“You’ve had enough,” she said firmly, following him into the kitchen.
“Easy, Mom.”
He’d never laid a hand on her, but he may as well have with that. “Don’t you ever, ever say that to me.”
His shoulders slumped, hand resting on the outside of the cabinet she thought to be empty. But he must have more alcohol in there.
He rested his forehead on the door of the cabinet next to his hand. “I’m sorry for that. I am.”
“You need to tell me what this is. Why you keep doing this.” They couldn’t keep dancing around this, and she couldn’t keep ignoring what was happening. Not if he was drinking. Not if he was lashing out. She couldn’t do this again.
He straightened and seemed to use great effort to remove his hand from the door. But when he turned to face her, his expression was completely blank. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Bullshit.
It was all too much, and his apology was worthless without an explanation behind it. So damn worthless. All of this. What was she fighting so hard for? When he couldn’t just explain himself. When he had to turn anywhere but to her. “Fuck you, Caleb.” She had to get out of here. Go somewhere…
She knew where she shouldn’t go, but everyone else got to do what they shouldn’t do, so why not her?
“Mel.”
But she didn’t stop, not for a second. She was going to leave. She was going to go be selfish and stupid, and Caleb could deal with that for once in his life. She grabbed her boots, pulled the first on.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.” She jammed her foot into the other boot. “Don’t wait up.”
“What are we supposed to do?”
She turned to face him, and the anger was so big and bright and glowing, she didn’t care what she said, or what they did. “Grow some balls. The pair of you.”
“Nice. Real nice. After all the shit I’ve dealt with today—”
She didn’t listen. She looked down at her boots. No, she couldn’t go in boots and work clothes. So she stomped upstairs to her room. She could still hear Caleb grumbling, but she was done, and nothing he could say could change that.
She pawed through her closet, trying to find something that wasn’t denim or flannel or plaid. She had nothing. Not one scrap of feminine, seductive clothing.
Damn it.
So she did what any smart, resourceful woman would do. She grabbed a pair of scissors from her sorely neglected mending box and cut a pair of jeans into shorts.
Short shorts.
She changed into her nicest underwear—which was black cotton instead of nude cotton, but hey, it was something. She shimmied into the short shorts, and found a red tank top she usually wore under another shirt.
Yanking her hair out of her braid, she stalked to the bathroom. It was all kinky and weird, so there went that idea. But instead of re-braiding, she just pulled it back into a ponytail.
It took about five minutes of searching through her bathroom cabinets to find her makeup. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had occasion to wear it, and the nail polish in there had long since separated, the lip gloss tube all dried out and cracky.
But she had eyeliner and mascara, though not the best hand at putting it on. She frowned at her reflection. The eyes were okay, dark and dangerous, but she needed lipstick.
She looked around the bathroom, then finally got a Q-tip wet and shoved it into the lip gloss tube. She managed to create enough color on her lips that, as long as she didn’t chew it off, should stay for at least a little while.
She gave herself a once-over. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. Story of your life. Well, so be it.
She stomped downstairs, seeing Caleb was gone, presumably to drink himself to death on the porch again. Dad shouldn’t need any help getting to bed, but if he had any problems, he could call Fiona and apologize. Mel had spent a fortune on making the house as accessible as possible for him.
At the cost of everything.
For once, he could face that. For once she didn’t have to stand there and pretend all the hard work she put in wasn’t a big deal. She was leaving because it was a big deal. Everything she’d done going completely unrecognized was a big damn deal.
She wouldn’t use liquor or a shitty attitude to make herself feel better. What she needed was something that would feel so good, so encompassing, that she didn’t have to think about anything else.
Dan was the answer. He’d rejected her once, and she’d rejected him once. So they were even—on even ground, and neither of them would make that stupid mistake again.
And if he did? Well, if Dan Sharpe wasn’t up to the challenge, she’d damn well find someone who was.
*
Dan stood under the hot spray of his shower. He was starving and would kill for a beer, but he couldn’t quite make the move to get out.
It had been a day. A day that had kicked his ass as well as any high-intensity playoff game might.