His lips tightened again, and he held out his hand to my mother. “Josephine, we’ll be leaving now.”
“I will meet you in the car, Charles.”
He walked to the door. “I hope you feel better, my daughter. If there is something you need, you have only to ask.” He drew in a long breath. “I expect to see you, Charlotte, in the office on Monday. I also expect your fit of temper to be set aside by then.” He walked out, closing the door firmly behind him.
“Was that necessary?” my mother asked, her voice frosty.
“Yes, actually, it was. It was Dad who drew the lines between daughter and employee, Mom. He crossed it by coming here to check on me—as Charles Prescott, not my dad.”
“They’re the same person.”
“Not to me. They haven’t been for years.” My voice dropped. “Since Josh died, and you both became strangers.”
She stood, her face pale. “You’re being particularly spiteful today. Do you enjoy hurting us, Charlotte?”
“Why can’t we talk about him? Talk about what happened?”
Tears glimmered in her eyes. “I cannot bear it,” she stated. “You have no idea…” She trailed off.
My anger deflated. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t… I’m…” I was at a loss for words. I never challenged my parents. I toed the line because that was what I was supposed to do.
She tightened her lips. “I suggest you take the rest of the weekend and do some serious thinking. You’ve forgotten all you have to be grateful for. All we have done for you.”
She swept past me, her shoulders back, her manner formal. “I will speak to you next week. I think we’ll skip brunch tomorrow. Your attitude is tiresome and unbecoming.”
Her words were meant to upset me. Except the thought of having the whole day, not to have to go to their place and pretend to be something I was not, filled me with relief.
The closing of the door brought me out of my thoughts. She hadn’t said goodbye or waited for me to do so. I began to hurry toward the door but stopped. That was exactly what she wanted—for me to run after her and beg forgiveness. If I ever spoke back or flexed my so-called muscles, that was what happened—the game we played.
Only this time, I refused to participate. I wanted to talk about my brother. I needed to know why their love for me died when he did. Why nothing I did, no matter how hard I tried, made any difference. Why I wasn’t worth the effort.
Why it still hurt me so much.
I sat down, letting my head fall into my hands.
I had a feeling I would never have my answers.Chapter 9LoganI paced my apartment on a repetitive loop, unable to settle. I glanced at the heavy watch on my wrist for the hundredth time since leaving Lottie, the anxiety I was feeling bubbling and roiling in my stomach. I clawed my fingers through my hair, my nerves feeling as if they were on the outside of my body.
Why the hell hadn’t Lottie shown up yet?
I had hung around the corner for about twenty minutes after she went inside with her parents. I had watched their exchange from a distance, noting the stiffness of their interaction. There were no hugs or even touching. Her father stood, his hands at his sides as he spoke, the only movement the shaking of his head. When Lottie’s mother stepped from the car, I could see the resemblance to her daughter in her coloring and stature. But, like her husband, she was stiff, offering no kiss on the cheek or motherly hug. They followed Lottie upstairs, the car remaining parked outside.
Less than fifteen minutes later, Lottie’s father stormed down the steps, almost wrenching the handle off as he flung himself inside the car, the loud slam of the door echoing on the quiet street. Her mother followed shortly after, waiting until the driver opened the door for her before joining her husband. Her movements were less strident, but her posture was rigid and angry. They had obviously exchanged words with Lottie. I waited a few moments to see if Lottie would appear, then decided she was probably collecting herself if they had, indeed, had an argument.
I was loath to leave. I had no idea why I was acting this way toward Lottie. The need to be close and protect her was paramount. I had never felt this way toward another person in my life. I wanted to go back to her place, sweep her into my arms and hold her, but I realized it would be too much. She had said she would come to me, and I had to let her do so in her own time.
Reluctantly, I headed home and waited for her to appear.
Now four hours later, I was still waiting. I cursed myself when I realized I had never taken her cell number, so I couldn’t call her. I perched on the arm of the sofa, eyeing my guitar. Not even it held its usual draw. The thoughts in my mind were too chaotic and disjointed for music—unless it was an angry, violent tune. Doubts were piling up in my head.