Page 120 of Braving the Storm
The woman I never met.
“I’ve told you so many times, I wish there was a way to undo what happened, but holding me responsible is shitty behavior, not to mention unhealthy.”
“Fuck you, Briar.”
Blowing out a breath, I dip my fingers into the tumbling water. “Get yourself a therapist, babe. Better yet, go and get yourself laid. That’s probably ten times more useful, might dislodge that pole up your ass.”
With that, I hang up and shake the water off my other hand. I’m not continuing to put myself in the firing line to receive more of her venom. It’s been her default setting for twenty-six years, and I’m done being her emotional punching bag. She’s an adult, and screw her; I’m not going to be held responsible for whatever toxic cloud my sister is determined to carry around, and willingly allow to poison herself over and over.
Some people just don’twantto see things differently, no matter how many opportunities you extend them to get help or find a way out, and Crispin Lane is absolutely one of those kinds of people.
“Briar?” I spin around at the sound of the breathless voice calling my name.
Clara looks as if she just sprinted down the stairs, her eyes wide and cheeks pink.
“What’s the matter?” My grip tightens around my phone. God, I hope this isn’t going to be another kick to the shins, because after suffering the sting of that verbal slap from Crispin, I don’t know how much more I can take tonight.
“I think you’ll want to come and see this.”
I triple-checkthe address on my phone before finally gathering the courage to ring the doorbell to the suburban bungalow with butterfly ornaments scattered through the front garden.
My heart hasn’t stopped pounding during the entire drive over here.
I lay awake all night rehearsing what to say.
What if no one is home?
What if they’ve moved house? Or cities?
This could all be for nothing, and I’ll be back to having nothing but hope and desperate prayers to carry me through however long I end up stuck here for.
This has been the longest stretch of torture, and my fingers feel like they’re numb from clinging to the edge all these weeks upon weeks.
Just as I consider ringing the bell again, I hear movement inside.
The door cracks open on a security chain, and a woman with a gray bobbed haircut and pale blue eyes hidden behind reading glasses peers at me.
“Are you Mrs. Mitchell?”
“Who’s asking?” She looks me up and down cautiously.
“My name is Briar, I’m so sorry to turn up unannounced, but I was hoping you might have a few minutes?” My palms are sweating.
“What’s this about?”
“I’m here to talk about your daughter, Tegan,” I watch her features soften as I say her youngest’s name. “I also believe you know my father, Erik Lane.”
The woman standing before me goes still, and for a moment, it seems like she might slam the door in my face, before she relents.
“Graham, we’ve got company.” She calls over her shoulder as she closes the door just enough, and the metallic scrape of the chain sliding free announces my entrance.
“Thank you. I’m so sorry to put you out like this.”
“Briar, was it?”
I nod as I step inside, instantly catching sight of the high school senior portrait of a young girl with bouncing blonde curls, a brilliant smile, and a distinctive beauty mark on her upper lip.
“If you had to endure a man like Erik Lane as a father, then it seems the least we can do is offer you a soda… unless you want something stronger?” Mrs. Mitchell leads me along the hall to the quaint kitchen, as we pass the lounge, a man gets to his feet out of a recliner.
