Page 27 of Staying for Her

“She went to her parents. Said something about needing to start over.”

I shake my head, not believing a word.

“You can think what you like, man, but we talked for a bit last night before I moved you from the floor to the bed.”

I narrow my eyes, wondering what the fuck he means by that.

“Billie came over to ask me to help you off the floor where you passed out. She looked a bit upset but didn’t say much.”

Did I pass out on the floor? Fucking hell, I need to control my drinking.

“She’s with her parents?” I wonder aloud, as Mike nods and hands me a piece of paper with an address on it. “Why are you giving this to me?” It takes him a second but he eventually answers.

“Because she deserves happiness and I think you gave it to her for the small amount of time you two were together. I ruined what we had, but that’s on me, and she deserves more than what I gave her.”

I nod, knowing I want to give her the world and more.

“Just treat her right, okay?”

I nod again, watching as he turns on his heels and heads back into his apartment. The second his door is closed, I close mine and beeline it to my laptop that’s sitting on my kitchen table. I take the scrap piece of paper and type the address in, wondering where my girl went.

I smile when I see it’s only an hour away and I can make it there before dinner. I scramble to get myself together before I run out of my place and toward my car. I need to get to her, I need to talk to her, and I definitely need to do some groveling.

Billie

It takes me less than an hour to turn into my parents’ driveway, my hands gripping the wheel hard enough that my knuckles turn white. This is not what I planned to happen. I never thought I would have to come back here but right now I’m out of options. Before I even step out of my car, my father is standing on the porch of my childhood home, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. I take a deep breath, knowing that the lecture I am about to receive will be long and tedious.

“Just get it over with,” I mutter to myself as I make my way up the driveway, past the pristine-looking flowers that grace the pathway—something my mother always loves to boast about—and stop in front of the man that for most of my formative years terrified me.

“You can thank your mother for you being allowed back in this house.”

I take a breath, the tears threaten to fill my eyes at the nonchalance of my father’s tone and his deep empty gaze as he takes me in.

“If it were up to me, you would be dealing with your consequences on your own since you were so adamant that you could live outside of this house without our help.”

It takes every ounce of my self-control to not roll my eyes. There’s a part of me that longs to stand up to the man that never believed in me, always tried to control me, and has never shown an ounce of love. But I know that won’t do anything to help the situation, so I give a small smile and nod.

“I know.” My head bows on its own.

That feeling of helplessness I felt when I lived within these walls comes crawling back inside my body and it’s as if I’m seventeen again, praying for a miracle that would take me away from this hell.

“Go inside. Your mother is waiting.” His tone is final, his stance stoic, as I bow my head and quietly make my way into the house.

“Mom?” My voice is small, quiet as it echoes through the house and when I hear the telltale sound of pots banging together, I smile, heading into the kitchen. “Mom, are you in here?” I ask right before I poke my head around the corner.

Everyone always used to tell me that my mother and I look like twins; her flawless skin, effortlessly perfect curly hair, and curves were exactly like mine, but over the years I grew to resent that statement. It brought forth so many conflicting emotions inside me that I wondered if I was actually adopted because there was no way I could have come from my parents. My father was the mean one, the one with strict rules, codes of conduct, and consequences for being even one breath out of line. My mother was the exact opposite. She was warm and generous, and at her core, she was incredibly kind, but she was also a pushover. She never stood up to my father, always did what she was told, and the older I got, the more that got under my skin.

“Sweetheart! Look at you!” she says with tears in her eyes, holding her arms out for me to fit between. “You’re so beautiful!” she exclaims, holding my face between her palms and squeezing just a bit.

Her smile lights up her face and if I wasn’t well versed in her facial expressions, I would say she looks happy. But that darkness lingering in the corners of her eyes tells me differently. So does the way she flinches when my father enters the room.

“Enough of that. Is dinner almost ready?” he snarls, opening the fridge door and leaning over to grab a beer.

Bud Light. His favorite.

“Yes, dear, give me five minutes.”

He grunts a reply that neither of us hears, and the second he leaves the room, going to sit in his recliner in the living room, I watch my mother’s body relax, her shoulders sag and her eyes soften.

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