Page 9 of Stolen Summer

Slipping into my room unnoticed, I closed the door and locked it, leaning against the door. My breathing was a little too ragged for such a short sprint. I blamed Cole entirely.

I glanced down at his shirt, torn between taking a pair of scissors to it and tucking it under my pillow. The first. Definitely the first. I didn’t want his scent tormenting me all night.

Padding over to my dresser, I rummaged through the drawers for clean underwear and comfy clothes, putting Cole Riley out of my mind. I peeked out into the hall and dashed across to the bathroom for a quick shower. Afterward, I felt like myself and headed to the kitchen to grab something to eat. Sadie had left me a note.

Dinner is in the fridge. Your father already ate. He needs his last dose of medication before bed.

??S

Iwent to the fridge and pulled out the plate of spaghetti. My favorite. Pasta was my weakness. Well, carbs in general, but pasta brought me to my knees. Perhaps it had something to do with my Italian heritage, but no one made a red sauce like Sadie.

Hungrier than I realized, I scarfed down the entire plate, dipping a hunk of French bread into the leftover sauce until it was soaked with it. From our small, round dining table, I could see the side of the Rileys’ mansion. Not a single light brightened any of the windows.

Odd.

But what Cole did in that big house at night wasn’t my concern. He’d probably gone out, and knowing his reputation, he wouldn’t be home until daybreak, just the time I got ready for work.

I had the day off tomorrow, a rare occurrence. When I wasn’t busting long hours at the diner, I worked part-time at my college bookstore, but since it was summer break, my shifts were less frequent.

After washing my dishes, I set them on the drying rack before checking in on Dad. I poked my head through the cracked door, the hinges squeaking slightly. His warm gray eyes shifted from the TV to me. “Hey, Bee,” Dad greeted, using the nickname he’d given me when I was a baby and had constantly made raspberry noises that reminded him more of a bee buzzing.

Tucked into his specialized bed that took me two years to save for, he sat up, partially inclined. His brown hair was a little too long, and I made a mental note to give him a trim tomorrow. Sadie had already taken care of his bath, and he’d shaved tonight. His bedroom had an air of cleanliness to it, another thing I had Sadie to thank for. She went beyond her duties and deserved more than the measly pay I dished out for the few hours a week she stopped by.

“Did you take your meds?” I asked, moving into the room to sit on the edge of his bed.

“About an hour ago,” he assured. Despite the smile he forced on his lips, I could see the strain around his mouth and the effort it took to curl the corners. His grins rarely ever reached his eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw true happiness on his handsome face.

And my father was a good-looking old guy. Not that he was all that old, but he had aged well. Perhaps he had aged more these last few years, but after the trauma he’d suffered, it was expected.

I did my best to stay positive, particularly on his hard days, but it drained me to coerce emotions I didn’t want to feel. “I’m going to make some iced tea. Do you want some?” Well, mine would be bubble tea. I’d learned to make my favorite drink at home to save on the cost of buying them daily. It added up, and I refused to give up my addiction. It was better than getting hooked on heroin.

“Long Island?” Dad inquired, a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

“Funny.” I eyed the three empty glasses of what I assumed had been gin and tonics. “It looks like you’ve had enough for today.”

“Have I?” he muttered, and there it was. He attempted to hide the despair, yet the façade always fell flat as if it exhausted him to keep up the charade for long.

Most days, my father was as absent as my mother, and try as hard as I had, I didn’t know how to get him to start living again. His life wasn’t over. Far from it, but I couldn’t make a person see what they didn’t want to see, not until he was ready.

Drinking the misery away helped no one, and it only gave him a temporary fix. All those problems he wanted to mask waited for him when the buzz wore off.

I tried not to think of the money wasted on booze. We might be able to fix all the broken shit in this house. I might be able to go to a university. We might not be drowning in unpaid bills.

Not entirely true since our medical debt was a continued gaping crater-size hole in our pockets. It went with the territory for an injury Dad suffered…and continued to suffer. The trauma of it hadn't ended when we left the hospital four years ago. Really, it only began.

The nightmares.

The pain.

The depression.

The helplessness.

He refused therapy despite Sadie's and my insistence.

And so, here we were, on a vicious roller coaster that never ended or stopped.

“I’ll make us some bubble tea,” I said, standing up and adjusting the blanket draped over his legs. “Maybe it will combat some of this heat.” I checked the window before I left to make sure it was open.

---