Momma Von glanced at me but I just turned again, feet moving faster this time, all the way down the drive. My cabin was only minutes away, but every step burned my skin more and more. My fists clenched in my pockets and I gritted my teeth, using every ounce of power I had not to slam my front door once I was inside.
Dani stared at me from her table, and I growled, ripped my sweater over my head, and jogged up the stairs. Auto pilot kicked in, shower started, clothes thrown, and once the hot water hit my back, I let out one long breath, pinching the bridge of my nose and bracing the other hand on the wall in front of me.
Sarah had called me Rev not too many nights before and it’d barely fazed me. I told her not to call me that again, and that was it. But hearing the name from Wren’s lips, from someone who didn’t know the meaning, who didn’t know me—it stirred something that had been lying dormant for years.
And then she’d screamed at me like we’d been friends forever, like she deserved to know more about me. She’d called me an asshole, and at that thought, all I could do was lean my forehead against the cool tile.
Because if nothing else, she was right about that.
I let the water run cold, finally shutting it off when I was shivering. It’d been a long time since I’d felt numb, but the familiarity of it was welcomed as I toweled off and slipped on a pair of sweats before climbing into bed. I trained my eyes on the ceiling, shaking my head every time I replayed the night in my head.
Did I really think it’d be so simple? That I’d walk into a party full of friends I’d abandoned almost seven years ago and we’d all, what? Pal around? And that I’d maybe get to know the new girl in town, who’d been stuck in my head for God knows what reason all week?
But I had nothing to give her—nothing. Not even an answer to the first genuine question I’d been asked by a girl in years. Maybe ever.
She asked me for something real, and I had nothing.
At least now I knew.
BREAK
\?brāk\
Verb
To separate into parts with suddenness or violence
Keith used to always make me coffee.
We had a morning routine, one that consisted of a dance of sorts. I’d brush my teeth while he shaved, then he’d breeze past me to get dressed while I put on makeup. He’d always step back in just as I started straightening my hair, and he’d smack my ass with an appreciative smile, fastening his tie, and he’d ask, “How sweet is my girl today?”
The answer was always different—sweeter than your mom’s chocolate pie, about as sweet as a judge, or sometimes just a glare—and that’s how he knew what kind of coffee to brew. By the time I was dressed, he’d have his briefcase in one hand and my cup of coffee in the other, sweetened somewhere between black and liquid candy. He’d pass it to me, kiss my cheek, and then he was out the door.
It was the good times, the moments like that, that seemed brightest in my memory. It was harder to remember the nights he yelled, the nights he ignored me, the nights I went to bed wondering what I’d done wrong, only to have to wait a week to find out when he was drunk. Our minds are selective like that, almost like a defense mechanism that somehow harms us more than it helps us.
Keith used to make me coffee, and maybe that’s why his name was the one I called out the next morning when I woke to the smell of a fresh pot brewing.
“Nope, just me,” Momma Von answered.
I cracked one lid open, instantly squeezing it shut again when the light assaulted me. Momma Von grabbed my hand and moved it to the mug, waiting until I had a sturdy grip before she stood and threw the curtains open wider.
“Ack!”
“If you think that hurts, just wait.”
Slowly, I inched up the headboard until I was propped up, one eye still closed as I squinted through the other at Momma Von. She nodded to my cup and I took a sip, humming slightly. “Thank you.”
“There’s ibuprofen and a bottle of water on the table. Those are next.”
I squinted through the other eye and reached over, popping the two white capsules in my mouth and chasing them with another sip of coffee.
“Or now,” Momma Von said with a chuckle. She sat near the foot of the bed, grabbing her own cup of coffee from where she’d sat it on the dresser and crossing her legs as she watched me. “We need to talk about Anderson.”
I groaned, using one hand to push myself up a little straighter. “But do we really?”
She nodded, brushing her bangs away from her eyes. “We do. Do you remember what happened last night?”
My fingers not wrapped around the coffee mug worked against my temple, kneading with a gentle pressure as I tried to sift through the cloudy memories of the night before. “Kind of. I remember everything up until Tucker handed me the joint. After that, it’s a little foggy.”
“Tucker got you high?” I nodded, and she just sighed. “Well, that explains a lot.”
“I remember everyone laughing and telling stories about Anderson, and I think I asked him to tell me one, and then he got all Broody McGrumperson and stormed off.”
“And you called him an asshole.”
“Well!” I answered, waving my free hand before letting it fall with a slap to my bare thigh. “He is! The first time I saw him, I waved, and he didn’t say anything back. Then he comes barreling into my house that night I cut my foot and he carries me all close to his chest and makes a joke about my shoes, but leaves just as fast as he came in, and doesn’t talk to me for a week. Then he checks on my foot, and he offers to help me fix this place up, right? So I say ‘no, it’s okay,’ thinking he’ll surely insist. But he doesn’t. He just leaves. And then he stares at me all night at the bonfire like he wants to eat my face and now here we are.”
I was out of breath and I reached for the water, chugging half of it before setting it back down and cupping my hands around my mug. Momma Von stared at me, blinked, and then barked out a laugh.
“Oh, peaches, you are a mess.”
I sank into the sheets with a whimper. “I know.”
My eyes were on the caramel coffee in my mug, and I kept them there, sipping occasionally, waiting for Momma Von to say what she needed to say. She was watching her own hands, and she seemed to be searching for the right words. When she’d found them, she sat up a bit straighter and lifted her eyes to me.
“Anderson used to be very, very different when he was younger,” she started. “And as fun as those stories were that everyone was sharing last night, his kind of crazy wasn’t always the good kind. He got into trouble. A lot.” Momma Von tapped her thumb against the handle of her mug as she continued, eyes bouncing between it and me. “Went to jail a couple of times, got into hard drugs for a while, had a complete disregard for anyone else but himself. Well, and one other person, which we’ll get to.”