Words Left Unsaid (Love Hurts 3)

She relaxes in my arms, a satisfied smile on her little face. I let out a laugh. How can she go from flat-out tantrum mode to happy little girl in less than a minute?

Oh, right: she’s five.

I quickly finish her hair and bundle her into the car, ready for the quick ride to school. I pull up in the drop-off zone and walk her inside, kneeling down to hug her when we’re outside her classroom.

“I’ll see you later, okay, sweetie?”

She nods, and leans over to kiss me goodbye.

“Remember what I said. If Tommy says anything to you, tell your teacher.”

“I will, Mommy.”

***

“Is it wrong that I want to pound this Tommy Rawlings’s face into the ground?” I ask, sliding the key into the front door lock.

I’ve just arrived home from dropping Tilly off at school and I’m still annoyed that this bully had the balls to pick on my little girl.

Ellie laughs through the phone. “Uh, it kinda is.” She giggles. “You’re supposed to be the adult, Kiara, so I’d probably advise against beating the crap out of a child. If it worries you so much, have a word with the teacher. It’s just kids being kids, though.”

“I know that, but you should’ve seen her face.” I frown. “God, kids will pick on anything these days. We weren’t that bad when we were young, were we?”

Ellie laughs. “Are you serious? Your memory can’t be that bad. You punched Alan Marshall in the nose because he called me piglet.”

“He deserved it. Nobody picks on my sister,” I retort, tossing my bag on the sofa. I walk through to the laundry and throw some clothes in the washing machine, not bothering to separate the lights from the darks. My new red sweater catches my eye and I think about the white sheets I’ve thrown in there. I shrug. Tilly loves pink, anyway. Adding some detergent, I turn it on. “It stopped him from bothering you again, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” she admits with a giggle. I can almost hear her shaking her head through the phone. “And it also stopped everyone else from wanting to be friends with me because they were afraid of my crazy sister.”

“Pfft,” I reply, walking back into the kitchen. “You didn’t need friends. You had me.”

Ellie and I are total opposites, and the best of friends. Where I’m petite, with long, dark hair and light blue eyes, she’s tall, heavyset and blonde. She’s loud, spontaneous, and adventurous, whereas I’m more grounded—or boring, as Ellie would put it.

Growing up, we were always close, probably because there was only a ten-month age gap between the two of us. We did everything together as kids, and we still do today. She’s been my rock since Aiden’s accident. Without her, I would’ve fallen apart years ago.

“So how’s everything else going?” she asks. “Work still giving you hassles?”

“Yep,” I groan, leaning over the kitchen counter. “They don’t seem to understand that Tilly needs to come first. Not that I blame them, but for me, she has to.”

I’d been with my current employer since one month after the accident. I work part-time as a curator in an art gallery. I’m damn good at my job, but I’ve been having issues since a new director stepped in a few months ago and decided my flexible roster was impeding the success of the business. Things were much easier with the old director, mainly because she knew my story. She was a good friend of Aiden’s mother, Heather.

“Maybe it’s time you look for something else,” Ellie suggests.

I know she’s right, but I’ve had enough changes in the last few years to last me a lifetime. Three years in the one job is enough to give me a sense of security. As much as I’d love to use some of my other skills, such as my teaching degree, the fear of the unknown is constricting.

“Yeah, well, at the moment they’re okay with me doing my three days a week. If they kick up a stink again, I’ll think about looking for something else.”

“You know what you need to do—”

“Oh, God, El, don’t start,” I groan, interrupting her.

“No, I’m serious,” she protests. “Your artwork is amazing. People would pay serious money for that shit.”

“People are stupid.” I laugh, my cheeks heating up.

My art is a hobby, and that’s it. It’s an escape from the world I sometimes feel suffocated in. It’s something private, for me. Sharing it takes away that sense of comfort I’ve come to associate with my painting.

“Anyway, I gotta go.” I omit that I have a date with the sofa and my remote.