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"Yeah, that's just it." My voice is rising and it feels good, good to be letting this anger out. "You never thought about anything other than yourself. And now I could lose my job."
Her head is hung, looking at the tile floor we put down together, way back when I first bought this place.
Pamela's been with me through everything. But this... this could ruin everything. Has it?
"I don't know what to say," she says quietly, meeting my gaze miserably. "I'm sorry. I know it doesn't mean much." Sad, bitter laugh. "Hell, it means jack shit. "But I never wanted for any of this to happen."
"Why couldn't you have asked me for help for your dad's operation?" I ask. I still can't get my head around all this. That it was Pamela. Pompom. That she was the one who took the bribe from Collin Storm. She was the one who could've handed me the case tied in a bow. And instead turned the bow into a noose around my neck. "You know I would've been happy to."
"I know, I just..." A sigh. "You know how my family is about borrowing money. My mom has never been able to pay back my uncle for that money he gave them for the house, so we try to avoid borrowing at all costs. I didn't want the money I'd borrowed from you hanging over our heads and messing up our friendship if I couldn't pay it back." She exhales, grabs a tissue from the countertop and blows her nose noisily. When she looks up, her nose is pink on the freckled tip, her eyes rimmed with red. "But now I've messed it up anyway, haven't I?"
The question hangs in the air. It sits me down on the kitchen chair, opens and closes my mouth.
How to begin to answer that?
One thing is for sure: I won't be able to do it justice now, with how I'm feeling. Like I've run a marathon. I guess it isn't all that surprising, with all that's happened in the past 24 hours. Talk about emotional exhaustion.
"Sorry for messing up your vacation too, for what it's worth," Pamela's saying now. "If there's anything I can do..." She trails off, stepping away from the counter and drawing herself upright.
She lets out a long, ragged breath, presses her lips together. Her green eyes are bright with tears. "You need time. I get it." Head bob. "I just hope you can forgive me at some point."
She turns away, pausing. Waiting for me to say something that I can't. Promise that things will be OK.
But I don't know that. I don't know what tomorrow will bring.
All I know is that right now, I want to hug her. And slap her. Yell at her and cry with her.
"Goodbye, Pompom," I say softly.
A half-smile crosses her face. Maybe she's right - maybe there's some hope in that. That I can even still bear to call her that.
"Goodbye, Kyky," she says, leaving.
A glance at my phone finds that it's almost noon. Mom and Maddy will be back around seven tonight. That's when I'll have to sit Madison down and tell her.
I have a long day ahead of me.
**
When Madison comes home, she's sunburnt, sleepy and delighted silly from her trip, trying to tell me about five things at once. I get her some KD, and Mom recounts the rides they went on, the food and fun they had, but I only half-hear her. My mind's on the task at hand. What I have to do once Mom leaves. She already knows what I have to tell my daughter, anyway.
Sitting on Maddy's bed after I've read her Babar book a little over an hour later, I know it's far from the best time to tell her. Even half-asleep as she is, she's radiating happiness, still riding high from the Disney trip.
There'd be a lot of better times to tell her than now. But I've been putting this off for too long. Years too long.
She deserves to know.
Afterwards, she cries and yells and barricades herself in her room. But before half an hour is up, she's turned off the Avril Lavigne and I can hear soft snores coming from her room.
I'm nodding off on the couch, half-scrolling through job postings online, when a call wakes me.
"Hey," Landon says.
"Hey," I say.
And then I say the rest of it. "Can you come over? There's something I should tell you."
Although I don't say all of it: It's something I should've told you years ago.
Chapter 25
Landon
What can it be?
The question plagues me as I get into my burrito-smelling car. As I toss aside the wrapper from my recent takeout, I scowl.
My head's still reeling from that model Nolan let into my place. His version of a 'present'. Of course I told her to fuck off, booted her out. I really need to talk to that guy. And take back my keys.
