Chapter 7 Daisy - Sometimes home isn’t where the heart is #2
I pretend I don’t see the row of dirty dishes lining the counter as I make my way to the fridge.
I open it and find empty containers that don’t belong, take-out boxes filled with food that probably expired days ago, and half of a thirty-rack still sitting in the torn cardboard box it was carried home in.
Even though I just ate with the Caswells—Red’s included in that now since we all know the wedding is inevitable—I’m still hungry.
Pushing all of the junk out of the way, I find my Tupperware of salad I stashed before I left the house this morning and grab the bottle of Italian dressing on the top rack of the door.
I shut the fridge with my foot and begin to assemble my meal on the small bit of free counter space.
I try to do this as quietly as possible, attempting not to bring any attention to myself, to avoid a conversation—or argument—with anyone.
It’s not late enough for my mother to have passed out yet, or for Hunter to be too tired to fight. So naturally, my guard is up. I don’t bother to check the living room. There won’t be a sight there I haven’t seen.
I don’t care. I do not care. I don’t fucking care.
If I say it enough times, maybe I’ll finally believe it, and it won’t be considered lying. No one likes a liar, as my loving, devoted father reminds me of any chance he can.
I put the bottle of dressing back in the fridge and tip-toe my way up the stairs to retreat to the safety of my bedroom.
The twins’ bedroom door is cracked open, and I chance a quick peek in to see Hunter fully immersed in some violent, war-ridden video game.
He’s sitting entirely too close to the TV, and Chase, sweet Chase, lying on top of his bed, sheets still perfectly made under him, is reading a book.
Hunter mercifully doesn’t hear me over his headset that I’m sure is only omitting sounds of preteens swearing into their microphones and blasts of grenades or whatever.
But Chase can hear a leaf blow by, so when his eyes find mine over the top of his book, I shoot him a smile and small wave with my free hand, a silent greeting to let him know my door is always open for him if he needs it.
He shoots me a quick peace sign before diving back into whatever story he’s finding joy in.
He doesn’t take me up on the wordless offer often. Only sometimes, in the middle of the night, do I feel him crawl onto the side of my bed that hugs the wall. He’s usually gone by the morning.
I could have slept over Red’s. We’re all carpooling for the drive up to Barefoot Lake anyway. She offered, with Miller backing her up on it. They have a spare room. I wouldn’t have been imposing. I’m told this repeatedly, but I never say yes. I don’t do sleepovers.
I’m down for a weekend of camping so long as I get my own tent to call home at the end of the night, but other than that—Yeah, no sleepovers.
The fact of the matter is, I’m an outsider. I manufactured it this way, completely my doing, to no one’s fault but my own. I have my reasons to keep the distance. Straying from my regular routine is something that just doesn’t happen with me.
I do it for the twins, to make sure they have a responsible, sober adult home who will always care and love them unconditionally.
For my friends, to make sure they never know. Never know…everything.
I hang my tote bag from my chair and place my second dinner on the desk in front of it.
I grab my headphones to throw on as I find my phone, waiting for the Bluetooth to connect.
I bring up my audiobook and hit play. The heavy tone of the male narrator’s voice always makes me jump at first. But once my body recognizes we’re not in any actual danger, I can lean into the romance for my form of escape as I eat.
I’ve never been someone who can focus on words on paper, unless they’re my own.
My brain doesn’t work like that, and I used to feel less than because of it.
Was I not smart enough? Not focused? But Dr. Saltore, the trauma therapist my parents threw at me to get me to shut up all those years ago, suggested audiobooks some time ago, and it stuck.
It was like a whole new world was discovered, just for me.
I get to transport myself into places I couldn’t dream of, learn about people who I would never cross paths with while walking the streets of a small town like Merrymount.
The narrators block out the sounds of my dismal reality, for even just a little.
And above all, I get to experience love between people in a way I’m not sure I’ll ever find for myself, both platonic and romantic. Because to reach that level of devotion to someone else requires trust and vulnerability that I’ve never been willing to experience.
I check messages and comments on the riverside’s social media channels.
I’ve been running that side of Beth’s business for about a year now, and it’s something I’m so damn proud of.
Seeing the organic growth of customer relationships and engagement online with people who would have otherwise never discovered the gem that is Rivers River is hands down one of the best parts of my days.
Of course, there’s the shitty part of this job. I have to get past the dozens of comments and emojis from women who are big fans of Gus—the “giant mountain man”—who somehow makes his way into a few of the videos and pictures I post.
I scoff at the latest.
Wish he’d throw *me* over his shoulder like that.
