were drifting through town and thought we’d say hello, but you weren’t there.” My mother pouts. “Do you know how hard it’s been to chase you down? We’ve gone to such effort.”
They have? They wanted to find me? That stupid, awful hope bubbles in my chest. “You did?”
“Of course we did.” My mother gives me that motherly, inviting, confusing smile. “Look at how good you look. You’re doing so well for yourself. Are you hungry? We’d love to take you out for lunch.”
I hesitate, weak. Maybe this time it’s different. Maybe they don’t really need money. Maybe—
“Reggie’s busy,” Ben says harshly, and I wince at his tone. He puts a hand on my shoulder, possessive and supportive all at once, and I don’t know how I feel about it. “Come on, Reggie. Let’s go inside and check on my aunt.”
“Can we come in?” my mother asks. “I want to see where my daughter is living, to make sure it’s safe for her.” That mama-bear look is all over her face.
“No,” Ben says flatly. “And if you don’t remove your van from the premises, I’m going to call the police.”
My mother recoils, clearly hurt, and my father’s expression goes from jovial to displeased. They both look at me, and I feel frozen, on the spot. “Reggie, baby,” my mother coos. “Say the word. You’re the one in charge here. Don’t let a man tell you how to think.”
I feel as if I’m being forced to choose between my parents and Ben.
“Reggie,” Ben says, voice soft. “It’s okay.”
I look up at him, at his dark eyes full of understanding. He knows what it’s like. He knows how it feels to be so torn, to hope that there’s more to someone than what you know, than what your instincts tell you. Because my parents are here, looking for me, and I want desperately for them to be for real this time, to just honestly care about me . . . but my instincts are telling me otherwise.
I swallow hard, and I can’t answer. So I turn and march toward the house.
“An hour,” I hear Ben tell them. “I want you gone within an hour.”
“We’re not leaving until we talk to our daughter,” my mother claims. “Don’t let him brainwash you, Button! We’re your parents!”
I head inside and close the door. The interior of Dru’s house is cool and tidy, no sign of the destruction I’ve wrought on her poor library at this end of the house. Fresh flowers are in a nearby vase—Lisa’s work. The ugly Roman bust in the entryway stares at me, and I stumble my way through the downstairs, toward the living room, and fling myself down on the couch. I curl my legs against me, hugging my knees, as my heart aches and aches.
Lisa thumps down the stairs, her pregnant belly bigger than ever. “I thought I heard someone. Glad to see you’re back.” She smiles at me, but that smile fades when she sees my face. “Is . . . is everything okay?”
“Just give us a minute, please, Lisa. How is my aunt?” Ben’s voice is smooth and calm.
“More of the same,” Lisa says. “She hasn’t woken up.” She looks between us, a million questions on her face, and then gestures at the stairs she just descended. “I’ll, uh, just go back up.”
“Thank you,” Ben says.
“Don’t close any of the doors in the house,” she warns us. “I have them all open, even the back door. Did you close the front door?”
“I’ll handle it.”
“But—”
“I’ll handle it,” Ben says firmly.
Lisa doesn’t protest again. She leaves us alone, and Ben comes and sits next to me, stroking my hair. I want to bury myself in his arms as much as I want to push him away. I’m all torn up where my parents are concerned. He just continues to stroke my hair, his presence quiet and calm, and it helps.
There’s a noise toward the back of the house, like someone crashing through Dru’s hedges. My heart sinks as Maurice races through the living room, a black streak of terror.
Ben sighs, getting to his feet. “I’ll handle it.”
I nod, hugging my knees as Ben leaves the room. Sure enough, I hear the sound of an argument and my mother’s voice raising. “You’re not going to keep me from my daughter!” she shouts, loud for my benefit. Ben’s voice is softer, and all I can make out is the deep tone of it, not what he’s saying.
It gets quiet, and that makes my stomach ache more than before. Because I know my parents won’t just leave. They see an opportunity here, and they’re not about to waste it. It means that Ben either threatened them—or bribed them to leave.
Both thoughts make me sick. Not because of Ben—I know he’s protecting me—but because of my parents. They know how to make such nuisances of themselves that someone will pay for them to just go away. I think of the time they—we—squatted in a house when I was a child. How the law wouldn’t allow anyone to kick us out, because we were occupying the home. I didn’t understand why we had no power, no water, and why we had to hide inside. Didn’t understand until the teary-eyed homeowners showed up and wrote my parents a check. We were gone the next day, and six months later, my parents tried to go back, only to find the couple had installed an alarm system. My father spent a few nights in jail while my mother and I slept under a bridge, hiding in the van.
I remember that moment clearly, and I remember how I’d make myself a tidy little nest that I could control, just so I could feel better. I remember my parents tossing their garbage on the floor and smearing food on the walls just to be jerks. I hadn’t grasped that as a child, so I’d gone back behind them and cleaned up. Always cleaning up after them.
Ben returns to the living room and sits down next to me. He tugs me into his arms, pulling me against him until I fall into his lap. I wrap myself around him, determined not to cry. I just feel hollow inside. “How much?” I finally ask.
He tenses and then says, “Two thousand.”
I nod. That sounds about right. “You’re not the first to bribe them to leave.”
He rubs my back, trying to comfort me. “I’m sure Nick didn’t give them this address.”
“I know. He wouldn’t. He knows how awful they are. They must have gotten it some other way.” I wouldn’t be surprised if they were stealing the mail—it would explain how they got the credit cards in my name. “They’ve always been like this. Always.”
“I understand,” he says softly. And I know he does. He holds me close, letting me press against him, letting me choke on the tears I refuse to let fall. “They’re why you’re so controlling of your environment, aren’t they? Why you’re always tidying and organizing.”
“It was something I could control. Everything else was a mess, but at least I could control that.”
“Because you never feel safe.” He holds me tighter.
It’s funny, because I feel safe right now. I’m sad and miserable because my parents showing up dredges up all kinds of terrible feelings, but I feel less alone than I have in the past. I know that no matter what happens, Ben understands. He has my back. “They’re probably going to come back,” I whisper. “Once they smell money, they won’t leave.”
“We’ll handle it,” he promises.