“Of course.” He pauses in the doorway, lowering his head slightly and speaking without turning to face me, his voice gruff with emotion. “I’m very sorry for what you learned before you left; for what happened to your mother. It’s good to have you home.” Without waiting for me to respond, he crosses into the hallway and closes the door quietly behind him.
What I learned before I left.
The defiling of my mother.
The nightmare of my probable beginnings.
Making a snap decision, I stretch awkwardly across the bed and hook the strap of my purse with two fingers, pulling it off the chair and into my lap. Digging until I find my phone, I compose the short text and hit ‘send’ before losing my nerve. I chew on my thumbnail while waiting to see if there’s a response—it takes probably forty seconds at the most, but it feels like an hour.
TOMORROW WILL BE FINE. NOON?
The resolve that settles over me brings a sense of peace along with it. My fingers quickly text back my agreement, and I set the phone in the docking station on the nightstand. Getting up, I make a stop in the bathroom to wash my face and then head downstairs to talk to Cecily.
A delicious-looking spread of cheeses, thinly sliced meats, olives, tiny pickles, and fancy crackers is set up at one end of the long kitchen table. My aunt sits calmly waiting for me while sipping a glass of white wine.
“It’s nibblies for dinner tonight. The thought of cooking seemed too much like work.” Cecily sighs and blows a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. “I hope you don’t mind,” she says hopefully as I pour myself a glass of fizzy water from the green glass bottle in the fridge.
“Are you kidding? If any of that tastes half as good as it looks, it’s fantastic.” Popping a fat green olive in my mouth, I drop into the chair across from her and pull up my feet, sitting cross-legged lotus style. “Okay, go.”
“Go? Where am I going?” My aunt tilts her head in confusion.
“You know, go.” My fingers drum out a nameless rhythm on my thighs. “You must have questions—why I left, how I feel, what I plan to do with the information from that awful night.” My throat tightens at the memory, forcing me to reach for my glass and gulp a mouthful of soda water. “I’m happy to sit here and stuff my face and talk. At the very least, I owe you answers. So, go. Shoot. Ask away.”
While waiting for her first question, I make little sandwiches out of crackers, meat, and cheese and arrange them on my plate. Adding some olives and pickles at the ratio of one for my mouth and three for my plate, I realize as much as I love Sally and The Juneberry, I’m ridiculously happy to eat non-diner food.
“Are you planning on staying for good, or will you be heading back to New York?” Cecily’s blunt question catches me off guard, and I inhale part of the pickle I was in the middle of chewing. The resulting coughing fit has her jumping up and rushing around to my side of the table. She pounds on my back until I dislodge the offending piece and resume breathing and swallowing properly.
What the hell is it with me choking on things today?
“Sorry, Stella. I didn’t mean to startle you like that,” she apologizes sheepishly as she sits back down across from me.
“No, it’s good. I’m good. That was just right to the point. I sort of expected you to start with something easy like ‘how was your flight’,” I chuckle. “Uh, well, I would like to stay. You know, if it’s okay.” Shrugging awkwardly, the mix of embarrassment, excitement, and fear I feel surprises me a little.
Suck it up, Bradleigh. Say what you mean. Since when have you been afraid of somebody saying no?
Since I actually started to give a shit.
“This is home now, here with you. You’re my family. I don’t want to leave.” The words leave my lips in a rush.
“And I don’t want you to leave either. This is your home.” A bitterness threads through her tone. “I’m thrilled you’ve decided not to let some evil asshole take this all away from you.” She pauses, appearing to choose her next words carefully. “Or take you away from me.” Looking down at her hands, she twists her napkin into something that resembles a gnarled tree.
Huh. Looks like somebody else has started to give a shit, too.
“You’re stuck with me forever now,” I say lightly, trying to ignore the sudden somber mood permeating the room. “Hey, speaking of evil assholes, can I just say how awesome it was when you spit on Callum that night? It seems like spitting on Torstens is something of a sport among us Bradleighs.” I raise my glass in a toast to her.
“What? Which other Bradleigh has been spitting on which Torsten?” Her eyebrows raise in surprise, while a grin that she’s trying admirably to hide tickles the corner of her mouth.
Whoops. I guess she never did find out about my spitting on Hali in the cafeteria.
“Oh, right. That. So, Aunty, there’s something I need to tell you.”
Chapter Seven
After witnessing her dirtbag landlord earlier firsthand, having Stella agree to come back to Folkestone with us permanently at least allowed me to breathe a bit easier. That guy deserved each fucking bruised nut and nail gouge he got, and then some. If I had my way, we would have left him rotting in a dumpster behind the sad, squat apartment building he ran, and I doubt anybody would miss him. I’m happy our feisty little Terrible Twosome proved they can handle themselves and kick some ass, but fuck if I didn’t want to skin that greasy bastard alive.
It had seemed strange when Sunday abruptly disappeared from the window, whacking her head on the frame in her haste, but we initially chalked it up to her being her. When we heard the scream though, Payne and I knew something shady was happening and booked it up to Stella’s floor. We ran down the hall not knowing exactly which unit was hers, and skidded to a stop at the open door, pausing for a millisecond to take in the scene in front of us.
Sunday clawing at the face of the shithead who wouldn’t stop squealing and moaning in pain.
Stella trapped underneath both of them and trying to squirm her way out, the movement causing her shirt to slide off both shoulders and expose her black strapless bra.
The rage flooding my senses was echoed on my best friend’s face. Both of us lunged at the same time—Payne pulling Sunday off the top of the pile and carrying her out of the way and me throwing the dirty, skinny lech out into the hall. Adrenaline pulsed through me, and it took every single ounce of control I had to not wrap my hands around his scrawny neck and snap it like a fucking twig.
My need to inflict violence doesn’t come out to play very often anymore, and it’s a side of me I’d rather Stella not see. So I tamped it down, and it’s been festering under the surface since we left that sack of shit groaning in the hallway of the building.
The thought of either one of them spending another night in that place made me crazy, and if Stella had changed her mind and refused to come back to Folkestone with us, I knew Payne and I would both be camped out in that shitty little apartment with her and Sunday, whether they wanted us there or not.
Now that we’re finally on our way to the airport, everything feels sideways and strained.