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Silas: Where are you?
Me: I'll be back tomorrow
I don't wait for their replies, I just turn my phone off and stuff it into my pocket. There. I checked in on my girl and I told them where I am. Kind of. Now there's nothing to distract me from the emotions swelling like the tide.
I'm half-tempted to walk into the rain just to see what would happen, but I'm not quite there yet. I don't want to be able to feel the crushing weight of the secret tearing open my ribcage.
Dixie St. James isn't my biological mother.
“Fuck,” I say on an exhale, tipping the bottle back for another drink. “Seriously, fuck me.”
A low, disbelieving sort of laugh spills from me, but it's all harsh sounds. I . . . I don't even know where I'm supposed to go from here. Or what I'm supposed to do.
Or how the fuck I'm supposed to feel.
Ifeellike my family isn't even my fucking family. I'm not too far into the bag to recognize that sentiment is based on emotion and not facts. Because the fact of the matter is, the only person who isn't actually related to me is Ma. It's just fucking ironic that a man who preached about brotherhood and loyalty my whole goddamn life is a fucking hypocrite.
Anger courses through me, swift and savage, and I push to stand on the table. I spread my arms out wide, tip my head back, and unleash my emotions into the wild. Let the wind carry away my helplessness, let the rain drown my rage, and the lightning recharge me back to who I was.
Betrayal coats the back of my throat and anger is all too quick to set it all on fire. I yell my injustice into the open space around me, begging the universe for answers she can't give.
I don't waste time with the bullshit questions. I don't care why he had an affair. I want to know why Ma never told me until I confronted her. There are a lot of uncertainties crowding my head, but I know one thing for certain: she wasn't lying when she said she always considered me hers. It's in the way she's loved me my entire goddamn life.
And that—that almost makes it worse somehow.
The woman has never looked at me once with resentment or ill will. Never, not even when I was a fucking unruly teenager and gave her arun for graysas she called it. I've felt loved by her my entire life, and somehow—some fucking how—that makes it harder to bear.
I feel like a stranger in my own life.
“God, how fucking pathetic does that sound?” I murmur to myself as I bend down and hook the whiskey bottle with my index finger. “How fucking ridiculous.”
It's a special sort of torture recognizing that I'm spiraling and yet not being able to reel myself back in. It's not that I can't, but it's more like I don't have the energy to. Maybe this is exactly what I need. One night to let myself feel as unhinged as I need. Scream into the night and rage against the unfairness of everything.
The two people who deserve my questions and my anger aren't even around anymore to receive it. Some people believe that we're released back into the aether when we pass on, and I don't know if I subscribe to that logic. I rather enjoy the idea of being tied to your family throughout your existence. Maybe that means heaven or maybe it means reincarnation. But either way, I can't see Dad floating around in the warmth of the sun and the dew on the grass as some sort of peaceful existence. I've never felt his presence like some people witness, but for tonight, I kind of wish I had. Then I would have something tangible to direct my anger toward.
Instead, it balloons around me, growing larger and larger and larger. And when the sun crests the horizon in a few hours, it's going to pop.
And I'll be left here, alone, trying to wade through my mountain of shit so I can get on with my life.
But tonight, tonight I'm going to give in. I'm going to give myself permission to spiral in anger and betrayal and sink into those what-if scenarios. I'll let myself reflect on family dynamics growing up and try to view them armed with knowledge.
5
EVANGELINE
The morning sunstreams through the gaps in the blinds, and I have to blink several times against it. My head is pounding and my mouth feels like sandpaper. I groan and roll over, expecting to see the blush-colored overstuffed armchair in the corner.
Instead, there's a low profile dresser along the wall. And like a switch flipped, the events of yesterday rush in. I roll over to lie flat on my back and stare at Bane's ceiling fan slowly twirling around and around.
There's a persistent throb in my temples, but that’s easily attributed to the lack of sleep. But my right cheekbone aches and the cut along my hairline throbs. I hesitantly press my fingertips along the sensitive areas, wincing a little at the swollen, tender skin.
I push myself into a sitting position and blow out a breath. I need to get up and find my phone, call Cora before she hears some exaggerated version of events from a customer.
Nana Jo used to say Rosewood was always one person away from the worst game of telephone ever. Not only does everyone know everyone's business, but sometimes the truth gets so twisted so quickly that it's damn near unrecognizable by the end of the day.
Peeling back the comforter and swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I notice my phone plugged into a charger on the nightstand. A few pain relievers and a bottle of water right next to it. My heart staggers a little, and I can't stop the small smirk from tipping up the corners of my mouth.
God, that man is thoughtful.
