Page 84 of Unloved

“Can we finish reading that book tonight?” I ask.

“Of course.” My dad ruffles my now dry hair. “I’ll wait for you in your room.”

When he leaves, I quickly put on my underwear and pajamas, then toss my dirty clothes and towel in the clothes hamper. I bump into my mom in the hallway on the way to my bedroom.

“Where’s the fire?” she asks, gripping my shoulders and holding me in place.

“Sorry, Mom,” I say too quickly. “I need to get to bed so Dad and I can read the last two chapters of my book.”

“Slow down or you’ll hurt yourself, honey,” she says, holding me in place. “He isn’t going anywhere.”

“I know, I know,” I rush out. “Can I go now?”

She kisses the top of my head. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I whiz around her and run to my room. My dad is lying on my bed with his hands around his mouth like a megaphone. “I’m counting to three, Samuel, hurry up and jump in.”

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.

THREE MISSISSIPPI

RHYS: SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD

“Rhys, put your sister down,” my mom orders.

“No,” I say flatly. “She’s crying. Why do you let her cry so much?”

“It’s called self-soothing,” she says, walking upstairs, like I have half a clue of what the hell that is. “That way she knows how to settle herself sometimes and doesn’t always need to be picked up.”

“Sounds barbaric if you ask me. Look how quiet she is now.” I kiss the top of my sister’s head, literally inhaling her brand-new baby smell. I’m completely smitten with her. “I’m not going to let her cry like that if I’m home,” I tell my mom. “You can forget about it.”

“Suits me fine,” she calls out from her bedroom. “You can deal with all the crazy night feeding hours when you’re home too.”

I don’t bother responding because I know she doesn’t believe me. Instead, I continue to hold Kayla as I make my way up to her bedroom. We settle in the rocking chair until it lulls us both to sleep.

When I open my eyes, I realize the room is a lot darker and Kayla is no longer in my arms. My heart starts to race as I launch myself out of the rocking chair and straight down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“Where is she?” I breathe out, my head swiveling around the room. “Where is she?”

My father comes out of his den, glass of scotch in hand. “What’s gotten up your ass?” he asks.

Distressed, I run my hands through my hair. “Where’s Kayla? She was sleeping on my chest.”

“You sure she didn’t roll off you? Or maybe you squashed her.” He chuckles, and I struggle to see just how funny he thinks this is.

“Are you kidding?” I spit out. “How is that helpful? For real, how is you joking about her falling off even the slightest bit funny? Fucking idiot,” I mumble.

I wave him off and turn to make my way up the stairs to look for my mom and Kayla. Just as I’m about to climb the first step, a hand grabs the collar of my shirt and yanks me off the stairs. My father pushes me up against the wall, his gross whisky breath fanning my face.

“What did you just call me?” he asks. “Tell me. What did I just hear you say?”

I don’t respond, and not because I’m scared of him.

“Tell me,” he yells.

I don’t take the bait. I don’t fight back against the man who seems to have some superiority complex when he drinks.

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