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Thad’s on a stool near the entrance of the kitchen. A silk robe covers old bits of wrinkled French leather. When I avert my gaze, he speaks.
“I had no idea you were home, Willow.”
“Sure. . .” I shove open the drawer to grab a fork.
“Have fun with the MacKenzie boy this weekend?”
“Yup,” I bite out. You suspect little twerp. My heart plummets as I meander around the massive kitchen.
Wearing a smarmy grin, he inquires, “Would you like to have your mom moved to a more accommodating facility?”
Hillary was right. The price is too hefty. Dad would flip. In silence, I stroll back up the steps. Thad’s words are like recycled crap, roving over and over in my mind. Hillary must’ve broached the subject with him. I’m sorry, Hil. There’s one thing Dad and I’ll always have in common. Our feelings regarding Hillary’s piranha husband.
In the bedroom, I slam the door and lock it. Tears burn my eyes, and my stomach roars. Through a heated, wet gaze, I shovel down the food, not tasting any of the flavors that my sister’s favorite wellness chef created. I finish it all off with a searing shower. My breathing becomes erratic. I miss Camdyn. While I shared coping mechanisms with my physics partner, the breathing bullshit leaves me discontented.
The doorknob wriggles. I’d locked myself in my bedroom and also locked the bathroom door as well. Cold fury shoots down my spine as I press my body against the marble slab. Steamy water rains down between me and the open entrance of the shower. Unease creeps up my throat as I murmur, “Thad?”
