“She just got out yesterday. Finally.” I hug her back, and then hide my purse in the employee office before signing in. “The spells stopped, but she’s basically on bed rest for a few days, at least when she’s home alone.”
“That’s good, right?”
I shrug. This is par for the course. “It is what it is.”
“You look so sad, babe. I’m so sorry. I wish there was something I could do.” Adriana examines me. The other night she offered to drop off a pizza for my father and me, which was sweet of her, but by that point, he was on his way to work, and I wasn’t in the mood for company. “How often does this happen?”
“A few times a year lately,” I say. “You think I’d be used to it by now.”
“That’s not something you get used to.” She rubs my shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You have to think positive. My grandma had a stroke last year, and they told us she had a fifteen-percent chance of making it out of the hospital alive. It’s been eight months, and it’s like it didn’t even happen. She made a full recovery. Doctors can be wrong sometimes.”
I don’t want to get my hopes up …
“Yeah. Anyway.” I force a small smile and head to the register to wait for a client. Thursday afternoons are notoriously slow.
“Keep that pretty little head up,” she says, resting her chin on her hand after she follows me to the counter. “And know that I’m here for you, doll.”
Her words are an off-kilter echo of the ones I read on my father’s screen several nights ago, the ones I’ve now practically memorized.
My bottom lip trembles. My eyes well until my vision blurs. A wave of repressed, tamped-down anger floods my veins until my skin burns.
Those texts are all I’ve been thinking about all week.
I even see them when I close my eyes.
“Oh, my God, Sher.” Adriana gasps as she lunges for me, her hand on my back. “What’s wrong? Was it something I said?”
A dense tear coats my cheek. I swipe it away and draw in a jagged breath. I’m not a crier. I’m not dramatic or emotional. But for the past few days, I’ve almost been living outside of my body. At least, that’s the only way I can describe it because nothing feels real anymore. I don’t look at anything the same. Every family picture I pass in the hall. Every clever or sweet quip or dad joke that comes out of my father’s mouth. Every endearing, lovesick gaze my mother gifts him when their attention intersects. It all feels … empty.
“You need to sit down.” She guides me to a chair in the corner meant for guests. We’re not supposed to sit on the job. Ever. But no one’s here. “Okay, take a deep breath …”
I inhale so deeply it hurts, my lungs aching at capacity, and then I let it all out.
Everything.
Staring ahead, unfocused, I tell her everything.
“Last Saturday, we came back from the hospital,” I say. “Dad went straight to bed, but he left his phone out on the charger. I was getting a glass of water when someone texted him. It must have been ten, maybe ten thirty? I checked it, you know, in case it was my mom.” My lip quivers again. “But it wasn’t.”
“Oh, God.” Her hand clamps over her mouth, as if she knows where this is headed.
“It was someone named ‘KT’ and they were telling him my mom’s suffering would be over soon and it would all be worth it and all this other weird stuff …” I frown. “It was vague. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it, what it could mean … why my father had their name as initials in his phone. None of it made sense. My father lives for my mom. He would be lost without her …” I switch gears because where I’m about to go with this conversation needs context. “I’ve never talked to you about this before, but my parents have a thing with the Monreauxs. A long-standing feud, I guess you could call it.”
“Who doesn’t? They piss off a lot of people in this town.” She snaps her gum. “What’d they do to your parents?”
“It’s bad.” I bury my face in my hands. “Worse than bad.”
Her eyes widen. She leans closer.
“Years ago—before I was born—my father’s younger sister was killed. They found her body at the Monreaux quarry. She’d been dating August’s dad, Vincent. My father, to this day, believes Vincent killed her. My mother thinks so too. That’s what I’ve always been told, what I’ve always believed. I’ve never questioned it because … why would I? But the other week, I found these articles they’d saved … Adriana, my father was arrested for my aunt’s murder. The papers even reported that he was the main suspect. My parents never told me that.”