It’s only after I can’t hear the car anymore that I finally move off the chair and get ready for bed, happy the pills I took before dinner have kicked in.
I’m about to crawl underneath the covers when a knock sounds at the door, causing me to freeze. I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone about what happened, so I wait to see if they say anything.
After a moment, I can hear a sigh and my father’s voice through the door, “I’m sorry, Montana,” before his footsteps sound walking down the hall.
With my emotions all over the place—jumping between anger, sadness, and confusion—I lie in bed with the covers drawn all the way up to my chin, wishing I was someone else and didn’t have to deal with any of this.
Unfortunately, that’s not a possibility, and instead I settle for letting sleep take my mind away for a night to a place I’m loved and accepted.
Chapter Seven
The next morning starts not as awkward as I dreaded it to be, mostly because I’m alone. When I come down for breakfast, my father is already working, I presume, and Lizzie isn’t anywhere in the house.
I’m standing alone in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to brew, when someone walks through the door. I freeze, fighting my instinct to flee a situation I know will be uncomfortable, but I force myself to not move. Instead I pretend I don’t hear them walk down the hall and enter the kitchen.
“Good morning, honey.” I can detect a trace of insecurity in my father’s voice, like he’s debating how to approach me. Something I haven’t heard since I called him to ask for help. It shakes something loose inside of me to see him even slightly rattled. I’ve always seen him as this strong man who doesn’t let anything affect him, especially anything that pertains to me.
“Morning,” I say absentmindedly, still trying to understand his demeanor.
“How did you sleep?”
“Good. Thank you. The bed is as comfortable as I remember,” I answer, not sure why I say the last part. “You want some coffee?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything else.
“Yes, thanks.” I can hear him walk around behind me while I grab another mug and fill it. “You take it with sugar or milk?”
“Black is fine.” I can’t explain why knowing we drink coffee the same way sends a weird sensation of warmth through me, like I belong. It’s just coffee and shouldn’t make a difference, but it does. For some reason it makes me think maybe we aren’t as different as I initially thought.
I turn around with his mug to find him standing on the other side of the island watching me intently. For the first time since the whole debacle last night, I meet his eyes and what I see shocks me to my core. Instead of the confident man I’m used to, I see someone who’s broken, like for some reason he doesn’t know how to behave around me, and I’m to blame for it.
I watch him visibly take a breath as if he’s preparing for a battle I didn’t know was happening. “Look, Montana, I’m sorry about last night. I’m not sure what’s come over Kade, but he doesn’t normally act like such an asshole.”
“I tend to bring out the worst in people.” At least according to my mother.
“That’s not what I meant. It wasn’t your fault. I’m still not sure what it was about. Lizzie tried to talk to him, but he isn’t exactly someone who shares his feelings freely, not since his parents were killed in that drunk driving accident.”
“What?”
My sharp question causes him to focus on me. Tilting his head, he studies me for a moment. “His parents, Lizzie’s older sister and her husband, died when Kade was sixteen. A drunk driver came onto their lane and hit them head on. His father died on impact, but his mother lived on life-support for a few days. They had to eventually make the decision to take her off.”
“Oh my god. That’s horrible,” I say, my voice filling with sadness for the adolescent version of Kade. Losing your parents at such an impressionable age couldn’t have been easy, especially in an accident that could have been prevented.
“It was. And since his grandmother was dealing with health issues at the time, he came to stay with us after that. But ever since then he’s…” He trails off, shrugging his shoulders while his eyes flicker around the kitchen, anywhere but me. That’s when it clicks.
“That’s why he hates me so much.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, he looks at me with sadness brimming in his deep blue eyes. “I wouldn’t say he hates you. What happened… it just brings back a lot of bad memories.”
I understand this. It would for anyone in his situation. No wonder he doesn’t like me, when every time he looks at me, he’s probably reminded of the person who killed his parents. It’s not like anyone knows what really happened that day—that it wasn’t me driving. And up until now I never had the intention to tell anyone else the truth, besides the ones who already know, but when I’m about to say something, my father continues, making sure to remind me why I don’t bother to rectify this situation. “Regardless, we can’t change the past. You made a mistake, but I’m sure you learned from it. All we can do is grow from our mistakes and hope to become better people.”
And just like that, the urge to tell him the truth vanishes. It’s the same old issue, everyone always assumes I’d be reckless enough to
