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Mom sighs. “I have a feeling Bob and Nash’s truce is going to be a thing of the past, at least for a few months. Aria is upset, too. She hasn’t said anything except that she’s concerned for you, but I can tell she’s hurt that Nash kept this from her.”
“But it was police business,” I say, beginning to resent this conversation. At least so soon after having woken up in a hospital bed. “He can’t share anything about a sexual assault case unless the victim gives him permission, and I didn’t give him permission. This isn’t Nash’s fault. He made me feel safe and listened to and had a police car drive by my house every night. He was wonderful.”
“I’m sure he was,” Mom says. “And I’m so glad he got to you and Nick in time to take that asshole into custody, but—”
“He did?” I ask—not knowing which is more shocking, my mom saying the word “asshole” or the way my heart lurches in my chest just from hearing Nick’s name.
“He did,” Mom confirms. “He’s in the county jail until his bail hearing.”
My breath rushes out on a relieved sigh. I know things with Seth aren’t over—there will still be a hearing and maybe even a trial—but I feel so much better knowing that he’s behind a thick set of bars.
At least for a little while.
“And Nash is already working on a restraining order,” Mom continues. “To make sure that piece of shit can’t get within a hundred feet of you or Nick.”
A surprised smile spreads across my face. “Are you sure you’re my mother? I don’t think I’ve ever heard my mother use two curse words in one sitting.”
“You’ve never heard your mother after a man tried to rape her daughter,” she says, smoothing my hair from my forehead with a cool hand. “I’m so sorry, sugar. I wish I could take that memory for you and make it all better. I’m feeling pretty helpless right now, too.”
“It’s okay, Mama.” Tears press at the backs of my eyes. “I’m fine. I promise. I got away before Seth could do anything but scare me, and I’m not going to stay scared. I’m going to be okay. Mostly, I’m worried about Nick. Is he okay? Has he seen a doctor? Was anything broken?”
Mom pulls her hand from my forehead, crossing her arms over her chest with a scowl even stormier than the one from a few minutes ago. “That reminds me—Melody Anne March, what in God’s green earth were you thinking? Getting a tattoo? A huge, scary, gaudy tattoo all over the side of your beautiful, God-given body and your blessed clear skin?”
I swallow and try to smile, but my mother’s glare curdles it before it can reach my lips. “It’s not scary,” I squeak. “It’s a phoenix. It’s a symbol of renewal and rebirth. It’s going to be beautiful once Nick finishes it.”
“No one is finishing anything,” she snaps in the same tone she’d use to order my elbows off the table when I was little. “That boy almost killed you.”
“He didn’t almost kill me.” I roll my eyes. “I have an allergy to latex, like Aria, and I started having a bad reaction when Nick put on the gloves to do the tattoo. It’s not his fault. I didn’t mark that I was allergic on the form. And it could be worse, right? At least I didn’t find out the same way Aria did.”
Mom’s face pales, and her lips press together, the memory of having to fetch my sixteen-year-old sister from a fishing cabin where she’d been going “all the way” for the first time with her boyfriend only to discover her deathly allergy to latex when the boy rolled on the condom, clearly enough to make her physically ill.
“I’m not going to dignify that with a response, Melody Anne,” she says. “You are not your sister.”
I frown and huff, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you’re not like Aria. You’re a levelheaded girl with a kind, gentle heart who knows better than to run off and do impulsive things without thinking about them first.”
“Aria has a kind heart,” I say, now angry on my sister’s behalf.
“I never said she didn’t. But she’s impulsive and always has been. When she was little, she’d climb a tree first and figure out how she was going to get down later. You would stand at the bottom and tell me exactly how many branches you thought it was safe to climb. You had your course plotted before you even started. So if you had made the decision to break your promise to yourself to wait until marriage, it would have been a much more serious betrayal.”
“It’s not a betrayal, Mom. I just…” I trail off, old shame and new anger wrestling in my chest.
