Page 7 of Severed Rivalry
It’s why I’m patient with teenage attitudes and hormone swings.
We live out loud, in technicolor, in surround sound. And choose the life we want.
“Renée. Rosie. I’m home.”
Rosie comes around the corner, looking a little worse for wear. “Hey, hon. How was your—” She spies the flowers, and her eyes blow wide. She tilts her head in question, apparently rendered mute by the peonies.
Me, too, Rosie. Me too.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Where’s Renée?”
“Emotionally, she’s ‘all up in her feels.’ That’s a quote. Physically, she’s in her bedroom, with headphones on, listening to music.”
“Give me one second?” I set the flowers on the dining tableand head down the hall, knocking on my daughter’s door. When she doesn’t answer, I knock again, louder this time. “Renée?”
“Yeah?”
I crack the door and look in. Maybechaosis too mild a word. Oh well. I’m only willing to fight the battles that are worth fighting, and this isn’t one of them.
Renée drops her bulky headphones from her ears to around her neck.
“Hey, baby. I’m home. Rosie intimated you had a rough day. I wanted to check on you.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay then. Maybe later over pizza?”
She shrugs and lifts her headphones over her ears.
“Love you.” I mouth to her and pull her door shut.
I return to the kitchen to find Rosie sitting at the dining room table staring at the bouquet. “He found you?” Her voice is tentative.
“I bumped into him last night. These arrived at work today.”
“Tell me everything.” Rosie taps the table, both excited and resigned.
I do… every detail I can remember. When I finally pull out the card to see the words written there, I sigh and pass it to her.
You are more captivating than you were when we first met. —Ci
She drops a hand over her chest. “It’s time to stop running, hon.”
“Renée—” I start but don’t get much more.
“It’s time to stop running. Not begin again. This man—” She lifts the card, flapping it in the air. “He was the right one the first time. How many people get this kind of second chance?”
“A year and a half. Less than two more years, and then…” And then, who really knows? Do I think if we get to and past her fifteenth birthday it won’t happen? Do I think fifteen magically saves us and makes the fear and running all worth it? “What if?—”
“We don’t do what-ifs in this family.” Rosie taps the table.
This family.
“I love you, Rosie. I don’t want to run anymore either. But what do I do?”
“You tell him. Tell him how you ended up in Fort Collins. Tell him why you left and what happened when you did. Tell him all the things that scare you. And see if he’s the man you’ve always claimed he was.”
