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“That combination wasn’t as complicated, though.”
“No, but we’ve improved as a team since then. Now you can do that routine in your sleep. This will be the same. Once you get it, it’s yours. Don’t stress, okay? Get some rest, and we can work through it tomorrow, when we’re fresh.”
“Yeah. Okay. Thanks, BJ. You always make me feel better.”
“No problem. That’s what partners are for.”
I end the call and run a hand down my face.
With Adele handled for now, I hop out of my Jeep and walk up the hill toward Winter’s driveway. I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more going on here than it seems. I stop at the mouth of her narrow driveway. Even though it’s dark, I can see her cabin. The lights are on inside, and a single bulb illuminates the front door. It highlights the wooden steps that sit on a slight angle. To the right of the cabin is a small garage and her dad’s rusted-out Buick. A recycle bin sits next to the door, empty beer cans littering the ground around it.
The cabin is run-down, but that’s not a surprise or the part that concerns me. Even from the end of her driveway, I hear the yelling. The loudest voice is male, and I catch the occasional f-bomb, but not the content of the argument.
I wonder how often it’s like this for Winter—and whether angry words are the only things being thrown around.
12 THE FISSURE
Winter
“You were with that rich kid with the tattoos.” Dad flicks his cigarette, and ash hits the table.
“I got invited out. I didn’t think it was a big deal.” Defending myself is pointless. Reasoning with the unreasonable gives me a headache.
They’re both sitting at the kitchen table, a united front apparently. Mom holds a cigarette between her fingers so tightly, she’s nearly crushing it. Her eyes flash with betrayal. I lied and put her at risk.
I’m suddenly so, so angry. Angry at her for never standing up to him. For putting me in impossible positions. For making me her unwitting shield.
It’s not her fault, I remind myself. She can’t help the way she is.
But that doesn’t make it suck any less. And it doesn’t stop me from wishing my life were different, that my parents weren’t the way they are.
“Better not get yourself pregnant or you’ll be on your own.” There’s a slur in my father’s voice, a tremor that indicates his anger is simmering, ready to boil to the surface. He can’t hold it in for long. His impulse control is abysmal. Frustration mounts as my mother brings the cigarette to her lips, hands shaking, eyes anywhere but on me.
“I wouldn’t do something that stupid.” I never want to be like my parents. Even though the words are true, I hate them as soon as I say them.
My dad’s lip curls with derision. “Hear that, Lucy? Your own daughter called you stupid. Guess it must be true.”
I close my eyes and exhale through my nose, trying to find some calm, to not stoop to his level. “Can you just fucking stop? She didn’t do anything wrong. And the last time I checked, it takes two people to make a baby. You’re the one with the goddamn sperm.”
My mother gives me a warning look.
Dad’s chair scrapes across the floor as he pushes to stand. He sways, unsteady on his feet, and moves across the room, stopping in front of me. We’re almost the same height. And weight. He’s lanky, with Gumby arms, malnourished with a slight potbelly from all the beer. I’m cut, from all the hockey he doesn’t want me to play.
“You think you’re so fucking smart, don’t you?” he sneers.
“Not smart enough, obviously, since I’m still dealing with your nonsense on a regular basis.” I’m done with this shit. So tired of the verbal abuse, of walking on eggshells because my mother refuses to grow a spine and leave his useless ass.
“I put a roof over your head and this is the thanks I get? You’re an ungrateful little cunt!”
I bark out a laugh, fighting the sting of his caustic words. “You’re giving yourself an awful lot of credit. I’ve worked a part-time job since I was fourteen, and most of it has gone to support you and your shitty, money-leaching habits.”
His right eye twitches. “Well, that’s a fucking lie, isn’t it?”
“That you have shitty habits? That’s a goddamn fact.”
“Where were you supposed to be tonight?” He glances from me to my mother, who shrinks in on herself, a wilted flower.
“The laundromat and the library.”
