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Just before I was about to lose it, I flipped her over, needing to look into her eyes again. Needing to watch her face as I drove her over the edge and then tumbled right down after her.
It’s a feeling I never want to take for granted.
Rachel makes my heart race in a way no one ever has.
She makes me forget. And that’s all I’ve wanted to do for the last few days. Forget.
Forget about the fact that I have a dad who’s dying and a mother who keeps texting me.
Forget about the fact that my sisters could forgive him so easily when I could barely think about him without feeling an overwhelming rage bubble through me.
Shit. Maybe I’m the one who needs help.
I always accused him of never going to counseling. Am I being a hypocrite by not going myself?
You’ve never hit anyone who didn’t deserve it.
I’ve barely thrown any punches at all. At least not at humans. I’ve beat the living shit out of my share of punching bags, and I worked up a pretty decent sweat waiting for Rachel last night. She drove over after work, and we did another session in the ring. She’s getting good, more confident, although I still worry that if the guy is too big or strong, she’ll be flattened. I have to keep reiterating that I’m only teaching her this stuff so she has enough time to get away and run for help.
She always nods and agrees, but I’m never 100 percent sure if she means it. She gets kind of fired up, and as much as I love seeing her confidence grow, I can’t shake my fear completely.
I guess that’s my upbringing, though, right?
I’ve been wired to always fear the next fist, the next whimper, to try and read a room in minimal time and pick up even the slightest hint of tension.
It’s impossible not to blame Dad for all of it.
And now I’m supposed to somehow forgive him.
Walking into the locker room, I fling my bag down and try to shed my angst as I get ready for practice. I don’t want to take that shit onto the ice with me. As I pull my phone out of my pocket, I wince at the line of notifications from my mother.
You’re running out of time.
When are you coming back to the hospital?
You need to see your father before it’s too late.
Two days’ worth of messages and missed phone calls.
It’s starting to wear me down, which I’m sure is Mama’s plan. I can already feel myself beginning to cave, knowing that after practice, it’ll only take one offer from Ethan to drive me down there and I’ll say yes, or one sweetly whispered hint from Ray and I’ll give in with a sigh.
I don’t want to, but… I hate letting people down.
“Aw, fuck.” Ethan wrenches his locker open, staring at his phone screen with a frown.
“What’s up?”
“The girls have found an apartment they love.”
“Really? When?” I jerk forward, looking around his arm to read the screen as well.
Lil’ Mouse: Asher’s uncle came through! We’ve just checked out the perfect place! Two bedrooms, clean, fresh, bright, and… you wanna know the best part?
She leaves us hanging because she’s a pain-in-the-ass tease. I share a quick look with him.
“Do I fucking want to know?” he grumbles.
“Ooo! I do!”
