Page 139 of Lace 'em Up

I nod, but my pulse is pounding so loudly in my ears that I can barely hear her when she says,

“Phillip came to the house today.”

A vice grip on my throat, my lungs. “Wh-what?” I rasp.

“He snuck into the garage?—”

I pull my hand free.

She takes it back, holds it tighter.

“Then he forced his way into the house and?—”

I stagger back a step, yanking out of her grip.

“I’m okay,” she repeats. “Zeus is okay. In fact, he’s a good boy who bit the hell out of Phillip’s ankle?—”

My head flies up.

“But he’s okay too. Just a little bruised, and left part of his tooth in Phillip’s ankle,” she says, then adds in a rush, “I took him to the vet and he’s totally fine.”

“And you?” I rasp out.

“I’m fine too.” Quick words. Too quick.

“What did he do to you?”

A wince, her eyes sliding away. Then back, as though knowing her not looking at me is a hundred times worse. “He likes kicking,” she says softly as rage and fury and panic and…failure tangle in my stomach. “I’m bruised too,” she murmurs. “But Dr. Halston checked me out and gave me a clear bill of health.” She moves a little closer. “I’m okay.”

Okay.

She’s okay.

Zeus is okay?—

You’re never going to be there. Not when I need you.

I’m not.

You’re not your father.

I’m not that either.

“You used the stick?” I ask, trying to quiet the voices in my head, to calm the panic, to just fucking think.

You’re. Not. Good. Enough.

“Actually,” Rory says softly, her mouth turning up just barely at the edges. “It turns out that your mom has some hockey skills too. She beat the shit out of Phillip and got him to stop.” Teeth pressing into her lip, those eyes sliding away and then back. “And then I hit him with a vase and knocked him unconscious.”

I rasp out a laugh, gaze going to the remnants of my stick on the counter, to the now empty spot where the flowers I’d bought for her had sat just that morning.

God. I can’t do this.

My mom hit Phillip with my stick, hard enough to break it.

Fucking hell, but I cannot do this.

“He hit the ground like a sack of bricks,” Rory says, relief in her tone. Probably mistaking my laughter for acceptance.

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