Page 153 of American Hellhound
Maggie folded and packed her clothes with careful, precise movements. She didn’t rush, didn’t cry, didn’t get sloppy. But the stiff line of her back broke his heart. It was that, seeing her methodically take dresses and skirts and jeans out of his closet, that sent him over the edge, from rage and resistance into utter despair.
He ended up on the couch, bottle in one hand. Aidan wasn’t home from school yet, but would be soon. It probably wouldn’t be smart to get blind drunk. Probably.
But rather than dull the pain, the whiskey seemed to draw new dimensions from it, little bloody nicks and cuts he hadn’t felt before, now raw and throbbing. Worse than love her, he’d grownusedto her: smell of her shampoo on his pillow, feel of her body tucked against his, bright sparkle of her laugh, low murmur of her voice when she said sweet, motherly things to Aidan. She cooked their meals, and packed his lunch, and kissed him when he walked in the door every afternoon. She shoved her bare feet beneath his thigh on the couch when she did her homework, chewing on the end of her pen and whispering to herself as she tried to remember important dates in history.
He tried to think about the garage, about the luxury of having his own business, his own spending money, a credit card and new school clothes for Aidan. But he couldn’t. It was just Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.
And then she was really there, her bag set by the door, standing in front of him with a look of such sympathy he wanted to scream at her. How dare she.How dare she.
She pulled the bottle from his hand and set it on the coffee table, moving slow, like he was an animal she was trying not to startle. Her voice was soft, the tone she used when she put Aidan to bed: “I’m not breaking up with you. This is just for a little while.”
“Breaking up,” he repeated, sneering. What a stupid goddamn phrase. Like people were Legos that could be snapped apart and set down in different places.
“We’renot.” To his horror, or maybe his delight, she hiked her skirt up a few inches so she could straddle his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, hands pushing through his hair and face coming in close to his. Close enough for him to see the tears standing in her eyes. “I love you. That’s why I’m doing this.”
His hands settled on her hips on instinct. A part of him – selfish, screaming, furious, wounded – wanted to shove her away. But he drew her in instead, cuddled her in against his chest so he could feel the fast flicker of her heartbeat, the rhythm that belied her outer calm.
He had no idea what to say. He thought if he opened his mouth, nothing but broken, half-formed sounds would spill out. So he said nothing, petting her hair for a long moment that he knew would end too soon.
She kissed his cheek. “I’ll call you soon,” in his ear. And then she was sliding away, and picking up her bag. And then she was gone, the door easing shut behind her.
And then he sat there, watching the shadows grow long across the carpet, until Aidan got home.
Twenty-Six
Then
Maggie woke before the alarm the next morning. She was caught in a nightmare in which Aidan screamed and ranted at her, shouting that she’d ruined his life, his daddy’s life, that he hated her, that he never wanted to see her again. She jerked awake with a gasp, sheets tangled around her legs, clammy with sweat.
“Crap,” she whispered to her dark ceiling. It all came rushing back, the guilt and pain and sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Dinner last night was a blur in her memory: a whirl of light and perfectly seasoned chicken and her mother’s knife-edge gaze. She’d tossed all night, imaging all the ways in which Ghost and Aidan were lost to her now. In stolen moments, between nightmares, she’d dreamed that she was in bed with Ghost, his strong arm around her waist.
But now she was wide-awake, and the nightmare was real.
She bumped into her dad on her way out of the bathroom later, and he smiled at her, drowsy eyes brightening.
“It’s good to have you home, sweet pea,” he told her, pulling her into a hug that she didn’t reciprocate. “Your mother’s so glad you’re back.”
Was she? Maggie didn’t think Denise was evergladabout anything.
She dressed and tied back her hair; she didn’t have the energy to style it or bother with makeup. She felt drunk, her movements slow and uncoordinated. Her eyes ached from crying herself to sleep. She looked terrible, and didn’t care, shuffling down to the kitchen to choke down a piece of toast before she left for school.
The room was pitch dark, so she wasn’t expecting to see her mother sitting calmly at the table, sipping coffee, when she flipped on the flight.
Maggie started, hands flying out in front of her to form a belated, ineffectual shield.
Denise was already dressed, styled, sprayed, and shellacked for the day, a socially acceptable android who managed not to leave a lipstick print on her pristine white coffee mug. She sat ramrod straight on the edge of her chair, shoulders set, forearms equidistant on the table. Maggie knew her coffee contained three ounces of milk, no sugar. That her lipstick had been applied with two even sweeps across top and bottom lips, and dabbed with one press of a tissue. If she took four steps closer, she’d get a nose full of Chanel No. 5. – it was the reason she’d always hated that fragrance.
Maggie swallowed down her fright and said, “Good morning.” She had to try a little, if only so she had some grounds for justification when she continued to see Ghost.
“Good morning.” Denise’s gaze moved slowly down her, catching every frizzy hair and each speck of lint on her sweater, the scuffs on the toes of her boots. “I’ve made you a doctor’s appointment for this afternoon.”
“I’m not sick.”
“That you know of. You’re to have some blood drawn for pregnancy and STD tests.”
Maggie gritted her teeth and bit down on the nasty retort that built in her throat. She’d brought this on herself.For Ghost, she thought; it was worth it for Ghost.
She said, “What time?”
