I want to be perfect for them. That’s all I’ve ever wanted . . . to make sure they never for one second regret taking me in.
“Sweetheart,” Mom says, laying a hand on Dad’s arm. “You know she has a lot on her plate right now.” Henry. She’s blaming it on Henry. “Perhaps she was feeling frustrated about other things and misplaced those feelings.”
I shouldn’t let her talk for me, I should say what I’m feeling. That’s what Silas would tell me to do.
I close my eyes. Now is not the time to think about him. He is so far away from this world, this life I have here . . . it’s not even funny. If I bring him into this place, even in my thoughts, one of two things will happen.
This place will win, and I’ll drown in guilt over the things I’ve done with Silas.
Or Silas will win. The new, unstable me will win, and it will shatter this last remaining façade I have. My parents will know just how far I am from living up to their expectations.
And neither of those is something that I want. So, as of this moment, I put up a wall, and refuse to let either world cross into the other.
Besides . . . Dad is still going, so I’m not out of the woods here yet. He says, “Be that as it may, she has to think about the repercussions of her actions.” He turns to me. “We’ve raised you to think for yourself, to be smart. And while I understand and respect your feelings about the shelter, you have to remember that I work with the city council on a regular basis. Your mother went to college with the mayor’s wife. It’s one thing to participate in a group protest, I won’t deny you that, but to single yourself out in such a way as you did, puts this entire family in a difficult position.”
I hadn’t even thought about that. It’s a small world in the elite circle my parents run in. Of course they would know all the big players in town, the ones who control where the money goes.
“You’re right. I didn’t think about the ramifications of what I was doing. I just . . . I wanted to make a difference. And this is something happening in our backyard, not some big political movement in another state or another country. It’s so close, and I let passion cloud my judgment.” And even though I make a habit of not talking about my childhood, of pretending like it was another life, another world, I mention it then. “And I know what it’s like not to have the basic things, not to have a home. That’s hard enough; it shouldn’t have to get harder for those people.”
I try and fail at keeping the emotion out of my voice. My parents respect logic, not feelings. And one has no place with the other.
“You can’t fault her for being compassionate and for acting instinctively, Richard. That’s how you do business, and she’s just emulating her father. And really, as far as mistakes go, it’s a small one in comparison to what other children her age get up to. And people talk, I happen to know for a fact that several of the councilors’ kids have been in trouble for far worse. They’ll understand.”
“Yes, but I hold Dylan to a higher standard. She’s better than other kids her age, more aware.”
I’m not. I’m just better at pretending.
“And she’s met that standard for years without any issues. She’s not an employee, Richard. She’s your daughter.”
Dad lays down his knife, and it clangs against his plate. He frowns down at the food that he’s only really been pushing around since the conversation began.
“So what do you propose I do? Let her off without any form of reprimand?”
I speak up then. “I decided to sign up for the Renew Project that the university is sponsoring, the one where students are repairing homes for the underprivileged and elderly in town. It’s three days a week until school starts, and then every Saturday through the end of September. I thought it might be a good way to channel my frustrations into something positive. To give back.”
“There,” Mom says. “That sounds like a perfectly respectable way to redeem her actions.”
Dad frowns, but says, “Fine. I suppose that works.”
Under the table, I unclench my fists, the indents of my fingernails smarting on my palms. With that settled, Mom picks up the conversation for the rest of dinner, asking Dad questions about his trip, telling him about the few days she spent without him and how miserable she was.
And for the first time, I look at the two of them and wonder if they love each other. Or if they’re just like Henry and I were . . . a good fit.
I think then about my birth mother. I never think about her. There’s not much point since she died before I was put in foster care. But I can’t help but wonder now how different my life would have been with her. Would I know myself better? Would I even be myself?
It’s too much to think about. And it can’t change anything anyway. That part of my life is long gone.
When I’m getting ready to leave and head back to my apartment an hour later, Dad wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me in close. “I don’t like being disappointed in you.”
Something pinches in my chest, and somehow, even though he’s hugging me tight, that one sentence is the worst moment of the whole night.
“I don’t, either.”
Even after he lets me go, it still feels like his arms are constricting around me, like there are these bands that are always there, but now they’ve gotten just a little bit tighter, a little bit more noticeable.
I try to forget about them all the way home, try not to feel them as I crawl into bed. But there are too many things I’m trying to forget, and I can’t seem to block any of them out effectively.
And Silas was right.
I so badly need to breathe.
Chapter 13
Silas
Brookes is in the kitchen when I head downstairs in the morning. There are few things that can make me get up this early in the morning. Football is one of them. Dylan is apparently another.
I walk past him for the pantry, where I dig out a couple of protein bars for breakfast. Dylan should be here any minute, so I don’t have time for anything more.
“So, I guess you’re not coming to practice,” Zay says.
I look down at the old jeans I’d pulled on instead of athletic clothes.
“Coach told me not to.” I peel open the wrapper on one of the bars and take a bite.
“For how long?”
I shrug. “A week.”
He whistles. “And two games?”
“At least. He threatened worse if I don’t get my shit together.”