Page 72 of Sweet Oblivion

He grunted. “You still not talking to me?”

“Did you manage to talk to Aya?”

“No.”

“Are you still the asshole who banged my mom and lied to me about taking a job so you could be near her, not your possible kid?”

He sighed. “Nash—”

“Yeah, we don’t have anything to talk about.”

Steve finally left me to piss in peace. Fuck him. Fuck Pop Syad. Fuck my mother, too.

I pulled Aya’s mala beads from the pocket of my sweatpants. I’d taken them the night everything fell apart. I’d planned to give them back to her, but then it all went to shit. I fingered the tassel, wishing it was her soft hair.

Much as I wanted to send her another text, telling her how much I missed her, how sorry I was about her mom, I was afraid. Our conversation yesterday had been frosty—so unlike the warm, sweet woman I’d spent so much time building a life with this past year.

29

Aya

The door chimed. My pulse leaped. Nash. He would take me in his arms and hold me. This was all a mistake. A terrible mistake. My breath caught, hope surging.

My father strolled into the living room.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. My voice felt dull. I felt dull. Broken. Tired.

“Your housekeeper informed me of Sofia’s death.”

His jowly countenance neared, and I realized he planned to hug me. I stiffened. “You don’t like me.”

He sighed as he dropped his tweed-clad arms. “It’s never been an issue of like or love, Aya. Life’s more complicated than that.”

No, it isn’t. He’d made it clear he didn’t want me around. I wanted Nash to hold me. Except I didn’t. My skin prickled with shame. Humiliation flowed over me in a noxious, painful cloud.

My father led me to one of the sofas in the living room. I curled inward once more, not liking the cool, almost clinical feel of the supple leather against my bare shoulder. Everything hurt. Everything. I hadn’t known that was possible. My breath hitched, but my eyes remained dry.

“I think it best I take you home,” my father announced.

“I don’t want to live in England. I’m going to UT in the fall.”

My father stood over me, hands clasped behind his back. “We’ll ensure you have a spot in a program in England. You’ll want family near as you grieve. Perhaps a semester off, to spend time with Harriet and me, would do you good. You can build a relationship with your sisters.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to leave. This is my home.”

He waved away my words like they meant nothing.

I looked over to see Mrs. Ombly hovered in the open doorway between the kitchen and the living area, clearly unsure how to proceed. I glared at her, angry she’d brought my father into my life. He was already steamrolling my wishes.

“We’ll bury Sofia tomorrow,” he once again announced, paying no mind to my sputters of indignation. “And we’ll fly back for the weekend.”

I rose, my hands fisted. “I’m not going to England. This is my home.”

He raised his eyebrows, which caused his round, fleshy cheeks to jiggle. “Really? And where are all the concerned friends? Your mother’s mourners?”

I closed my eyes as he pointed out the truth: no one wanted me. All I’d ever wanted was a home—a place to belong, to be loved. I thought I’d found that here.

I’d been so wrong.

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