Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk 3)

“Take him a beer, and I’ll get the stuff to set another place at the table.” He reached into the refrigerator for a bottle. Then he paused, shooting me a look. “Shit, I didn’t think.”

Frowning, I didn’t quite understand at first, and then it dawned on me. “Dad,” I said, lowering my voice, “I haven’t had a drink in nine years and I’m good with that. One of my closest friend’s bar is our regular hangout spot.” I smiled. “I can take a beer to someone.”

He crossed the room, kissed my forehead, and handed me the Budweiser.

As soon as my hand curled around the chilled bottle, I began to tremble again.

“Maybe you should take it to him after all,” I whispered.

“Get it over with, Bluebell. Like a Band-Aid, remember.”

Reluctantly, I nodded and pulled my shoulders back. It was like I was preparing to march into war.

Little did I know.

At first, I strode out of the kitchen, but my strides slowed with my anxiety as I turned left into the dining room.

Michael wasn’t sitting at the table. He had his back to me, staring at the framed photographs that covered the wall. I took the opportunity to drink him in. His broad back filled out the fitted dark-brown leather bomber jacket he wore. The fact that he hadn’t taken his jacket off wasn’t a good sign.

“Did you know you’re not in any of these photos?” He made me jump a little with his abruptness.

Instead of answering, I walked toward him. I wanted to stand closer to him. Just a little closer. Catching me out of his peripheral, he turned his head from the photos to watch me approach. The chill in his eyes made me slow to a halt, and I gingerly held out the beer to him.

He flicked a disgusted look at it, not reaching for it.

I lowered my arm, bracing myself for what was coming.

“Well?” he asked.

Realizing he was still talking about the photos, I looked at the wall. The fact that my mother had erased me from the dining room wall was something I didn’t like to think about. In fact, the deep-seated pain it caused was like a huge splinter under my skin. Some days it hurt for hours, the pain worsening the more I tried to work it out. The days I didn’t think about it were the days it laid painlessly beneath layers of toughened skin.

“I know.” I stared unseeing at the photos. “My mom kind of erased me.”

“Do you blame her?” he bit out.

Fuck.

I was horrified that he’d think her erasing my existence was understandable.

Something flickered in Michael’s expression, and he wrenched his eyes from mine. “Jesus fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

“Everything okay?” Dad walked into the dining room carrying a plate and cutlery for Michael. It certainly took him long enough.

“I’m not staying, Cian,” Michael announced, the words heavy with his fury. “If I stay, I’m going to say shit I can’t take back.”

Dad sighed heavily. “Mike—”

“No.” He cut him off. “You cannot expect me to sit down and eat steak with the tw

o of you like nothing ever happened.” He turned to me again, imprisoning me in the dark ire of his gaze. “You didn’t just leave, Dahlia, you fuckin’ took off and wouldn’t let me know where you went. For nine years!”

I flinched as he raised his voice, incensed. And rightly so. However, I’d thought, or I’d hoped, that him having married someone else meant he’d moved on. That he didn’t care anymore. As much as that idea had ripped me apart, I realized it was better than this heaving lividity beneath his words. Michael had never been an angry person, even with all the issues between him and his dad.

God, had I changed him?

I guessed it was another crime to lay at my feet, huh.

“Where have you been and why are you back?” he spat.