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Her hands slowly rub up and down my back, holding me tight. “It’s going to be okay,” she promises me. “I know you don’t see it yet, but one day, you’re going to be able to breathe again, and it’ll get easier.”
She pulls me back into the house so the neighbors don’t have to hear my sobbing, and while still holding onto me, manages to pull in my suitcase before closing the door behind me.
I hear my father from across the room. “Soph?”
He gets up from the couch and scurries across to me, pulling me right out of my mother’s arms and into his, holding me tight as the sobs run their course.
“Be careful, Robert,” my mother murmurs. “She’s injured.”
“What?” my father questions as he drops his arms away then steps back to look over me. “Still? That was weeks ago. She looks fine to me.”
I roll my eyes at my father as I hastily try to wipe the tears off my face, a smile pulling at the corners of my lips and feeling foreign on my face. He can see the faded bruises and scars as clear as day, but he’s trying his best to make me feel better about it. “Am I going to stand in the doorway all night or can I come in?”
“Oh, of course, dear,” my mother says, leading me deeper into my childhood home.
I grab my suitcase and follow her, hating how wrong this all feels. I love coming home to my family and visiting, but knowing what Tank will be coming home to tonight . . . fuck. “Where’s that hunky man of yours?” my mother asks, still as smitten as ever with Tank.
I let out a heavy sigh as I look at her, and she sees it in my eyes. Just like that, I don’t have to explain myself. She understands, just as she always has. “Oh, honey. It will be okay,” she murmurs in that motherly voice that makes me burst into tears once again.
Mom pulls me into her arms once more as I hear my father grunting behind us. “What the fuck did I just miss?” he asks, making the smallest smile come over my face.
“Oh, Robert. Watch your language,” Mom scolds as what sounds like a herd of elephants rushes down the stairs.
“What’s all the commotion down here?” my little brother, Zac, asks as he takes me in. “Ahhh, fuck. It’s you.”
With a smile, I walk straight up to the loser and wrap my arms around him, making sure to knock him in the back of the head with my cast. “It’s nice to see you, too, loser.”
“Ugh,” he groans as he wraps me up in a tight hug. “Get off me.”
I have to roll my eyes at the kid. We’ve always had a love-hate relationship, which usually consists of me messing with him as he tries to throw it back at me, but he simply doesn’t have the skill for it. He tries though, and I have to give him credit for that.
Stepping out of Zac’s arms, I wave toward my suitcase. “Be a darl and take my bag up to my room,” I tell him.
“In your dreams,” he scoffs. “I’m not one of your maids in your fancy, gated McMansion. Do it yourself.”
I narrow my eyes at him before turning on my father with puppy-dog eyes, cradling my broken arm to my chest. “Please, Daddy. I’m so tired, and my arms are so sore.”
He lets out a huff but does it anyway. “I don’t know how you do it, Sophie,” Mom says in awe as she takes me by the arm and pulls me toward the kitchen. “Are you hungry? How did you get here? Why didn’t you call? You know your father would have picked you up from the airport.”
On and on it goes.
Half an hour later, Mom has finally given up on the questions, but only because I promised to answer everything tomorrow. Once she’s finished fussing about my room, she sends me off to bed with one of her famous hot chocolates, and I’m finally left alone.
I go through my luggage and decide it’s probably best I take a quick shower. After washing off the day, careful to avoid getting my cast soaked, I pull on one of Tank’s old shirts and get comfortable in bed. A soft knock at the door catches my attention, and my brother pokes his head in. “What do you want, assface?” I question.
He leans against the door frame as he studies me. “What are you really doing here, Soph?” he asks.
I look at my brother and realize that he really has grown up. Though I don’t know why I’m surprised, he’s nearly twenty-four. “It’s my fault,” I say, not needing to clarify what I’m talking about.
“That’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard,” he says, looking me firmly in the eyes.
