Page 84 of Infinite

I wait, unsure what to do. It’s only when Emer holds open the door that I know I’m welcome.

And that maybe I always belonged.

Chapter Nineteen

Becca

It was hard waking up without Hale beside me. When I read his note that he’d gone to see his brothers, it was hard not to follow and make certain he was okay. But the hardest thing of all was leaving Hale’s bed to return to my childhood home.

Momma didn’t give me a choice. “If you ever loved me, Becca June, you’ll come and tell your daddy goodbye.”

That’s the call that woke me from sound sleep and the last thing I wanted to hear.

My Mercedes rolls to a stop. I climb out, slowly, my heart heavy and chills racking my spine. I look up at the grand estate. I don’t feel what I feel because my father is dying and the hours he has left are few. The cold taking up residence deep within me is due to fear. Fear of what he’ll say and what his words will do to me.

At thirty-two years old, I’m still afraid of my father. It saddens and disappoints me, but it sickens me more than anything.

I ring the doorbell beside the heavy door that marks the entrance to my childhood home. The door looks new. It’s not. It’s a door capable of keeping a giant out and secrets and screams locked tight within. Momma has a thing about keeping up appearances with things looking fresh, no matter how badly they’re falling apart on the inside.

The door was recently sanded to perfection. I slide my fingers over it, feeling the slickness of the wood as I wait. She chose a dark stain this time. It goes nicely with the ornate ironwork that decorates the windows. I wish I could tell her I liked it. I wish I could tell her a lot of things. But like the feelings stirring deep in my gut, my conversations with Momma have never been sweet ones.

Even as a child, I noticed the strain between us. I wanted to connect with her as easily as Trin and her momma so effortlessly did. Once, when I was nine and my birthday was just a few days away, I tried to mirror Trin to see if Momma would respond like Miss Silvie.

Momma pulled away, frowning. “What are you up to, Becca June?” she asked.

“I want to be close to you,” I admitted. “Like the Summers are. Trinity and her momma hug all the time when she comes home from school, in the kitchen while making supper, anywhere, really, they hug all the time.”

“Sylvie Summers?” she asked, her voice judgmental, as if seeing more than what was there. “Didn’t I tell you she refused to hold the Confederate flag during our annual picnic last year at the club? Sweet heavens, you’d have thought we were asking her to hold up the building itself.”

I knew that flag was offensive, even then. Miss Silvie herself had told me why. She was teaching Trinity and I how to make cranberry cookies. She explained why the flag was special to some and why it hurt so many others. She didn’t judge, but she did make us understand. But me talking to Momma wasn’t about what Miss Silvie did. It was about what she and Trin had that I really wanted.

“Momma, I want us to be close,” I repeated.

“To spend time together?” she guessed. “Maybe go shopping?”

The annoyance in her tone already told me I was fighting a losing battle. My mother never made me cry like my father. But that day, my tears didn’t want to stop.

Momma raised her small thin brows she’d plucked one too many times, her impatience with me growing at the sight of my tears. She motioned around the room, where the dining room was stuffed to the gills with traditional Southern men and their wives. Theclink, clinkof meticulously polished silverware tapped against the stark white dishes. “What do you call this, Becca June?” she asked.

There wasn’t so much of a sliver of what I’d hoped for. Instead, there was only confirmation of what I’d always suspected. I was a burden to my mother. An obligation. I wasn’t something to simply love and cherish. “Wipe your eyes, Becca June. People are staring.”

I shake out my hands. These are the type of memories my childhood home stirs. I don’t need them now. I’ve never needed them.

The door swings open, the motion so awkward I know it’s not whom I’m here to see. I was prepared to find my cousin, Kirk, in the kitchen, complaining about liberals and blaming everything on the manipulation of the media, or perhaps in the billiards room shooting pool with my other cousins. I hadn’t expected him to answer the door.

Age wasn’t kind to Kirk. He’s heavier, the little hair he has left thinning at the top. He doesn’t bother saying hello. Neither do I. “Upstairs,” is all he bothers with.

I try to relax my hold on my purse strap. I don’t realize how hard I’m gripping it until I have to shake out my hand when Kirk turns his back.

The air inside the house is frigid, as my father prefers. In another house, all the wood paneling would provide a sense of hominess and small children would slide down the long winding banister. This house has no such things. I wasn’t allowed to be “childish,” even as a child. This is the place where happiness comes to die and where the dreams you have are quickly silenced.

Kirk hops up the stairs in his bare feet. Momma never allowed shoes upstairs. It’s the reason Kirk glances over his shoulder and frowns at my feet.

My mint heels are high, but respectable, and my white cold-shoulder dress sleek, yet professional. “I’m not staying long,” I say, before he can remind me to take my shoes off.

“Suit yourself,” he mutters, caring about as much as I do.

We reach the second floor. Just as I didn’t expect Kirk to answer the door, I don’t expect all the people gathered along the east wing. Matthew is here with his wife, Lynda. Matthew appears relieved to see me and he almost smiles. “Hi, Becca,” he says.

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