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I try to force my mind off Poppy, breathing in the comforting scents of oil paint and turpentine. Rock music plays from the speakers, and I’m wearing a pair of paint-smeared jeans and a T-shirt. It reminds me of my college days; getting lost in work, dealing with life through my art. I miss this. I’d stopped completely after Danneel’s death and was sure I wouldn’t bother with it again.
I add a little more ochre to the canvas, and my mind goes to Micah and the talk we had earlier this morning. We’d been sitting at the island in the kitchen, eating bowls of cereal, his short legs dangling, kicking the legs of his stool. He’d looked at me with his big hazel eyes and tilted his head.
“Is that pretty lady coming back?” he’d asked, and I’d barely been able to breathe.
“Maybe,” I said, not wanting to go into it more than that.
“Is she going to be my new mommy? I really want a mommy, and she seems nice.”
It had taken everything in me not to lose my shit and break down at that moment. The memory of Danneel’s death had washed over me again, taking me right back to that night when I’d held Micah in the aftermath, knowing it was just going to be him and me. Knowing that I’d have to raise him alone as a single father. I was so scared at that moment, and when the nurses came to take him for a few hours, so I could allow myself to grieve, I’d gone straight to the hospital’s stairwell and let it all out, wailing into the echoing metal.
This morning, I’d changed the subject with Micah by talking about some cartoon he liked, but it felt as if I’d been knocked flat.
I’m in love with Poppy. Completely, utterly in love with her.
I hadn’t realized it until the moment of Micah’s innocent question that, even if I hadn’t wanted to admit it, I’d already been thinking about forever with Poppy.
I don’t know how I’m going to do this. How am I supposed to live the rest of my life without seeing her beautiful face? Without her giving me that devilish little lift of her eyebrow that tells me she thinks I’m full of shit? How am I supposed to live without those little smiles of hers, the ones that make me feel like I’m about a hundred feet tall?
How am I going to fall asleep every night for the rest of my life without her in my arms?
I toss the brush down. Fuck it.
I head up to my office. More importantly, I head for the bottle of whiskey I keep in the liquor cabinet in there. Micah’s nanny has agreed to stay in the penthouse for a few days while I work through this, and I’m all for taking advantage of that. Getting good and loaded sounds like a fantastic idea.
But by the end of my fourth shot of whiskey, my mind has begun to remember other things. Unwanted things. Things about my parents that, like Danneel, I’ve tried my hardest to banish into a dark corner.
Suddenly I’m back in my old room again. The one with the tattered curtains and the mattress on the floor. Outside, the rain had just started to pelt down, with a crack of thunder rolling in the distance. But it wasn’t the storm I was afraid of; it was the clock. It was almost 7:30—the time my father came home of a night, intoxicated from after-work drinks with his buddies.
And judging by the slam of the front door and all the yelling, he was right on time. So I waited. Again, like clockwork, I heard him shove my mother against a wall, the crack of a palm hitting a cheek as loud as that damn thunder. But tonight would be the last time he’d dare touch her.
I was fifteen now, and strong—much stronger than the coward in the other room had been when he was my age. For years, I’d watched on as he hit her, swore at her, degraded her, powerless to stop him. But not anymore. Now, I could take him on and show him who the real man of the house was.
After flexing my arms, I flung open the bedroom door and stalked out to the living room. My mother was on the floor, sobbing, blood dripping out of her nose. When my father looked up, he smirked. I’ll never forget it; he had no idea what was coming to him. I rushed him, slamming him up against the fireplace that he was damn lucky wasn’t lit. He stumbled into the pile of charcoal and tried to get back on his feet again but couldn’t. He was even more drunk than usual, and I was going to play that to my advantage.
I took the poker from its holder just within arm’s reach and struck him with it. Nowhere that could kill him; just hurt him. I hit his shins, his knees, his thighs, and arms. Tomorrow his body would be riddled over with cuts and bruises, yet that still wouldn’t amount to the scores he’d given my mother over the years.
When I was finally done, I scuffed him by the collar and made him look right into my eyes. “You touch her again, and I’ll kill you,” I said, my hatred for him laced on every word.
Then I shoved him back into the fireplace and turned to help my mother.
That night, we left him there—a blubbering mess that neither of us would ever see again.
With a few blinks, my eyes refocus on the bottle of whiskey. I pour another shot, down it, then get
up, ready to go and put the finishing touches on her portrait.
Chapter Fifteen
Poppy
I know watching Netflix with a tub of double chocolate ice cream is kind of pathetic, but if this is what I need to do to heal and move on, then so be it. Bring on the reality TV shows and weight gain, because I’m committed.
Just as I settle in to watch the latest episodes of Keeping Up With The Kardashians, the intercom for the door buzzes. Seriously? Just after I sat down. FML.
With a heavy sigh and very reluctant effort, I jump up and head over to the intercom to press the button. “Who is it?”
I hear muffled voices on the other end, one high-pitched and the other older and feminine.
