Page 168 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part Two
I bite my lip to hold in my knee-jerk instinct to correct her insubordination.
“Let’s go inside and figure it out,” I say, exiting the car. It takes two minutes for me to help her out of the vehicle, and I stop her in the foyer when she starts to jet off.
“Wait, Tems. Aren’t you hungry?” I ask.
Poking out her bottom lip, she says, “No,” but the acoustics in the foyer amplify her growling stomach.
“Hmm, I don’t know, Tems. You seem pretty hungry to me,” I say brightly. “What kind of pizzawouldyou like?”
She ignores me, folding her arms and tapping her foot.
“Tempest?”
“I don’t want any pizza!” she shouts. “Why would you think I want stupidpizza?”
“Tempest!”
She freezes, her eyes wide, and tears land on her eyelashes.
“I hate you!” she screeches before sprinting off.
Way to go, Sandoval.
I let her run away, hanging my head as I stand there like an idiot with my hands on my hips.
Tempest’s rage is understandable. With how damn smart she is, it’s easy to forget that she’s only seven and dealing with some major life changes.
Changes that would make a full-grown adult more than testy.
So I don’t expect her to have full mastery of her emotions, and I know, even if she doesn’t have the language for it, she wants to punish me.
She probably wants to punish me for not being around; she probably wants to punish me for coming back.
Whatever she feels is valid.
All that said, today isnotgoing well, and if I can’t find a way forward with Tempest, I know Shae will put the brakes on us adding more change to the twins’ lives, such as starting a public romantic relationship with me.
Shae will put Tempest first, in front of her own happiness, and I can’t blame her for that.
At the end of the day, I’m the adult here. It’s my job to mend the relationship, not Tempest’s.
Sack up, Sandoval.
The first place I look is her bedroom, and when I don’t find her there, I head to the playroom. Right when I start to panic, I head down the hall, crossing the main space to get to Shae’s room, and stop short when I see a door open that’s always closed.
My father’s office.
I like to pretend it isn’t there, even though it’s hard to do with the room being so close to the entrance of the house. Now, seeing the door ajar and the thick, dusty tarps over the furniture, I have…almost an out-of-body experience.
I’m cold, shaken by this blatant reminder of my parents, of the last time I’d been in this room with my father and the events that happened afterward. I’d desensitized myself to the act of simply existing in this home, but this room, just like the art barn, is too close. Too…them.
Putting a hand on the handle, I peer into the room, my gaze skimming over the surfaces. The combination of the rain outside and the thick curtains covering the windows casts the room into shadows.
“Tems?” I call out, hoping she’s not in here, that the door being open is a random event. But then, I hear a sniffle, and I know I’m going to have to face the ghosts I try to pretend don’t exist.
I take one step, then another, stopping to stare at the spot where my father broke the picture frames holding images of our family moments before he died. It’s like the past and present overlay each other, and I find my chest getting tight.
Another small sniffle comes from the direction of my dad’s massive oak desk, and I know she’s hiding under there.
