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“I know that! You don’t think I know that? I can’t fix any of it!”
“It wasn’t your fault. Has anyone ever told you that? It wasn’t your fault.”
“You don’t know anything.” God he was sick of the lectures. She and Michael were perfect for each other.
He flung himself out of the chair and stalked through the door.
Chris and Nick were in the living room with Becca. They all looked up when he passed. Becca called out to him, but he kept going—up the stairs instead of out the door.
Then he locked himself in the bathroom and tried to keep from punching the mirror.
He needed to calm down.
Breathe.
What the hell did Hannah know? Had Michael sent her out there? He was ready for a knock at the door, for someone else to want to talk.
It made him think of Kate, how she’d been willing to do anything but talk. Only her methods of diversion weren’t this unpleasant.
He turned the faucet on cold and splashed water on his face, letting the water run off his chin. He looked up at the mirror to make sure it didn’t look like he’d been crying.
Then he kept on looking.
What had Michael said yesterday? There is nothing about you that would make me say you look exactly like that guy. Take a look in a mirror sometime.
When his father had been alive, Hunter had always kept his hair short—not quite the military crew cut, but short enough to be preppy. He’d never had a single piercing.
Then the car had been crushed in the rock slide, and he’d found himself with twenty-six stitches across his hairline, leaving him with white hair to grow back in its place. He’d gone through the funeral, through the packing of their house, through his mother’s withdrawal, without feeling anything.
Except when she reminded him how much he looked like his father.
Then he’d felt resentment.
And anger.
And guilt.
He’d gone to the grocery store one day—because his mother couldn’t be bothered with basic needs—and some biker guy with three hundred and some tattoos and piercings had said, “Nice streak, kid. You need some metal and ink to go along with it.”
Then he’d handed him a card for a local tattoo place.
The burn of the needle was the first new thing Hunter had really felt in weeks.
So he’d kept asking for more.
He stared into his eyes in the mirror.
Michael was right. Hunter looked nothing like his father anymore.
And instead of feeling good about that, it made him feel like shit.
He ducked and dried his face on the towel.
Hannah was right, too. He couldn’t fix the accident. He knew that.
Could he fix this mess with his mother?
Did he want to? Did she want him to?
