Chapter 17 Gwen - Is this an ambush?
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Dean?” I snap as I push the door open, hoping it knocks his ass on the ground. It doesn’t, and I’m disappointed when he easily takes a step back.
“Awfully late for you to just be getting home, don’t you think?” He’s still in uniform, but I can smell the alcohol on his breath. He must have gone out drinking after his shift. Shocker.
He looks like shit, and I mean that whole heartedly.
His hair started thinning a while ago and I suggested he roll with it and keep it short.
But it seems like he’s decided to let the straggly pieces that are still hanging on for dear life flap away on the top.
He probably tries to blame the sunken in dark circles under his eyes on the baby he fathered, but we all know it’s from his drinking that borders on problematic.
And his skin is so dry it could make the desert look like an oasis.
I try to make sure I don’t visibly wrinkle my face in disgust.
“It’s none of your business where I am or when I’m there.” God, I don’t need this right now. I try to brush past him, but he steps in front of me, blocking my path to the front door of my house.
“It’s always going to be my business.” His words slur, and I hold back from gagging. I need to keep things in check. He’s drunk, and we’re alone out here in the middle of the night. I’m not scared of him anymore, but I’m also not stupid. I know when to pick and choose my battles to stay safe.
Dean has never hit me. I’m not handing out awards for it or anything. There have been a few occasions where I’ve thought the blow was coming, but it always stops just in time. He’s always walked the line so perfectly.
But I recognize things have changed, and he might not walk the line as well anymore, so I have to be careful.
I take a deep breath and will myself into a false sense of calm until I can get myself inside. “Dean, please go home. It’s only a short walk in that direction.” I point towards his house, where his cruiser sits in the driveway, the driver’s door is still open.
“You weren’t handing out candy. You always hand out candy on the porch. You used to get mad at me when I made plans. You never came with me.”
“Yeah, sorry I didn’t want to go get trashed with your loser fucking friends,” I say without thinking. Okay, not in the script, Gwen. Hold it together.
“So, where were you?”
“I’m not doing this.” I don’t want to aggravate him further, but I’m also not about to roll over and give him what he wants.
“You were with that punk, weren’t you? The one with the kid?”
“He’s not a—You know what? I hate that you think you can do this. Please leave.”
“That’s a yes.” Dean laughs, and the hairs on my arm stand up. “Pathetic,” he spits.
“Let. It. Go.” I shoulder check him as hard as I can in an attempt to clear the way. I realize my mistake immediately. His hand grips around my bicep right before I’m in the clear.
I feel his hot breath on my neck, and I deserve an award for not throwing up the contents of my stomach right here on the spot. “You think that gives you the family you begged me for, Red? You think this fixes your sad, little heart? You’re wasting your time.”
His words sting, but they’re not as damaging as they used to be. I scoop up that small win and hold it tight to get me through these next two minutes.
I need to placate him. I need to diffuse the situation.
If I don’t compartmentalize now, things could go from bad to worse and avoiding that is my goal.
I need to remember the Goddamn goal. So, I don’t let his words touch me.
They’re meaningless, just like he is. Besides, it’s nothing I haven’t thought of myself, as shown by my actions earlier.
“Okay, Dean. You’re right. I’m just gonna head in and think about how wrong I was.” I use the softest voice I can manage to make myself smaller. By some miracle, it works, and his hand releases from me just enough to let me pull away and hop and skip to my steps.
He’s still standing in the same place I left him when I get my door unlocked. “I’m not going anywhere, Red. You’re mine! You always fucking have been!” he calls.
I can’t slam the door fast enough.
It’s been two days.
Two days since I’ve slept. Slept at night, at least. There are usually a couple hours during the day I manage to nap on the couch after I’ve checked out my windows five or six times, assuring myself no one is home next door or in my driveway.
I lied when I said I wasn’t scared. Sticking to the truth now, my interaction with Dean has rocked me. I don’t want to close my eyes at night in fear he’s out there. I made sure I was home before the sun went down the one time I did manage to leave the house since Halloween.
I feel like a prisoner in my own home, and I fucking hate it.
When I snuck out to check in on the cafe yesterday, I hoped to run into Miller, but it seems like he might be avoiding me.
