Page 8 of What I Should Have Felt

The blanket of night settled upon my shoulders as I continued meandering down the road. The lights were on inside my parents’ house, the stars a beacon to a destination that I’d been dragging my feet from returning to since Colette had left the treehouse-turned-cabin. While the excuse of doing research sat at the tip of my tongue, and wasn’t technically a lie, I knew deep down that all of that investigating and gathering information about this rich real estate guy had been merely that—an excuse.

Even calling the state police seemed like an excuse and a long shot. It could take them months before they managed to get an investigation started on not just this wealthy outsider but also the local sheriff’s department that I knew had gone corrupt and started taking bribes from that same real estate mogul.

My phone vibrated in my pocket as I rounded the end of the driveway and shrugged my rucksack tighter up my shoulder. Another text message, probably from Griffin giving me more intel on this Robert O’Connor.Information I’d relay to Mikey to see what connections he could drum up with his fancy computer skills that landed him with the Rate he had.

I’d check the message later; right now, I needed to focus on keeping my emotions in check as I stared at the front door. Voices whispered from inside, landing softly on my ears. My mama’s voice danced through the cracks in the threshold, and I nearly collapsed to the ground. Fifteen years. I hadn’t heard her speak in fifteen years, and it sounded the same as I remembered.

Clutching my chest, I blew air into my cheeks and swallowed the tears that threatened to spill. The mirror of my choices lay before me. Every consequence I’d anticipated hadn’t prepared me for the chill that slithered down my spine, knowing I’d broken her heart.

The exact words they spoke were of no consequence to me; I didn’t care. What I cared about was simply hearing her speak, so I closed my eyes. Leaning my ear silently against the door, my bottom lip trembled as words left her lips again.

“I don’t know how much longer we can hold out,” my mama said with a crack in her voice. She still spoke as if she sang the notes in tune with a flute. As smooth as whiskey and gentle as a songbird, though I knew they could slice as sharp as a knife when needed.

“What about the loan we took? Didn’t that help?” my father replied. His voice reminded me of my own when my Cajun accent slipped out. Lower, deeper, but not quite as gruff as mine had become with age. He hadn’t fallen into the habit of smoking, and while I wasn’t nearly as bad as Mikey or Griffin, a cigarette or two often graced my own lips.

“It did, but the business isn’t as good as usual. And with the messed-up orders lately, I don’t know what else we can do.”

“Messed-up orders that were O’Connor’s doing,” my father grumbled, and I finally focused onwhatthey were saying.

“It doesn’t matter, honey, because we can’t prove it,” my mom said. “At some point, we won’t have money left and will have to sell to him.”

“The music festival tomorrow will certainly help.” The tone in my dad’s voice lifted in spirit.

“Not with the LeBlancs, and you know that. We’ll see half of the customers just as we do every year because half of them will go there. And I’m not losing to the LeBlancs!”

“Losing?” my mawmaw inserted, and wood groaned as I imagined her rising from the rocker in the living room to the right of the entrance. “This isn’t the time for that petty rivalry, Fleur.”

“Really, Maman? You’re going to stand there and act like you didn’t spend your entire life doing everything in your power trying to bring the LeBlancs down?”

“And what good did that bring? I won’t see my daughter and son-in-law lose their business to an outsider because they can’t figure out right now that two enemies have a common rival. Y’all should be working together to—”

“Enough with that same argument, Maman,” my mama inserted, cutting Mawmaw off. Footsteps stomped across the carpet in the living room, nearing the door.

Jerking away from the frame, I raised a fist and rapped my knuckles against the wood just once before the door flew open.

And a face I’d lost in the mirror years ago stared back at me. Eyes with the same genetic heterochromia widened in shock as her weathered hand froze around the door handle. My mom’s face turned to that of stone, her wide-set jawline and gentle cheeks held deep lines that weren’t there when I’d seen her last. And hair that had once flowed freely down her middle back now sat in thin, silver wisps, short around her shoulders.

“Hi, Mom,” I quietly said as deep creases formed between her brows.

Her gaze left my face and slowly trailed down to the tips of my boots and then back up again, only briefly pausing on the wound hidden beneath gauze and torn joggers. Once her eyes met mine again, the shock faded, drowned out by a flickering of emotions indecipherable in the backlit entrance.

Shrugging my shoulders up to my ears, I studied the short, plump woman who remained like a statue before me.

“Fleur, what’s going on?” My father’s voice encroached on the woman whose floral shirt drowned her in a way that had my heart aching. My mom was… older. Worn down. And I knew part of that was my fault.

A shadow fell over her short figure, and a sharp intake of breath pulled my gaze away from my mom. “M-m-my son,” my dad stammered. But he, too, seemed unable to move. Quite the pair they were and always had been. My dad was tall—taller than me still to this day, which was saying something, considering I was six feet four inches in bare feet. But he was thin, with bushy brows—brows I’d also inherited.

“My son,” he stated firmly this time, pushing past my mom. Wiry arms wrapped around my shoulders, and I collapsed into his chest. I’d expectedanger. I’d expected frustration and resentment. I’d expected anything except for this.

Despite the age that showed upon his skin, despite the rounding of his shoulders that stole at least half an inch from his height, he was still my dad. He was still the man I’d worked hard to one day make proud. Despite the fact he had hardly any hair left on his head—despite it still being the same brown shade as mine—despite the fact that his blue eyes were clouded behind glasses, he was still my dad.

As my chest wracked in silent sobs, I twisted his plaid, short-sleeved, button-up shirt in my fists as his hand patted my back. “Welcome home,” he muttered against the side of my head.

“No,” my mother’s once-smooth voice sliced sharply through the embrace.

“Honey,” my dad gently admonished as he slowly released me from his hold. I kept my eyes closed for a moment longer as the warmth of his thin body left mine. “It’s our only son.”

“Who. Left.” I opened my eyes as she ripped her hand off the doorknob and clenched both fists by her sides. “Go. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to know you’re around. Just leave. Like you did once already. And never come back.”

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