And another brings on the type of eye-roll that could very well cause damage to my retinas.
Give me five minutes and a hair tie, iykyk.
They’re written under a montage of clips playing with a Noah Kahan song I edited together the other day when Sawyer and Gus were hauling fallen down logs up to Gus’s fire pit. Can’t say I see the appeal…
I let the video replay, even though I had to watch it through no less than a hundred times while editing.
Okay, fine. I guess Gus looks objectively attractive carrying a tree trunk that probably weighs double him with ease.
He doesn’t even look like he’s breaking a sweat.
That kind of shit gets the ladies going. I can be amenable to that opinion.
I also know how those hands wrapped around the bark feel when they’re wrapped around my body. As much as I’ve tried to train the memory out of my brain, it’s seared in there. Permanent. Life altering. Ick.
Not ick.
Whatever.
I heart the thirsty comments, along with the six other ones agreeing with the original poster, the crease between my eyebrows crinkling in disdain with every single one.
But my finger pauses at a comment I somehow missed. One that has more likes that I would prefer.
When’s someone going to take one for the team and find out who mountain man is?
My eyes bulge at a reply.
Do we think he’s single? I’m about to shoot my shot. Climb him like a tree if you will.
Like fucking hell you are. Something nasty comes over me. My thumb hovers for a second before I let the pad of my thumb swipe the delete button on the original comment and the reply.
Whoops.
We don’t need random people with no desire to support the actual business of the riverside twittering around and being general pains in the ass just to attempt to score with Gus. It’s unprofessional and rude and disrespectful.
We’re an upstanding establishment in this community. Beth deserves more than hosting some impromptu small town redneck version of The Bachelor.
At least all of that sounds good in my head when I try to block out the ugly green-eyed monster named jealousy that occasionally likes to take up residence in my brain.
I’m not jealous. I don’t even know what I’m saying. Gus is Gus. He’s free to do whatever—whoever—he wants. I mean, we…did what we did once. It was a one-time thing.
A text pops up across the top of my screen.
Little Red Riding Hoe
you never texted me to tell me you got home. rude
Shit. Red’s a stickler about stuff like this. Like I said, mother hen.
Me
Sorry! Sorry! Home safe and sound.
Little Red Riding Hoe
shame you didn’t stay. gus came by ;)
I freeze. What the hell does the wink mean? She can’t—there’s no way. Red wouldn’t know anything. I never even leaned into a hint about what went down between me and Gus. Did he say something? He wouldn’t.
My stream of consciousness is running at a million miles a minute, and yet I can’t think of a single way to reply that doesn’t throw me under the bus.
Three dots appear before I come to any sort of a decision.
Little Red Riding Hoe
ohmyGAWSH. i was kidding don’t ignore me
Me
Har-har. See you tomorrow, bitch.
My headphones might be noise canceling, but they don’t do shit to block out the sound of my door bashing into the wall as it’s whipped open.
I throw my phone down, along with my headphones, and swivel in my chair to see my nightly sleep paralysis demon.
I mean, my mother.
“What are you doing home so late?” she snarls.
“It’s—” I glance down at the time on my phone. “Not even 9:00 p.m. I don’t have a curfew, nor does literally any of this matter. Can I help you?”
“This is still my house, Daisy. You still need to abide by my rules.” Her words are slurred. My mother’s hair is tied up into a rat’s nest of a bun and makeup runs down her face. Clearly it’s not one of her better nights. No idea what could’ve set her off.
The number one rule to handling an intoxicated person is to not make them mad when they’re volatile, a skill I should have perfected by now but alas, I’m still doing my silent counts to three with deep breathes in through my nose. Just like Dr. Saltore taught me.
“Sorry, Mom.” I swallow. “Do you need my help with something?”
An ugly laugh escapes her mouth. “No. The twins would have starved, since you never even bothered to check if they ate. But not to worry, your father picked them up something a little bit ago. Shame they can’t rely on their big sister.”
Shame they can’t rely on their mother. I keep that obvious fact to myself though.
Because of course she would use Hunter and Chase to make me feel guilty for being gone. She knows I’m taking off for the weekend. So hitting me where it hurts right before I leave ensures there’s a damper on my time away.
Never mind the fact that I made sure our grandmother was free to host them. But, of course, Mary Jane would take offense to that. She doesn’t like any outsiders knowing our nasty business.
“Again, sorry,” I say, resigned. “Won’t happen again.”
Drunken Mary Jane Stiles backs out of my room, not bothering to shut the door behind her. Before slinking away, she strikes again. “Such a waste.”
Ah, yes. My entire existence. A waste.