Page 7 of Tell Me When It's Over

When she stops, I nearly plow into her. “I don’t want you asking a million questions, Leighton. Just follow me. You’ll know soon enough.” Her change of tone is one I’m used to, like those Sour Patch commercials, except she’s sweet and then sour instead of the other way around. One of her ex-boyfriends told her it was why he was leaving. He couldn’t handle her mood swings.

My stomach hurts as we near the house. Fidgeting with my shirt, I notice the cameras by the big white door, then the summery flower planters lining the sides full of pink, purple, and white plants. Mom doesn’t have to lift her hand before the door swings open. I jerk back from the abrupt motion and almost trip over the mat on the ground. It doesn’t say “welcome” it says “Bishop” in fancy script letters.

The middle-aged man standing in front of Mom has a stoic expression painted across his face. Thin lips pressed flat, narrowed eyes that look dark, and a squared jaw that’s clean-shaven and set like he’s unamused. Swallowing, I look at Mom to see her unfazed by his lack of welcome, taking it in stride in a weirdly smug way like she’s not sorry at all to barge into his life.

When I start to shift in obvious discomfort, the man’s eyes dart to me, pinning me to the cobblestone beneath my dirty shoes. For a microsecond there’s a change in his features. His eyes widen and his lips part and I’m not sure what he’s thinking, but something tells me it isn’t good. Before I can even blink, his face goes slack of emotion again. It’s…unnerving.

Mom says, “Hello again, Harry.”

The man, Harry Bishop I presume, huffs under his breath. Not a good sign. “Can’t say I expected to see you after all these years. A bit surprised by it, actually.” Definitely not a good sign. I swallow.

A soft hum rises from Mom’s throat, as if to say, I bet you are. “Are you going to let us in to discuss things?”

I part my lips to tell Mom maybe we should go, when Harry says, “I guess we should get this settled.”

Settled? I want to protest, to tell Mom I’ll wait in the car, when she grabs ahold of my wrist a little too tightly like she knows I want to run. Instead, she steers us into a huge foyer painted beige, pictures lining all the walls of people, mostly young kids that look vaguely familiar, and big expensive furniture that all matches unlike the mix and match stuff I grew up with.

Once the door is closed, I turn to face the man because that’s what Mom is doing. He’s older, but I couldn’t guess his age even if I wanted to. Based on the wrinkles by his eyes when he narrows them, and the streaks of gray in his otherwise dark hair, I’m guessing forties. Maybe fifties. Older than Mom’s thirty-five, though she can pass for thirty.

He’s looking at me from head to toe, making me squirm at the twitch of his lips as they form into a small scowl. I don’t know what to do or say, so I play with my shirt hem again to busy my fingers.

“Christ,” he murmurs, swiping a palm down his face.

Mom finally let’s go of me, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement pushes her boobs up, but for once, the unhappy man doesn’t notice. “Did you see the papers?”

He hesitates only a moment. “Yes.”

“And?” she presses impatiently.

The man looks between us, his dark eyes skimming over me again quickly. I shift on my feet and gnaw on the inside of my cheek. He curses again, his fingers going through his short, peppered hair. He’s wearing pressed dress clothes, no wrinkles, or stains to be seen, and they’re fitted to his tall, lean build. I bet he pays a lot of money for them to be like that. “I think we should sit down and talk with some of my people about this.” He pauses and glances down at the shirt I’m fidgeting with. “And you should probably get rid of that.”

My jaw drops. “W-What?”

Mom sighs in exasperation. “I swear, Leighton, you need to learn to listen.”

My cheeks blossom with a fiery heat as I quickly stare down at the floor when Harry’s eyes come back to me. I hear him repeat, “Leighton” like he’s testing it.

Wanting an answer despite Mom preferring I stay quiet, I ask, “Why do I need to get rid of my shirt?”

“Because,” Harry answers in a tone not quite hard but not soft either, “we don’t like supporting the competition here.”

Competition? Before I can even dare to look at him with curious eyes, I hear footsteps coming down the stairs from somewhere behind me, followed by a young guy’s gruff voice asking, “Who the hell is this?”

I turn and feel my heartbeat drum loudly in my ears when I lock eyes with a dark haired, dark eyed boy that I recognize instantly. How could I not? He’s all over the media, grocery store tabloids, and TV. More than that, he’s constantly playing on the radio.

Kyler Bishop, formally from a boy band known as Single Division before they broke up years ago after the person standing in front of me decided he wanted to go solo. And a division it was, according to the gossip magazines.

He’s taller in person, even though he was one of the shorter ones in the band. I think I read somewhere that he’s six-one or six-two. I don’t remember. It’s certainly taller than my five-five, though Mom’s old coworker at the last diner she worked, Rodrigo, told me he thinks I have some more growing to go.

Mom gives the former boy bander her typical sugary sweet smile, which he glares at like he sees right through it. He may be the first person, young or old, to do that and I have an odd respect for him even though I’m struck speechless to be standing this close to someone who I’ve only ever watched on YouTube before.

It’s Harry who says, “Son,” which nearly makes me choke even though the Bishop connection should have given me a clue, “this is Katherine and your…and her—and Leighton.”

I blink at the man’s struggled introduction, blinking between him and his son when Mom adds, “She’s your sister.”

My heart drops into my stomach, shock icing over my body until I’m frozen when all their attention turns on me.

Kyler Bishop looks at me with wide eyes, seemingly as pale as I am, thoughts unknown considering I can barely gather my own. He does the same thing as his father, studies me, his eyes going to my shirt before his expression goes completely lack.

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