Page 8 of Indigo

Lana was the only one to offer any help.

Being a teacher, she knew calling social services would split Jagger and me up, and I would have rather died defending him against our father than have him taken from me, so she never brought it up. She never made the call.

What she did was offer us a safe place whenever we needed it, and a warm meal that she often left at our doorstep, knowing I wouldn’t come and ask for another handout. I was reluctant to accept her help in the beginning, being a stubborn little boy with a gigantic chip on his shoulder, but she never gave in, never stopped pushing.

The woman even paid our bills at one point, just to keep the water and electricity on, ‘cos lord knows the little money my father had didn’t go toward household expenses.

That would have meant he couldn’t drink himself into a stupor every night.

Grateful,doesn’t even cover it when it comes to my feelings for this woman.

“Just wanted to drop this off,” I say, holding up the baking pan she left with me last week after cooking up a bunch of her famous brownies.

“Oh, you could have just kept that, love,” she says, walking past me and the emerald green couch she has sitting in front of the TV, heading for the kitchen, her mind clearly somewhere else. “Coffee?”

“Thank you,” I reply, following her, knowing no one makes coffee like Lana Parish. I’ve built up a tolerance for it over the years. Necessary, ‘cos that shit is strong.

As I stand on one side of the vibrant blue kitchen island, Lana begins tinkering with the drip coffeepot with her back to me.

As she curses under her breath, trying to scoop the coffee grounds from their foil packet, I ask, “Something on your mind?”

“Hmm?” she asks, looking at me over her shoulder. “No, no. I’m fine, I’m just, just thinking.”

I chuckle, completely unconvinced, and stare out of the stained-glass windows above her kitchen sink, into the backyard, as she continues to fuss about.

Once the pot is full, Lana pours coffee into two mugs and slides one across the counter to me. I take a sip, and watch as she does the same, not missing the way her eyes dart away from mine, or how her bottom lip trembles slightly before she says, “I’m worried about Indie.”

My entire body tenses from the mention of her name. The last time Lana and I spoke about Indie, she stopped me when I was halfway out the door with her daughter's address in hand, ready to go to her. To fight for her…

“Pax, wait,” Lana says, wringing her hands together nervously, only a few steps behind me.

I pause in the doorway and wait for her to speak.

“Sweetheart, she’s, um, she’s going on a date tonight. It’s a first date, so it’s not like they’re serious, but…”

But she may not want to see me. Not after a year. Not when she’s moved on.

The unspoken words hang in the air between us as I clutch the scrap paper in my hand.

God, I’m an idiot. Of course she’s dating. Why wouldn’t she? I’m just the asshole who let her walk away without explaining himself.

What did I think was going to happen? That I’d turn up on her birthday, give her a damn cupcake and hope like hell the wish she made this year would still include me?

Fuck.

I clear my throat, crumple the paper in my hand, and tuck it into the back pocket of my jeans. “Right. Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

Since then, I’d heard things around town. I knew she was in a relationship, knew where she worked and for who. But Lana and I drew a line in the sand.

We didn’t discuss her.

Fresh tears blink freely from Lana’s eyes as she begins to ramble. “I don’t know why she didn’t tell me earlier, Pax. I tried so hard to be there for her. I just thought she was becoming more independent, trying to do things on her own, and didn't want to see me as often. I failed her. I should have seen the signs, should have stepped in.” Her eyes search mine frantically.

“What signs, Lana?” I ask, my hand shaking as I grip the mug sitting in front of me a little tighter, the hairs on the back rising. “What’s happened?”

“She started changing right before my eyes. Started dressing differently, acting strange,straighteningher hair.” For anyone else to straighten their hair, it’d be no big deal. Indie’s curls have always been wild and hard to manage, but she adores them, so I understand why Lana is emphasising the fact.

“She lost her job after she left him.Michael.” The way she sneers as his name leaves her lips has me bracing myself on the counter, palms flat, ready to jump into action. “I stayed with her for a week. That’s where I’ve been.” Shaking her head, she takes a deep breath and raises her watery eyes to mine again. “This morning, on our way to breakfast…” Her face crumbles.

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