Page 69 of Tangled Desires

“Hey, what’s wrong? Did you guys have an argument?” Isla’s hand reaches out to rest on mine.

I blink away the tears that have already started to fall. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying.”

“Don’t be sorry,” shetsks. “It could be your hormones. It’s normal. You’re allowed to feel whatever you’re feeling.”

I snort, shaking my head. No, this doesn’t feel like hormones. This feels like two-weeks-worth of bottled-up frustration, suddenly crashing down all at once. Harrison shutting me out. Everything he’s been through. How fucked up it all is. I wipe my face again, but the tears keep coming, uninvited.

“He was fine after he opened up,” I say, clearing my throat. “We went on a job together, and he was… touchy. Very touchy.” I blush at the memory of him and I. Against the hood. Grease everywhere. “Affectionate. Then, just like that—nothing. He barely even looks at me now.” I don’t mention the ache in my chest, the way it deepens every time he pulls away. Or how, deep down, I might care more than I’m ready to admit.

Isla squeezes my hand. “Hm. Xavier told me Michael noticed it at work, too. Said Harrison’s been snapping at customers, almost lost it with one of the mechanics. He’s not himself.”

No, he definitely isn’t. I need to find a way to cut through the noise in his head.

Isla tilts her head, her brows furrowed. “Do you think something happened to set him off? Did anything change recently?”

I bite my lip, trying to think back over the last couple of weeks. Nothing stands out—nothing that should be causing this. “I don’t know. It’s been... a blur.” I rack my brain for anything that might have triggered this. “Well, there was that one day he was really quiet after that meeting with the supplier... and then there was the weird phone call he got one night, but he wouldn’t tell me who it was. And, I guess, his brother’s been on him about helping out more at the shop... but none of it feels big enough to make him act like this.”

The memory of my quick internet search earlier buzzes in my brain. ADHD in adults can cause mood swings, impulse control issues, and difficulty managing emotions. But with Harrison, it’s more than that. You don’t go through what he has and come out unscathed. Trauma leaves its mark. I can’t forget the way he thrashes in his sleep, battling demons only he can see.

I read about strategies to help—ways to support someone dealing with both ADHD and trauma. But knowing what to do and knowing where to start are two different things.

And right now? I feel like I’m fumbling in the dark.

Before I can spiral further, a voice cuts through my thoughts. Molly, Isla’s young colleague, appears in her scrubs, looking frazzled. “Sorry to interrupt. I need your help with Hugo. His heart rate is elevated, and his temperature’s spiking.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in a second.” Isla flashes me an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, Midge.”

I wave her off. “Don’t be. All good. I should head back to work, too.”

“Call me if you need anything, okay? Just keep talking to him. You’re the only one close to him right now. Keep us in the loop?”

“I’ll do my best.”

It’s around three in the afternoon and I’m finishing up a blowout for my last client, smoothing out those last few strands, when the door chimes. A mother and her daughter step inside, the little girl’s blonde curls bouncing as she chatters away. The mother’s smile is soft as she talks to Madeleine at the counter.

Out of nowhere, the mother calls, “Deborah, come here, sweetie!” The name hits me like a gut punch. Deborah. My mother’s name. Suddenly, I’m sitting at that old kitchen table, small and silent, while Mum and Dad tear each other apart.

“Quit sooking, Steven. You’re acting like I’ve spent thousands of dollars!” Mum yells, her voice piercing my ears.

Dad’s face twists. “Thousands or not, Deborah, it’s money we don’t have! You keep spending on pointless things—expensive clothes, hair, nails—while Imogen needs a bloody new school bag, actual school supplies. Essentials.”

Mum crosses her arms and rolls her eyes. “Oh, so now I’m not allowed to look after myself? I can’t even have nice things?” She laughs, but it sounds mean. “Maybe if you worked harder, you wouldn’t have to complain all the time!”

“I’m working as hard as I can, Deborah! Money doesn’t just fall into our laps!” Dad looks at me like he forgot I was there. “Maybe if you got a job, I wouldn’t have to worry about every bill!”

I shrink in my chair, wishing I could disappear. Every time Dad yells, it hurts. This happens every time Mum has a few drinks. Mum makes a funny sound and puts her glass down hard. “Work? How am I supposed to work when I’m stucklooking after her?” She nods at me without even looking. “If you made more money, we wouldn’t be having this. You don’t care about me—never have. All you wanted was a kid to tie me down.”

I try to make myself smaller, but it’s like her words are crushing me. I know I’m the reason they fight, the reason she’s unhappy. It makes my chest hurt, and I just want to vanish.

Dad looks sad. “You’re not the only one who sacrificed, Deborah. You wanted this life, too.”

Mum laughs. “A life like this? You think I should be grateful?”

“Grateful? I’ve worked myself to death trying to give you a decent life.”

Mum scrunches up her nose, her eyes mean. “I deserve better than this.” I don’t like when Mum is mean to Dad. It makes him upset, and that makes me upset, too. I don’t understand why she’s like this. Why does she always say things that hurt him? It feels like everything’s getting worse when she gets like this, and I just want it to stop. Why can’t she just be nice? Why does she make Dad sad?

There’s a pause, then Dad snaps. “Fine. You don’t want to be here? The door’s right there.”

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