Page 31 of Borden 3

I walked past her in the corridor. “You’re out more often than not, and you’re doing it on school nights. This can’t go on.”

I didn’t answer as I walked into the kitchen. The stovelight was still on. I filled up a glass of water and took big gulps. I’d walked for hours tonight and seen so many interesting places.

Granny hovered behind me, fussing. “Debbie-Anne said she saw a boy walk you home a couple times.”

I put down the glass, but my eyes found hers. “He’s a friend.”

She studied me suspiciously. “What kind of friend?”

Oh, my God. “The kind you fuck.”

“Emma!”

I rolled my eyes. “Just a friend, Granny.”

“You’re fourteen.”

“Okay.”

“How old is he? Because Debbie-Anne said he was a big guy—”

“Debbie-Anne is a gossip queen who loves to stir the pot, and you always listen to her shit.” I threw my hands up in the air. “If you want to believe a cat lady who collects tea cups and spends her time looking out her window in the dead of night over your granddaughter, go for it.”

I went to walk past her. Her hand grabbed gently at my arm. “Exactly, you are my granddaughter, and my responsibility. I want to be sure you are alright—”

“Then you should have done something a long time ago,” I cut in pointedly.

She stared at me like I’d stabbed her straight in the heart. The look only made me feel gross in my skin. I shrugged her hand off me. “I tried,” she whispered. “I tried to get your mother away from him—”

“I don’t even care,” I said emptily. “It happened forever ago.”

“You obviously care.”

I spun around to look at her, feeling defensive. “Don’t kid yourself. This family has a knack for fucking with bad guys, so I understand why you assume I would do the same, but Theo’s different, Granny. He’s one of the good ones.”

“You sound so certain,” she replied, dryly. “You clearly know more than me.”

“When it comes to people that I spend time with? Yes. I’m not eight anymore, Granny. I don’t need you to hold my hand across the damn street. You don’t have to pretend anymore—”

“Pretend?” she shot back, having the audacity to sound surprised.

“Yeah, stop it already. Live your life. Keep crocheting your blankets and stop making me scarves. I haven’t worn a single one of them in years. In fact, just do your own thing and then we can just cross paths until I’m out the door and out of your hair. Just like Mom did.”

Her face reddened. “Your mother ran away from me at sixteen. She met a boy, too.”

She left me to fill in the blanks.

“I’m not my mother,” I said, doing my best to reign in my temper.

“And that’s why I am trying to help you,” she whispered gently.

“No,” I hissed back. “You’re trying to save me, like you should have tried to save her. You’re just using me to ease your own guilt.”

Before she could say another word, I added, “I’m going to bed.”

I disappeared inside my room, fell into my bed, felt the gross emotion spread throughout my body, the guilt feeling like sweat on my skin.

I screamed into my pillow.

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