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Hot tears seeped from her blurry eyes, and she wiped at her cheeks furiously. God, she was sure that she had shed all the tears she had for him, but look, there were more. Finally getting up, she went into the master bathroom and turned on the shower.
She undressed as the water heated up, her gaze flickering to where the tub had once stood. It had been a deep, spa-type tub that had come with the home. Her mother had loved it, languishing in the bath for hours. It was why Violet hadn’t thought anything about how long she’d been in it the day they had found her.
When her dad had left and Violet had moved into the master bedroom, she’d come in here with a sledgehammer and shattered it to bits. Once she’d cleared away the rubble, she’d sold off everything of value her father hadn’t taken and used it and some of her savings to cover up the space and put an old oak hutch where the tub had sat. She had hoped it would erase the very essence of her parents from the room, but they still haunted her.
Maybe she should let him have the house. They could make do with a studio apartment for a while, at least until she graduated in December. Once she had her diploma, she could look for a better-paying job. They would be fine.
Are you going to tell Daisy and Casey he’s back?
She had to tell them, although she wouldn’t be telling Casey much of anything if he didn’t start speaking to her soon. Part of her was afraid that if Casey learned their dad was back and sober, he might actually want to live with him. That he’d leave her.
If he does, wouldn’t that mean you were free?
Free from what? From having a family? People who needed her? If she didn’t have Daisy and Casey to worry about, would she continue down the same path?
In the deepest, secret parts of her, she’d imagined something different, but only Daisy had an inkling of her desire. The thought of having her own eatery had always appealed to her, no matter how impractical it was, but she was a realist, and it never went any further than a mild fantasy. But if she only ever had to worry about herself now . . .
It was a
train of thought she’d never entertained before, and even now, guilt ate at her. Was she selfish for wondering what life would be like if she didn’t have these responsibilities?
God, how could she even consider any of this? Her father had only been sober for a minute; there was no way Casey would ever trust him enough to leave Violet.
You never know with kids. Even when they know their parents are losers, they still love them. Right?
Violet stepped into the shower, ignoring the little voice, and submerged herself in the burning stream. With any luck, the scalding water might take all her pain down the drain, too.
Chapter Nineteen
ON TUESDAY, DEAN opened the door to his therapist’s office, the little bell announcing his arrival. Ever since the conversation with Casey, he’d been talking himself into telling Rita everything, including about the nightmares and lack of sleep. He’d been reading up on different treatments for his nightmares, and even if they were a symptom of PTSD, if he sought treatment, they couldn’t keep him from active duty. At least, that’s what several websites said.
Either way, it was time to practice what he preached.
“Dean, good to see you. Come on back.”
Rita stood at the end of the hallway in a pencil skirt and blue blouse, a welcoming smile on her face. For some reason, knowing he’d be telling her the whole truth made him more nervous than every other time he’d visited.
“How are you doing?” Rita asked as she sat down in her chair.
“Honestly, I’ve been better. How are you?”
“I’m doing well.” Rita grabbed her pad and pen, watching him over the tops of her glasses. “What do you mean that you’ve been better? Has something changed?”
“No, well actually, yeah.” It’s now or never. “I’ve been having trouble sleeping and I know I need some help with it.” Dean’s chest loosened at the admission. It felt good to actually tell someone.
“I see. Are you having trouble falling asleep or staying asleep?”
“Both, depending on the night.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“On and off for six months or so.”
Her pen stalled on the page. “Why are you telling me now?”
Dean was a little stunned by her question and stuttered, “I . . . Because I need help.”
She set her pad and pen down and folded her hands in her lap. “But what changed? We’ve been meeting every week for well over six months, and you’ve avoided telling me about this. What is it about today that made you finally want to talk about it?”
