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A soft, feminine moan.
How Rook had looked up at me with that damn hope in his eyes. He thought I could fix it.
Somehow bring her back to life.
Then he'd scrambled to his feet, giving his nana CPR. His attempts clumsy and all wrong.
He had no fucking idea what he was doing.
Had no fucking idea that she was never coming back––my father had made sure of that.
Had no idea that the lawyers my father would send him would make sure that Rook would sign away his legacy, the one thing they wanted from him that his Nana was blocking.
I'd stood there and watched as he counted and breathed, pressed his fists to her lifeless chest, trying to squeeze some life into her again.
Desperate. Frantic. Hopeful.
And then, when he wasn't giving up and I couldn't take it any longer, couldn't hold back the dam of self-hatred inside me, I'd called the police, insisting that we leave the room.
He was inconsolable, tears and snot running down his face.
He'd held me and I'd let him.
I'd let him hold me, the bastard partly responsible for her death.
I'd stood there, wordlessly, as he cried against my chest, wishing a hole would appear, that the room would swallow me up.
I didn't open my mouth to reveal the truth. Didn't say a single world of comfort. Just let him hold me and cry.
But now, as I unscrewed the top of my water, everything threatened to boil over. I took in several hitching breaths, hiding behind the fridge door.
Grease sizzled on the stove top. More laughter from the back room. Rook sobbing.
I wanted to cry and scream and shout. To throw everything to the floor and beat the damn refrigerator to a pulp.
To revel in the surprised look in my father's eyes as I showed him what kind of man I really was: not the kind of man he thought I was, not like him, but a person with feelings and emotions.
I wasn't a heartless bastard. I cared about Rook and his nana.
He had no idea that I was paying for Rook's tuition.
For Tatiana's living expenses.
He had no fucking clue that I took care of the people that I loved, and he never would. Because he had no fucking idea what it was like to actually care about people.
Since our money was mostly my mom's, he had something to prove, and he forced me into his fucking games to do it. His greedy eyes only focused upwards, to the want, want, wanting, and never having enough.
And yet, a quart of milk and a jar of mayonnaise –– the complete contents of Rook's fridge.
My father would never realize that nana's love was worth more than our whole bank account.
And I hated him. Hated what I'd done to my friend. Hated myself, that I was too weak to stop him.
My emotions surged through my chest, up my throat, and into my mouth. My face. My mind.
I wanted to vomit.
To cry.
