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“I don’t understand,” Ally says. “Why?”
“It’s simple. I’m disappointed with Austin’s choice of lifestyle. He didn’t need to sell drugs to make a living, and now I’ve learned he has a child. A child I very much want to know and love. But if this isn’t something you’re comfortable with, I understand. The money is still going to come to you. My son owes you that much.”
“You’re going to pay me money even if I don’t let you see Lacey?” Ally asks.
“Of course,” she says. “I am nothing like my husband. I don’t deal in ultimatums. I do what’s right, and this is right. You are owed child support to help raise your daughter.” She reaches into her purse and hands Ally an envelope. “My number is on the front. When you find a place, call me, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
Mrs. Nelson stands and slings her purse over her shoulder. “As for Adam and the check, cash it, but don’t you dare give up on Thea. She’s one of a kind and a true gem. If you’re lucky enough to be loved by her, take it and run.” She nods at both of us and then sees herself out.
After the door closes, Ally opens the envelope and gasps. “Ky, there’s so much in here.”
“Good, but it comes with a price.”
“What if the price is genuine?”
What if? Unfortunately, the only person who would know, is the one person I don’t want to speak to.
What if?
twenty-nine
Thea
Can we talk?
I stare at the three words on my phone screen for what seems like hours. They were sent in the middle of the night, three nights ago, and I still haven’t replied. I can’t find the right words to convey how I’m feeling: hurt, frustration, guilt, sadness, fury, disappointment, determination. I’m a clichéd roller coaster of emotion. If I were reading about myself as a main character in a book, I’d be yelling to pull myself together. To get a grip and take control. To manifest the ideal outcome for the situation I’m in. They’re all good pieces of advice, but I’m still trying to master the art of manifesting. Either that, or the world just doesn’t want to listen right now.
I close the messaging app and put my phone back in my bag, hoping the fact being out of sight means it’s out of mind and I can concentrate on Dr. Carmichael’s lesson. For the past few weeks, I feel like I’ve been coasting through school and not really paying attention to the plethora of knowledge being thrown at us. My notes are noticeably scarce, and my brain is clearly not retaining any information. I turn up on time and I sit through various classes but when I leave, I feel as if I’ve been through a void in the day. A place where my memory is wiped of the information I need to pass this class, and all that remains is a replay of the devastation from the last few weeks. Is this what it means to be lovesick? If the churning in my stomach and the ache in my heart, the headaches at night and the constant wondering of what ifs are anything to go by, then I want to get off the lovesick train quickly.
Dr. Carmichael signals the end of the lesson by reminding us our next assignment needs to be turned in by the weekend. I hope she loves angst, otherwise she’s in for shock when she reads my paper on the theory of food management. I’m not sure whether the woe-is-me inner monologue I currently have going through my brain twenty-four hours a day will translate well when it comes to carbs, protein, and calories.
Millie is waiting for me as I leave the classroom and instantly loops her arm through mine as we walk down the hallway. “Have you texted him back yet?” she asks. Millie’s the only one who knows about the text. I didn’t feel like sharing it with the rest of my housemates, mainly because I wasn’t sure how they’d react. Even though they’ve all been very supportive since the aftermath of Lacey’s party, I am still cautious about rocking the boat.
“Not yet.” I tell her.
“Honestly, I think you should just do it. Send him a text, say what you need to say and then it’s done, and you don’t have to dwell on it any longer.”
We walk into The Pit and after grabbing some food and a drink, and settle ourselves at a table tucked into the corner. I take out my phone and open the messages app, reading the text again.
“Yeah, you’re right. It’s just . . . finding the right words to say, so he knows exactly how I feel.”
“So, write down how you’re feeling and then we’ll edit.”
I take Millie’s advice and write and re-write what I hope is a perfectly succinct reply before eventually hitting send.
I have nothing to say to you Adam. You used me and what you did is unforgivable. Stop texting me. I don’t want to see you again. I’m blocking/deleting you. The least you can do is respect my wishes.
I don’t wait to see if the three dots appear to signal a response is being typed. Instead, I block Adam’s number and delete him from my phone—and hopefully my life.
* * *
Once school finished, I decided to take a slow walk home and stop at the grocery store to pick up a few items for dinner. I’ve been slacking lately in my role as self-appointed cook of the house, and decide I need make up for it by making a chicken pot pie, together with some extra roasted vegetables, green beans, and roast potatoes. It’s not the most nutritional dish but we all need comfort food once in a while, and this is mine. I’ve just topped the pie with pastry and am dabbing some egg wash on the top when the front door opens, and the guys rambunctiously walk in. Clearly, they had a good practice session today. I pay them very little attention instead choosing to concentrate on finishing the pie, and answer automatically when Jude, Nolan and Devon call their greetings out to me. But I still feel a presence lingering in the doorway and when I look up, I drop the pastry brush in surprise. Kyler is standing there with a stoic look on his face, his knuckles white from gripping his bag tightly. I quickly take stock of how he is. The bruises on his face have faded and the stitches have been removed from his eyebrow, leaving a scar in their wake, and I’m instantly taken back to the night I nursed his cuts in the kitchen all the months ago. His comment about girls liking eyebrow scars feels like a lifetime ago. He doesn’t seem to have any problems with standing, but where Ky’s concerned, I’ve quickly come to learn this doesn’t mean he’s not hiding any pain—both physically and mentally.
“Hi, you’re back.” I gulp through the dryness in my throat and internally kick myself at stating the obvious. To his credit, Kyler does well at masking his expression and doesn’t give anything away to signal what’s going through his mind. I don’t see hate in his eyes, but I don’t see affection either. Somehow, I think it’s worse to be faced with indifference because you don’t know where you stand. I’d rather know for sure whether I’m forgiven or not. At least then I’d know how to handle talking to him. It becomes obvious a reply isn’t going to be forthcoming, so I fill in the awkward silence and start to ramble.
“I’m making dinner—chicken pot pie—with some veggies. There’ll be enough for you so you can definitely have something to eat. I mean, if you want to. If you don’t then it can keep. Or, if you’ve already eaten, then I’m sure one of the others will happily have another helping. Because, you know what they’re like, right? Always eating to replace all those calories they’ve burned off. I mean, of course, you’d know because you’d be doing the same, so?—”
“I’m not . . .” Kyler’s gruff voice interrupts my one-woman monologue and the moment I hear him; I feel a sense of yearning at it being absent from my life for the past few weeks. His whispered words in the dark of night as he ghosts his lips over my body. The reverence in which he says my name when he greets me. His laugh at a private joke between the two of us. They’re all things I’ve missed so desperately that when he utters those two words, they’re enough to bring me to my knees.
