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“I know,” I laugh, not really feeling it. “So, my dad?”
“Hold on.” The line goes quiet, and I assume she’s getting my dad. The hardware shop is usually busy, so shouting for my dad wouldn’t cut it.
“Ash, Smith says your dad went home for lunch. Hasn’t been back. Maybe you should call him on his cell.”
I cut the call. “My dad’s home, too.”
I read somewhere that when bad things happen, some people get a sense of it. A sinking feeling in the pit of the stomach, a churning of unease in the gut. My mom, ever the gypsy, said she had a gift, the ability to see what others can’t or pick up on emotions. She’d often got a sense of foreboding, and nine out of ten times, she was right.
“What happened?” I know I’m talking to the cop, even know what I’m saying, but the words sound muffled. “I live there, no. 7. My dad never comes home for lunch.”
Her eyes widen at that. “You should sit down, sweetie.”
“Don’t call me that!” I snap at her. “What happened? Tell me what happened?”
She heaves a breath. “The couple at no.7, your parents. We found them.” She pauses. “They’re gone.”
* * *
Marcy listens to me pouring my heart out about my horrible run-in with Ryder and how I found out about the death of my parents. She runs her hands over my back as I sob into her lap. I got home two hours ago and locked myself in my room, only to have her almost pound it down to see if I was okay. I wasn’t then, and I’m not now. Felicity and Marcy were at the funeral. They know what happened, but I’ve never opened up about that day until now. About what I went through. About the horrible kids back home. The hurtful things they said to me replay in my head.
“First, Ryder’s an asshole. He isn’t even worth your tears, cuz. That guy is gonna get throat punched the next time I see him. Second, I don’t give a shit what any of those losers back home said to you. You never deserved what happened to your parents. I can’t believe anyone would use such a tragedy to taunt someone.”
“It’s just that people like Ryder; cold, heartless assholes are the reason I couldn’t stay with Graham anymore. He was great, but I couldn’t remain in that town and be reminded of everything I’d lost. The worst part is those assholes were right. My parents did leave me.” Sobs wrack through me, and Marcy holds me tight. My parent's suicide isn’t something I will ever forget. I had to watch them being wheeled out of my home in body bags and have cops swarm my house as I gathered what I could with shaky hands and a broken heart. Their smiling faces were splashed on the cover of newspapers and staring at me when I turned the TV on. A double suicide, a tragedy. My fucking life. I locked that away and didn’t let the grief and anger overwhelm me. But tonight, it washed over me like a tidal wave, and I can feel myself being pulled under.
My father’s brother, Graham, really tried to make me happy, but happiness felt like a pipe dream. It still does.
Later that night, I try but fail to push the memory of Ryder’s lips on mine. Why would he kiss me, then be so cruel and hurtful? I have done nothing to warrant that kind of treatment, but I remind myself, assholes like him don’t need a reason.
ChapterEight
RYDER
“My head feels like it’ll explode,” I groan. “Close the shutters, Dyl.”
I turn in bed, and my eyes fly open at the feel of someone next to me. What the fuck? Brown hair fans over my pillow and bare shoulders peep out from my blanket. It all comes back to me. The party. Ash. I kissed her. Fuck! Got even more trashed, and then left with the brunette. I don’t even know her name. And I never bring girls home.
With one glance around with a bit of clarity through the hangover haze, I realize I’m not in my house. I’m probably at hers.
She stirs, then turns around, a big smile on her face. “Good morning, handsome,” she purrs.
“Good morning, um….”
“Alison,” she snaps. “You don’t even remember my name, and we’ve had economics class together for the last few years. Last night—”
Halting the rest of her sentence, I shift away from her. “Did we…you and me…”
“Did we fuck, Ryder?” She throws the blanket off her, and I sigh in relief that she’s in the same red dress she wore last night. “No, we didn’t. But I did think you’d make it up to me.”
“Look, if I gave you the wrong impression last night. I was drunk. I don’t do relationships.”
“You really are a jerk. Just get the hell out!” She flings my jacket and shoes at me.
* * *
I stumble into my house past noon with the mother of headaches still pushing against my temples.
“Where were you last night?” My father asks when I step into the kitchen. I grab some Tylenol and pour myself some water. “Ryder!”
