Chapter Twelve
Maggie
As soon we step out of the bathroom, Harry is there, asking Bridgette to join him in his office. We both tensed up as she gave him a shaky nod and rigidly followed him down the hall. Nerves have been twisting inside me for the last hour she’s been in there. They didn’t hear us, right? Brad wouldn’t have said anything. Especially that fast? There is no way. It was stupid of us to do it right there, right then. Though I can’t deny, the anticipation of getting caught…under the table and in the bathroom was just too tempting.
Fuck.
My eyes dart to the hallway for the twentieth time in the last ten minutes. I don’t hear yelling, so that’s good, I guess. Harry Brenton definitely seems like the type of man who would be yelling if he knew his daughter was just eating her stepsister’s pussy.
Shit, will that ever not sound hot?
Fuck, no, Maggie. Focus.
I’ve been busying myself in a spare room a few doors down from Harry’s office. If I heard him hurting Bridgette or losing his shit on her, I don’t know what I’d really be capable of doing, but I’d try like hell to protect her.
The room is filled with a bunch of unpacked boxes from our house. I still don’t understand why my mom sold it. Getting married or not, wouldn’t it have been a good investment to hold on to the place? Rent it out or something? My dad always said that letting go of real estate when you don’t have to is the most foolish decision anyone could make. Then again, my mother is quite the foolish woman.
Most of the boxes this far have been crystal and China serving ware. A few paintings and other décor are also scattered throughout, but nothing that my mother or I seem to be too attached to. That is until I come across one box labeled ‘Matthew.’ My heart clenches at my father’s name and my hands begin to shake as I peel it open.
When I do, I see some of his old pullover sweaters, a shirt or two, and some ties. One tie stands out above the rest, though. Lifting it out of the box, a thousand memories hit me all at once. When I was eight, I bought it for his birthday. It’s a black silk tie with candles twisting all around it. The thing is truly hideous, but my eight year old brain was excited that not only did I find something that symbolizes a passion we both shared, but one that he could wear every day. And wear it, he did. Even when my mother expressed her hate for it, he wore the thing nearly every day that he could.
So many nights he would come home from the office, exhausted and stressed, that tie wrapped proudly around his collar. I can still remember the smell of his cologne, how it never changed through the years. I remember the way the silk tie felt against my cheek when I would hug him and never let go when he came back from trips.
I thought that I’d moved through my grief. Mainly because I was given no choice, honestly. Then again, my father has been gone for less than five months. I think it’s okay to not be okay. I think it’s okay for my heart to still ache at the memory of him. I think it would be fucked if I didn’t. It would be a dishonor to his memory, to his legacy.
A figure steps into the room behind me while I’m drowning in the past, and my mother’s voice pulls me out of my happy memories.
“What are you doing?”
I blink back the tears brimming in my eyes as I attempt to clear my hot and scratchy throat.
“Going through some of Dad’s stuff,” I say as I look at her over my shoulder.
Irritation flickers across her face as she stomps over to me, yanking the tie out of my hands and throwing it in the box.
“There is no use in dragging up the past, Margret. It’s time to move forward. Your father isn’t a part of your life anymore. Harry is your new father.”
I stare at her like she’s grown a second head because honestly, I’m so taken aback by her words.
“Are you fucking crazy?” I shout.
“Do not speak to me that way!” she snaps. “I’m your mother. I am?—”
“The woman who climbed into bed with another man before my dad’s body was even cold in the ground.” I finish.
I don’t see the slap coming, but maybe I should have. The sharp sting burns across my cheek as I grit my jaw and face her once more.
“Then again, maybe you were already in bed with Brenton,” I spit.
Fire engulfs her eyes as she leans to the side, ripping the box from behind me with more strength than I would have thought and carries it out of the room.
“Where are you going?” I shout.
She doesn’t answer me. I follow the sound of her high heels clicking against the floor until we reach the grand fireplace; the flames flickering and roaring ominously. The moment I realize what she’s doing is a moment too late.
“Wait, no!” I shout as she throws the box into the fire.
The flames rage for a moment before mellowing down. I sink to my knees as I watch the last of his clothes burn. But most importantly, I watch his tie burn. Tears begin streaming down my face as I hear my mother make a satisfied humph before stomping out of the room.
I don’t give a fuck, though. I can’t bring myself to tear my eyes away from that tie as the flames eat up every inch of it before it turns to ash.
Gone.
Just like that.
This pain that started in my chest has now reverberated throughout my entire body. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. All I can do is…stare.