Actually, he’s definitely avoiding me, confirmed by the fact that I only got to see Penelope because Margot brought her down to hang with us while we de-spookified the cafe in preparation for my Winter Wonderland takeover I’m hoping to tackle in the next couple of days.
I’m not slacking like I did with Halloween, no matter how I’m feeling on the inside.
Maybe the merriness will fix me.
My stomach grumbles to remind me I do still need to eat in order to survive. I could order pizza. But then I run the risk of George or John on delivery tonight, and I’m not too keen on having to explain the state of me or my house.
Where normally I would throw myself into every chore I could think of and then some to distract myself, the fact of the matter is, I’m exhausted, mentally and physically. My poor house is suffering the consequences because of it.
Everything looks and feels like it needs a deep clean. Dusting, laundry, mopping, vacuuming, organizing, the works. But every time I think I’m ready to dive into something, I sink further into the couch. Or my bed. Or honestly, sometimes the floor if I’m really not feeling it.
“It” being…life.
I’m tired of my life being run by Dean Fitzgerald, both directly and indirectly.
I’m sick of making decisions based on things he’s said or done.
I’m over being this meek mouse, jumping at every little thing, especially the things that might actually be good for me.
I’m cowering in my house like a little bitch, and it’s gotta stop.
I shoot up from my spot on the couch with an idea and grab my phone. I dial one of the few numbers I know by heart.
The call picks up on the third ring. “George’s Pizza, this is George!”
“G—it’s me. Can I place a pick up order?”
“Red? You want to add something else?”
I’m…confused.
“Wait, hold on. Miller just walked in.” He must pull the phone away from his face because he sounds farther away and sort of muffled, but I can still hear him. “Hey kid, I’ve got the three pizzas here ready to go. But Red’s on the line, let me see if she needs me to add anything.”
George addresses me again, “Red—”
I can hear Miller in the background and George pauses. “George, no! She doesn’t know!”
The call ends without another word.
What the fuck.
I pull up my text thread with Miller. The one that’s been untouched for two days. My thumbs dart across the screen, and I hit send before I can think twice about it.
Me
what the hell was that?
The dots that are normally instantaneous don’t appear. Five minutes go by, then ten.
Miller doesn’t respond.
I pace the length of the living room to the kitchen. I contemplate calling him but chicken out once I get his contact pulled up. I must have misheard him. The call must’ve dropped, and I’m a jerk for leaving George hanging like that.
Rummaging through the contents of my mostly barren cabinets, the only thing I find that could resemble a reasonable meal is a can of Spaghettios I’ve had sitting in here for a while. It’s probably leftover from one of the times I babysat Daisy’s little brothers.
I’m digging through a drawer, looking for my can opener when I hear a car pull into my driveway, followed immediately by another one.
Abandoning the dismal plan of eating cold O’s out of the can, I rush to my front window to peek behind the curtains.
Miller’s car is parked next to Sawyer’s Jeep.
Margot and Penelope are walking hand in hand up to my porch with Miller and Sawyer trailing behind.
Sawyer has a case of beer in his hands from a local brewery he’s obsessed with, and Miller’s carrying three boxes of George’s giant pizzas.
I do a quick scan of the state of my house. Post-house party trash is the vibe it’s giving, and I have no time to rectify that. Thankfully, the four humans who are about to bust down my door won’t judge me. I can spiral about a lot of things, but apparently not their unwavering loyalty.
Even Miller’s, to whom I owe a whole conversation and apology.
“You’re hermiting again, and none of us are allowing it!” Margot yells from outside.
Small fists rap against the wood. “Miss Gwen! Open up! It’s chilly!”
That gets me to whip the door open. “Did you just call me Gwen?” I look down to Penelope, who still has her hand raised, ready to continue knocking. She’s in her pajamas and holding her favorite stuffed cat.
“Miss Gwen,” she corrects. “The G and the W together confused me, but Daddy helped me sound it out. You signed my card, remember?!” P then lowers her voice, “Daddy says I still have to put the miss in front of your name. He says that’s what’s polite.
” She holds up air quotes, and I do really think she thinks we’re the only two who can hear her. God, she cracks me up.
Miller shakes his head at his daughter, and the rest of us try to not lose our shit on the spot.
“Hi,” he says sheepishly.
“Hi,” I answer.