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“Go talk to your dad and then come right back to me, okay? Practice will probably run until five, but then I’m all yours,” I murmur against her lips.
She moans softly, burying her face in my neck. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Curly Fry. Forever and always.”
41
BRAXTON
There’sa hollow feeling in my chest as I walk up my parents’ driveway. Like I’ve already tucked my heart away in a protective case in preparation for this inevitable conversation. Maybe his words won’t hurt as much now . . . or maybe they’ll hurt just as bad.
My mind is a jumbled mess of skittish thoughts and terrifying probabilities. How can things go so wrong so quickly? One second, you’re floating on cloud nine, and the next, you’re an ant crushed beneath a steel-toed boot. Or in my case, a victim of a vengeful father who cares more about his career than his family.
I swallow past the rock in my throat and test the door to see if it’s locked, surprised to find it’s not. That’s not the most surprising thing, though, because as soon as I walk inside, I’m met with dozens of moving boxes in the doorway, each with elegant handwriting on the side labelling which room each box should go to.
“Mom?” I call, shutting the door softly and moving through the maze of boxes. Pulling open the flaps of the smaller one on the entry table, I freeze with my finger on an old photo frame.
These are baby photos. Anna’s and mine.
The photo at the top is of the two of us in the sandbox we used to have in the backyard. It was one of those plastic ones you could buy in different colours and shapes. Ours was a green turtle.
Anna has to be no more than three in the photo, which would have made me seven or so. She’s sitting in front of me, a tiny pink shovel in one hand as she fills a matching bucket with sand. I’m dropping sand into her hair, grinning like an absolute fool.
My chest squeezes as I step away from that box and start to open others. One after another, I tear open the flaps, my heart rate increasing with each open box.
Mom’s clothes, her shoes, my great-grandmother’s fancy dishes we’ve only ever used for Christmas dinner. I suck in a tight breath and rub at my chest.
“Your mother isn’t here.”
I whip around to find Dad standing at the bottom of the staircase, fingers tight around the railing. He looks almost unfamiliar, like a ghost of a past I don’t want to revisit. His dark eyes hold little to no emotion as he watches me stand frozen, confused.
“Where is she?”
“Probably with your aunt. The moving truck she hired to move her things should be here in an hour, if you wanted to wait for her.”
I pinch my brows. “I didn’t know she was moving out.”
“We signed the divorce papers this morning.”
Shock nearly renders me speechless. “You what?” I whisper.
“Don’t act surprised. It’s not shocking. She’s been seeing someone else for months. The only surprising thing here is that she thought I didn’t know.”
“What?” I wheeze. My lungs pinch, making it hard to breathe.
Dad darts his eyes away before I can determine whether or not he’s the slightest upset about this. I know they weren’t happy . . . but he really doesn’t feel anything? He’s that cold?
“His name is Ritchie. He’s an accountant for a large firm downtown. No children. Widowed,” he says, listing these off as if they’re as casual as items on a grocery list.
“Why wouldn’t she have told me she was seeing someone?”
His gaze settles on me again, but I force myself not to buy into the slight spark of emotion in them. “You have a soft heart, Braxton. Knowing she was staying with me for the sake of you and your sister would have crushed you.”
“I already knew that. Were you under the impression that me or Anna thought she was with you because she loved you? It’s been obvious you haven’t loved each other for years.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?” I repeat, in awe. “Do you think that because we knew you weren’t happy together that that somehow makes it okay? Anna doesn’t ever want to get married one day because of you. Doesn’t that bug you at all?”