Another set of footsteps sound behind me and I really don’t give a fuck who it is. I want nothing to do with anyone. Slowly, Bridgette kneels down beside me as she stares at the raging fire.
“Those are your dad’s things, aren’t they?” she asks, her voice oddly numb.
I don’t look at her. I just nod.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
Shaking my head, I continue staring at the flames, for I don’t know how long.
When the entire box and all its contents are reduced to nothing but soot and ash, I turn to look at her. Of course, she looks the exact same as she did an hour ago, but something is missing. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s like the light has been snatched from her bright blue eyes, leaving behind practically colorless orbs in their place.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She looks at me and just stares. No answer, no gestures, just her soul peering into mine. I want to ask her what her father wanted. What he said to her, because clearly, it wasn’t good. As selfish as it sounds, though, I don’t feel like I’m capable of taking on anyone else’s pain right now. So, instead, I decide a distraction is best for both of us.
“You want to go somewhere with me for a little?”
“Where?” she asks.
“Does it matter?” I counter.
A humorless laugh leaves her as she nods, standing to her feet before offering me her hand. I take it, not able to ignore the rush of butterflies I get just from touching her. It’s there and gone as quickly as it came when she lets me go and heads for the door. I grab my purse and keys on the end table and I hear my mother call out to me, but I don’t engage. If I even set my eyes on her right now, I might just snap her goddamn neck.
We head for my car, wordlessly climbing in before I fire it up. We stay silent the entire way as I bob and weave through traffic. Salem on a Friday night can get a little chaotic despite how small the town is. It’s summertime, though. Everyone is out and about doing something.
When we reach downtown, I take a left and head for the outskirts for a bit before pulling over to my usual parking spot. Bridgette gives me a confused look, but follows along as I slip out of the car. Together, we walk side by side as we pass through the gates of a graveyard. We move through rows upon rows of headstones, some elaborate, others simple and plain, before stopping at my spot. Well, his spot.
His grave is right beneath a tree. It casts perfect shade on a sunny day and provides good cover on a rainy one. For the first month, I came here every day; practically slept out here. Over the last few months, I’ve come less and less, and now, I can’t remember the exact date I was last here. And I fucking hate myself for it.
“Hi, Dad,” I say with a watery smile and a tight voice.
Slowly, I lower myself to the ground, crossing my legs as I do. Bridgette sits beside me, tucking her legs under her skirt as she stares at the gravestone.
“This is Bridgette. I’m sure you know her as your disgusting wife’s new stepdaughter. Don’t hold it against her, though. She’s great.”
Bridgette’s brows knit together.
“Do you think he can see us? I mean, you think he’s like watching over you or something?”
I turn to look at her. “Don’t you with your mom?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “My father told me it was impossible. That we get one life. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. All that.”
I lift a brow at her. “That’s not what the Brethren teach.”
“Don’t lie and say every person in Salem follows the Brethren’s teachings to a T.”
She’s not wrong, though, I wouldn’t be saying it out loud if I were her. You never know who is listening.
“I do,” I answer before she gives me a confused look. “Believe that he’s watching over me. It gives me peace. I think it’s much easier for the living to believe that the dead watch over us, taking care of us. I mean, wouldn’t you rather believe that your mom has been looking after you, watching you become the woman you are today as opposed to her never knowing you? Just one minute she’s here, and the next gone forever?”
Bridgette thinks of that for a moment before she nods.
“I should have known the goth girl would spend her time in a cemetery,” she says, nudging her shoulder into mine.
Somehow, that pulls a laugh out of me and I shrug.
“If you’re going to be labeled, you might as well own it. That’s why you’re a raging cunt, right?”
I expect her to get mad, to be outraged and defend herself. Like Bridgette always seems to do, though, she surprises me.
“Exactly.”
I smile at her, resting my hand on top of hers. She smiles back before her head whips around, like she’s making sure nobody is watching. Can’t say I blame her, especially after tonight.
“What did your dad say?” I ask.
“Huh?” she says as her head turns back to look at me.
“In his office? Did he know? About…us?” I ask carefully.
“Oh, no. Just family stuff.”
I wait for her to elaborate, but when she doesn’t, I decide to let it go. We sit there in silence for a few more minutes as Bridgette casually, yet discreetly, links our hands together.
“I like it here.”
I nod. “You’re welcome anytime, if you don’t mind getting labeled a goth girl,” I tease.
She laughs and shakes her head. “Not on your fucking life, Bartlett.”