Page 23 of Roses in Summer

Opening my eyes, I turn my head and stare at my sister. “What do you mean?”

“Well…” She looks down, having the decency to look embarrassed by what she’s about to say. “We may not have gotten a confession on camera, but I did get an assault. And what’s better than fighting blackmail with blackmail?”

“You cannot be serious.” I groan, sitting up and steeling myself against the wave of nausea that hits me. “Shit.”

“I don’t give a shit about Mitch. We’re going to the goddamn hospital. And Bianca, call Mom and Dad; this has gone on long enough.”

—

There’s a sense of déjà vu sitting in triage while my family gathers around a sterile hospital waiting room. Not even a year ago, my older sister was in this position, though her attack was significantly more serious than mine. Just like we were huddled together, waiting for news about Ava, my parents, Rafe, and Bianca congregate just outside the doors separating my assigned room with the family members in the ER waiting room.

I’ve been stuck, prodded, scanned, and iced in the three hours since I’ve been here, all for the doctor to say I am concussion-free, to take acetaminophen for the pain, and to see a dentist once the swelling goes down. I squeeze my eyes against the anger coursing through me, an emotion I’ve become all too familiar with since November.

A knock on the door forces my eyes open, and I watch my parents gingerly open the door, a stack of papers in my mother’s hand.

“They’ve discharged you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the blood rushing in my ears. “But the police would like to speak with you. You should talk to them.”

“No.”

“Seraphina.” My father’s tone is sharp. “You were assaulted.” I asked my sister to give my parents the bare minimum of information, but as soon as the words “Seraphina was attacked” left my sister’s lips, I knew there was no more hiding.

Looking past my parents, I focus on the glass pane on the door, the fight and need for secrecy leaving my body. “Mitch’s dad told him that as long as he and I were dating, the witness that came forward would remain silent.”

“Oh my god.” “What?” The dichotomy between my mom’s hushed voice and my dad’s screech is almost funny. Almost. Except it’s not.

“For the last six months, I’ve agreed to date Mitch in exchange for Judge Abernathy’s help on the witness,” I repeat, adding more context to my statement. “But I’m sorry, I-I can’t do it anymore. Not after tonight.” My words end with a stuttered cry, and I try to hold back the emotion. After all this, the last thing I want to do is break in front of my parents.

Keeping my eyes on the glass, I wait for their responses. Truthfully, I have no idea what they’re going to say.

“Seraphina,” my mom chokes out, her voice sounding as gravelly as mine. “Sweetheart,no. You didn’t need to do that, and you know Daddy and I would never ask, nor expect, that from you.”

“I was there the day the district attorney came to the house. I heard everything, but it was nothing Mitch hadn’t already told me.” I shift my eyes to focus on my parents. “I didn’t think, I just agreed.”

“Fuck.” My dad scowls, running his hand through his thinning hair. “Seraphina, listen to me. You will never see Mitchell Abernathy, his asshole father, or any other member of the Abernathy family again, do you understand? We’re going to allow the police to take your statement, and we’ll help you determine the best course to take. But under no circumstances will you put yourself in jeopardy again.”

“But the witness—”

“Seraphina, we already submitted the case files to the courts. There was no hiding this or feigning ignorance. You know your mother and me well enough to know that we’d never stand for this level of deceit or questions about our ethics. The day after the DA came to us, we spoke to another litigation lawyer and collectively agreed that submitting the recorded, raw testimonies of the witness, along with a character profile and history, was the only way to prove our decision not to submit her inconsistent statements to the defense. It’s been under review for four months. Why didn’t you speak to us about this? You didn’t need to suffer.”

My mouth hangs open, my jaw unlocked as I digest the full magnitude of what my father just said.

Of the months I’ve wasted.

Of the people I’ve hurt.

Of the things I’ve lost.

All for nothing. What do they say about the miscommunication trope? That it’s the most annoying thing in existence?

Pain stabs through me at the thought of all the time I lost trying to protect my family, who didn’t need protecting. Closing my eyes, I swallow the throbbing of misused time and feel the trickle of a single tear slide down my face.

I allow myself one—a solitary drop to mark my stupid ignorance before I square my shoulders and look my father in his eyes. “I’m ready to speak with the police.”

9

Lincoln

“You need two cups of milk, two cups of sparkling water, two cups of flour, two eggs, and two tablespoons of sugar,” my mom lists on the phone. “And don’t forget the butter or lard for the pan. You need it hot, but don’t burn the fat.”

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