Page 98 of Overkill

“Yeah,” I said on a breath.

“Good.”

Then that was it. He didn’t help push me up the ramp, didn’t say anything when I admired the new porch.

He was a nice man. A helpful man. Everyone knew it. And I didn’t want to see love in every kind gesture that he gave to everyone and anyone.

“But he likes us. He told me so.” Marc looked like he was eight years old again. “He loves us.”

I wished that was true.

This was far too serious to give in, though. We had to weigh the options, to have tough conversations. To talk.

Was Greg ready to be a father to two teenagers? What kind of man would go from being a bachelor to this? To all of this? Complete with a house that was falling apart and kids who went from loving you like you were the best thing in their lives to ignoring you like mud on the bottom of their shoes—with the occasional visceral disdain for you.

“You don’t get it!” Marcus yelled, his face drawn and red.

I sat there, holding my glass and frozen in place.

“Don’t you care?” he started taking deep, ragged breaths. He was trying to keep himself calm. “About me? About him? I mean, you don’t even look like you give a shit right now.”

“Language,” I peeped out, able to say only that single word reprimand, though I wished I could have taken it back. Said anything else.

He looked at me, his face melting in hurt. He’d tried to talk to me, and I’d reprimanded him about his language.

I was so tired.

And I my heart felt like a crushed up can when his face went from the helplessness of a pleading boy, to the boiling anger of the teenager I’d known in the past two years.

“You’re not Mom, and you’re definitely nothing like Dad.” Marcus scoffed. “They would have listened.”

The words came out of him like he couldn’t control them, and for an instant, I thought I saw him wince. Like he couldn’t believe he’d said it.

Oh, poor ignorant fool. Mom and Dad, as generous as he believed they were, would never have let a stranger move into the house. He idealized them so completely, it was a menace.

I thought the worst was over, but I should have known better.

I laughed, braying like a fucking donkey, then stopped the hysterics building inside my chest.

“Are you okay?” Miriam came and placed a hand on my shoulder, probably wondering if I was choking.

“I am nothing like your dad.” The words were ripped from my lips, angry and bitter. Seething. Hot enough to burn.

I pushed Miriam behind me, worried about Marc’s temper.

“Yeah.” He mocked, crossing his arms as he grumbled. “I know. You never liked dad. Never…”

The arrogance of youth reminded me of the confident little boy he had been. The one who, at eight years old, told me he would never let anyone hurt me. That he was going to take care of me, because he was a man now.

I was only sixteen at the time, but I remembered it. I remember believing with my entire being that he would be a good man, and every time I saw signs of Luke in his actions, that hope was scratched, scuffed, or tarnished just a little more.

“You’re being mean, Marc.” Miriam was as annoyed as I was. “You don’t even know what’s going on.”

Miriam wouldn’t look at me. What did she know? How much? Had he hurt her?

Her hazel eyes turned to me, her frown far deeper than any that should exist on a girl of her age.

As if to answer my question, she shook her head. For me, and me alone, she said, “He didn’t get a chance to hurt me.”