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If someone doesn’t know they’ve hurt you, doesn’t know how they affect you, then they don’t hold any real power over you.
So I don’t give LeeAnn that power—at least, that’s what I tell myself. The ache as I ignore her and head toward the back end of the trailer spins a different story, though, one I’m never in the mood to hear.
Riley’s room is the size of a shoebox, complete with a twin bed, a small desk, and a chest of drawers. She’s sprawled out on her mattress, bobbing her head to whatever she’s got playing in her headphones as she scrolls through her phone absently.
Her honey-blonde hair hangs off the side of the bed, bright against the yellow quilt beneath her, one leg propped up on the opposite knee.
She doesn’t notice when I walk in, too engrossed in her phone; as I bend, peeking over her head, I notice she’s scrolling through some guy’s feed.
His page is primarily professional shots of himself or him playing the drums or guitar on various stages, wearing leather jackets and half-buttoned Hawaiian shirts, some of him drinking from brown bottles, some of him floating in alarmingly blue water.
“Aren’t you a little young to be stalking people?” I ask, startling her; she jumps at my words, one headphone falling from her ear onto the floor.
A wide smile, fixed by braces I paid for when she was twelve, breaks out on her face, and she scrambles into a sitting position, a light blush staining her cheeks. “Statistics show that most people with stalking tendencies actually begin around the age of thirteen. Might even be younger now, thanks to social media.”
I grunt. “I think you’re listening to too many true crime podcasts.”
Shrugging at my words, she turns her phone toward me, a picture of the guy posing with a ukulele in front of the Parthenon pulled up. “But just look at this face. Aiden James is totally stalkable, right? Not to mention, he’s wicked talented. The Rolling Stones did a spread on him at Christmas that literally called him the next Dave Grohl.”
Excitement drips from her words as she widens her eyes, staring at me with an expression drenched in longing.
I hate it.
Hate that I can practically feel the expectations swimming in her blood. Hate that my coming here only ever seems to let her down.
Clearing my throat, I perch on the end of her desk, crossing my arms over my chest. “Tell me this isn’t what you called me over for. I don’t do celebrity gossip.”
Her face falters, and she sits back on her heels, letting the phone fall to the bed. “Of course not,” Riley mutters, tucking her hair behind her ears. “You don’t do anything. I have to beg you for days before you finally stop by, even though I’m your only real responsibility outside of work.”
“Riley, come on.”
Sighing, she shakes her head, waving me off. “Okay, you’re right. Sorry. I’m not your kid, not your responsibility.”
My head throbs at her words, but I don’t take the bait. Like mother, like daughter. “So what did you call me here for?” I glance around, looking for something to anchor myself to and coming up short.
Her room is small, but for the most part it looks like a typical teenager’s room—not that I have any recent experience in that department. But between the pop star posters on the wall above her bed and the glass dog figurines on her dresser, I assume this must be what they’re into.
“Well, I was hoping I could talk you into maybe... sponsoring me so I can afford to go on our class trip?” Leaning back on the bed, she reaches beneath her pillow and pulls out a King’s Trace High brochure, handing it to me.
I take it, unfolding the sleek paper to scan it. “New York City?”
She nods, her chin rising and falling rapidly. “We voted at the end of last year, and that’s what won the majority. If you think it’s too much, I don’t have to go, but...”
Looking up, I tilt my head to the side and meet her wide eyes. “But?”
“I’ve never left King’s Trace. Ever. I think it’d be good for me.”
Something painful twists in my gut, an angry storm churning at her words. It’s the kind of trip I only could’ve dreamed of going on as a kid—then again, I didn’t have an older brother so uncomfortable with my existence that he threw money at me any time I asked in lieu of an apology, either.
“You said sponsor?” I ask, flipping to the back of the brochure, admiring the picture of Times Square on New Year’s. “Does that mean you’re providing some kind of service?”
Again, she nods, now casting her gaze down as if nervous. “Yeah, I... I don’t know what I’m gonna do yet, but I wanted to make it worth it. You already pay for so much, and I’m—”
Tossing the pamphlet at her, I hold my palm up, waving her off. As if any amount of money I ever spend on the kid could touch the resentment I try to bury. “You don’t need to explain, and you don’t need to give me something in return. I’ll cut you a blank check and let you fill in the amount.”
Before she says another word—especially a thank you—I turn on my heel and exit the bedroom, stalking past an unconscious LeeAnn and slipping out the front of the trailer. Once situated back on my bike, I ignore the curdling inside my bones, the way the marrow aches for forgiveness and acceptance, to go back inside and take my sister with me.
Save her from the Hell I was kicked out of.
But I don’t, because the hurt that existed before Riley burns too bright for me to see anything else. Like amnesia, the barbed wire erected around my heart tries to keep me safe, to protect me from those with the utmost power to destroy me.
Slipping my helmet on, I start my bike and pull out my phone, clicking on Kieran’s contact as pent-up rage swells inside me like the sails of a ship lost at sea. I’m pulled along, propelled by the unruly winds and unable to steer.
It’s the anger I focus on as I type out my message, hoping he’s working. That he has something I can exorcise my demons on.
When he replies with an address, relief floods my chest, and I lower the kickstand, pulling away from the trailer without a single glance back. But the anger doesn’t dissipate, not even much later when I’m covered in another man’s blood, sweat, and tears, his desperation coating my skin.
I can’t help wondering if this is the kind of rage that makes a home in your body. The kind that roots itself in your soul, wrapping like ivy around the only good pieces of you until they’re no longer recognizable.
