Tara
The humidity is killer.
I wipe my forehead and guzzle down some water. The sun’s brutal and the heat is bad, but the humidity makes it feel like I’m swimming in an outdoor pool. I swear, but it rolls down my skin and seeps into my clothes and does nothing. Clouds roll across the sky and I squint at the weather forecast on my phone—almost time for the thunderstorm that seems to randomly show up each and every day. I have a few more flowers to plant and then I can call it quits.
When I shove my spade into the dirt, a single sob rips itself from my chest. A memory hits me hard in the face: the gardens and their cacti and the native bushes in neat and lovely rows all sculpted to perfection. My masterpiece.
I’m shaking. Trembling. I have to sit there with my face inches from the dirt breathing in the smell of the ground, the earthy bite of crushed rock and soil, the ancient scent of decaying plant life, until it finally passes.
I let out a strangled groan as I sit up and lean my head back, slowly filling my lungs with air.
It comes and goes, this feeling. The sadness hits me out of nowhere and suddenly I’m thinking about everything I’ve lost and hating myself so much for all my mistakes. For the death I’ve left behind. I keep wondering if I’ll ever be myself again.
It’s not going to stop.
But it’s only been a couple weeks. I have to keep reminding myself, it’s only been a couple weeks. Yes, I’m having daily panic attacks and yes, they don’t seem to be improving, but I need to give myself some time.
To either put myself back together or finally fall apart.
“Hey, hon.” Dad stands in the doorway of his townhouse a few feet to my right. I’m crouched in front of the meager flower beds, digging them up and rearranging everything for the third time since I came here. It’s mindless, worthless work, and the neighbors give me dirty looks, but whatever. “Mind coming inside?”
“Sure, Dad.” I stand and toss my gloves on the ground. I can’t leave that stuff out for too long—some nosy, bored old guy will complain. Dad lives in a retirement community down in Florida with his new girlfriend, a horse-faced chick half his age named Janet who doesn’t like me one tiny bit, and the conformity pressure is off the charts. Anyone stepping out of line gets beaten back by the board, a council of lizard-like ancient old people that love nothing more than enforcing worthless rules.
I follow Dad inside. He’s weather-beaten, tanned to the point of looking like rawhide. He’s wearing golf clothes, shorts and a polo shirt, and he’s got a single white glove on his right hand. The kitchen is empty and silent, and I catch a glimpse of Janet sunning herself out back. She’s got a nice body so I understand why Dad keeps her around, even though she’s an absolute nightmare.
Dad sits down and I take the chair across from him. He leans back, studying me. I’ve never been close with my dad. He wasn’t so bad, as far as dads can go—he was emotionally distant, sometimes to the point of abusive coldness, which is part of why I ended up falling down a rabbit hole of drugs and addiction, and he never even noticed. I’m not sure he ever really gave a shit about me, especially in those dark days and the months following Cait’s death, and I know he still doesn’t.
But he feels beholden enough to his own daughter to let her stay at his place for a bit, which is about the nicest thing he’s ever done for me.
Overall, not a great guy, but not a monster either.
“We need to talk,” he says with a sigh. “Janet’s been complaining.”
I steel myself. I know where this is going.
“What’s she saying?”
“Apparently, you’ve been taking her face creams? Some moisturizer? And her hair stuff—”
“Dad, I haven’t touched any of her products, I swear. I’m not dumb enough to get on her bad side.” I frown at him and look at the table and want to add all her sides are bad sides but I keep my mouth shut.
He nods, looking uncomfortable. “I believe you, but she insists. And it’s a few other things too. See, hon, this townhouse, it’s not very big, you know? It’s a decent size for two people, but three? It feels a little crowded, and we like our privacy.”
I take a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Are you asking me to leave?”
“No, no, no,” he says, shaking his head. “I know you can’t do that yet. You’re still getting back on your feet. But I’m just asking… if you think about it… maybe look for a job so you can earn your own money… and then move out.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. I clench my jaw. I’ve been sending this asshole half my paycheck for years—and he has the gall to tell me to get a job? I practically own this stinking house. I think about my cottage, and the gardens around the Hayle manor, and the quiet hot desert wind blowing over my skin. I find peace in that memory, like a palace for my mind. Except there are jagged, sharp edges, like the smell of Kellen or the taste of his lips, and those cut me so deep it hurts. There’s no safety for me right now, not in memory, not in my mind.
“Okay, Dad, I’ll do what I can.”
“Great.” He pushes over a folded-up newspaper. “Start with the classifieds. Lots of job listings in there.”
“Thanks,” I say, unwilling to tell him that job application stuff is all online these days.
He nods, smiling like that conversation went well. “Try to give Janet some distance. I know you’re not taking anything from her, but—” He shrugs like he has no control over his situation, which he probably doesn’t. I’m sure Dad would kick me out on his own sooner or later, but Janet’s the one that’s speeding this along. “Now I’m off to play eighteen. I’ll be back later. Love you, hon.” He kisses my head and gets the hell out of there as fast as he can.
When his car starts and drives off, I go back out front to collect my spade and gloves. I put everything away in the garage and when I go back inside, I run into Janet in the hallway. She says nothing as she moves past me, only scowls until she reaches the stairs, and pauses halfway up.