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Chapter Twenty
Ellie
Onemonthpassed.
And then two.
Before I realized it, three months had gone by since my father left this world. It was as if I existed in a permanent fog where nothing felt real or mattered. I didn’t do much of anything. I sat in my house and I slept and cried and pretended he had never left.
For the first month, I woke up every day and walked to his room before I remembered. Those were the hardest. It didn’t happen much anymore, but the pain was still there. As fresh as the first day.
Wren dropped by every week to check up on me. She always brought food: a hot meal and cookies and ice cream and we’d watch a movie curled up on the couch. I was thankful for her, thankful that she cared enough to come and see me. Yet, it was exhausting. I always had to put on my mask for her. The mask that told the world I was okay, when inside, I was anything but.
Knox sometimes dragged me to the ranch when he had free time. He thought time with the horses would do me good. While he wasn’t totally wrong, my heart wasn’t in it. Not even my favorite horse on the ranch could make me smile, though I know she tried. Spending time with her mostly made me feel guilty for not feeling better.
I hadn’t seen or heard from Ty. I was glad for it. The thought of him made my stomach twist. I knew I’d hurt him with my words at my father’s funeral, but it had to be said. He never would’ve left me alone otherwise. And I desperately need him to stay away. I’d thought that maybe we could be something more someday, but that all changed when I came home the night of the gala. Because while I had been kissing Ty, my Daddy had been dying and that was something I couldn’t reconcile. Not now. Maybe not ever.
I lay down in bed after getting home from a long day at the boutique, curling up with Buffy. Since I had nothing else to do, I’d taken more shifts at Faye’s shop. It kept my mind busy. But when I was home, I slept a lot. At least Buffy was here to keep me company. She had been the one source of light in this dark time.
I was closing my eyes when a sharp knock sounded from the front door. I frowned, trying to remember if anyone was supposed to come over. Wren was here two nights ago, so it wasn’t her. It was a little late for Knox to be coming over.
I dragged myself from bed, another knock reverberating off the front door. I scowled as I picked up my pace, Buffy close on my heels. Hurrying toward the door, I grabbed the handle and wrenched it open.
I froze, my eyes widening on the woman staring at me.
She looked older than I remembered. Her tan, leathery skin was wrinkled in places it hadn’t been before. She gave me a smile, her red lips overly plump and pulling back from her teeth in an unpracticed, forced fashion.
“My sweet baby!” she cried, stepping inside without an invitation and wrapping me in a tight, boney hug. Buffy hissed at her and scurried out the open door to get away. I wished I could follow her.
The woman hugging me was thinner than she had been when I was fourteen. Her fake blonde hair was short but teased into a high pile on top of her head. She let go of me, stepping back and giving me a look of concern. “I came as soon as I heard. Miriam, from the salon, told me about your father. It’s so sad.”
I was frozen, every muscle locked into place as I tried to comprehend her being here. My mother closed the door behind her, flinging her fake Prada purse on the kitchen counter like she owned the place.
She turned to me again with a stark frown. “Oh, look at you.” She touched my face, her long plastic fingernails scratched my skin. I flinched. “Bless your heart, you’re skin and bones you are. And look at those bags under your eyes.” She clucked her tongue. “You need to start taking care of yourself, sweetness. That youthful beauty won’t stick around forever.”
I opened and closed my mouth until I finally found words. “Why—what are you doing here?”
She put a hand on her hip, looking at me as if it were obvious. “I came to check on my poor daughter.” She grabbed my chin. “I’ve missed you, baby.”
I highly doubted that. She gestured to the couch in the living room. “You go have a seat, now. I’ll make some tea.”
I didn’t know why I listened, but I did, trudging into the sitting room and collapsing onto the couch. I stared at my mother, who was really nothing more than a stranger as she rifled through the few kitchen cabinets until she found some old tea bags and boiled some water.
It had been over ten years since I’d seen or heard from her. Ten years since she let one of her boyfriends get away with hurting me. And yet here I was, letting her make me tea in my own home as if she had any right to be here at all.
I buried my head in my hands. I needed to tell her to leave, but for some reason I couldn’t do it. Flashes from my childhood bombarded me. Mama had always been controlling…she was in charge of what I wore and how I spoke and who I could and couldn’t talk to—especially when it came to pageants. When I disobeyed, or didn’t perform my best in a show, she made her disapproval clear and it was never good.
Even when that man, her boyfriend, had taken so much from me—not everything, but enough to shatter my childhood—I couldn’t stand up to her. It had been my father who stepped in and took me from her.
But he wasn’t here anymore to save me.
I picked at the skin around my nails, my knees bobbing in an erratic, nervous rhythm.
“Here.”
I glanced up to a steaming mug in front of my face. “Drink. And don’t pick your nails.” She scowled as I took the mug. My nose scrunched at the stale smell of the tea. We didn’t drink much tea and I wondered how long the box had been sitting in that cabinet.
My mother sat down in the armchair facing me—the armchair that had been my father’s. The hair on the back of my neck rose as a chill skittered across my skin despite the hot mug in my hands.
