Page 93 of Cheater and the Saint
23
Leo
I sat in my truck way too long, just staring at the house. So many memories revolved around that house, some of them happy. A lot of them happy, actually. One of Heath chasing me through the yard and threatening me with the tickle monster when I’d been six. Another of us climbing the trees in the backyard and pretending we were warriors.
But then there were the not so happy ones.
The memory of feeling lost and alone as I realized I wasn’tnormal, and all the years spent hiding that fact. Dad shoving me against the wall and choking me. Dad punching me and calling me a piece of shit. So much pain. Sadness.
A knock on my window made me jump, and I saw Heath standing on the other side.
“You gonna come in or what?”
I turned off the engine and got out of the truck, taking deep, calming breaths.
“Just a warning,” Heath said, stopping me on the stone path. “Dad doesn’t look good.”
He’d gotten there earlier that morning, so he’d already had his reunion with them. Apparently, they’d welcomed him back with open arms. But he’d never been the son they were ashamed of. They’d only cut him out of their lives because of me. Not because of something he’d done.
As we walked closer to the house, it felt like my legs were going to give out. If Heath hadn’t been beside me for emotional support, I probably would’ve turned around and gotten the hell out of there.
When we entered the house, the first thing I noticed was the smell of cooking food. Probably Mom’s pineapple glazed ham and her homemade turkey dressing. The second thing I noticed was how empty it felt. There weren’t any pictures of us on the walls… well, of me anyway. There were a few school pictures of Heath, back from when he had hair. I hardly recognized him with the long, dark locks.
It was as if I’d never existed. No pictures or signs that I even belonged in the family. I wasn’t the black sheep; I was the sheep they slaughtered and forgot about.
I didn’t see anyone in the living room, but I heard Mom’s voice coming from the kitchen; followed by a deeper voice that I recognized all too well, even though it’d been years since I’d heard it. I hadn’t noticed I was holding my breath, until my lungs started to burn, and I sharply exhaled.
Heath grabbed the back of my bicep and looked at me. “You okay?”
“No,” I admitted, facing the open doorway that led to the kitchen. “I want to fucking get this over with.”
Heath walked through first, and I followed behind him. Mom said something to him, and he answered. I didn’t know what they were talking about. My heart was racing so fast that it was hard to hear anything other than the blood rushing through my ears.
“Leonardo?” Mom asked.
In an instant, the hammering in my skull quieted, and I focused ahead.
Mom hadn’t changed much through the years, other than her hair getting grayer. She didn’t believe in dyeing it. She wore a flower printed dress, and she still had that gold cross hanging around her neck. She lifted her hand and held it as she looked at me, and I got the feeling she was probably praying, as if I was the devil and had come uninvited into her home.
“Margaret,” I said. She didn’t deserve to be called Mom.
Heath shot me a look, and I shrugged.
“You look….” She looked me up and down before lifting her gaze back to my face. “Well.”
Almost seven years without talking to me, and that was all she had to say?
I squared my jaw. “Thanks. I’m just peachy.”
A cough to my left had my back straightening, and my heart thumped wildly again.
Dad sat at the dining table, in the seat he’d always sat in, and the sight of him triggered so many emotions: anger, sadness, and pity.
He was way too thin and small, not anything like the big brute of a man that’d thrown my sixteen-year-old body against the wall and held me there in a chokehold. The dark hair I remembered was now thinning and balding in some places. An oxygen tank was beside him, and he adjusted the nasal thing before moving his steely-eyed gaze to me.
“Are you just gonna stand there and stare, boy?” he asked in a raspy voice.
“I really feel the love here,” I said, covering my hurt with sarcasm. Just like I often did. “Between Margaret’s beautiful words about me looking well, and you scowling at me from over there… well, this is one hell of a homecoming, isn’t it?”
