Chapter Twenty-six
“Y es, mom,” I stifle my sigh, rolling my neck back and forth as my patience starts to wear thin.
“Good,” She snaps into the phone, “I don’t want to hear you’ve been to that side of town again, you hear me, Marly?”
She’d blow a gasket if she ever finds out about what I did last night. It also reminds me that I’m going to need to get that scratch repaired before they get home. I could lie and say it happened in a parking lot or something like that, but I’m terrible at lying and I just really don’t want to deal with it.
I mean, I could probably have Rachel arrested for it but that seems like I’ll be adding fuel to a fire I didn’t start. I knew she didn’t like me; I just didn’t realize how much and I’m not going to lie, it irks me because she doesn’t even know me. I’m just a threat to what she has deemed is hers. Even though River made it clear he didn’t want her.
“I hear you,” I respond to my mother.
“Good,” I hear her loosen a breath, “That’s good. Now, how’s it been since we’ve been away? Have you been eating?”
“Yes,” I answer robotically.
“Not too much, I hope,” She adds a lilt to her tone which, to anyone else might be perceived like a joke, but I know it isn’t.
“My normal amount,” I tell her, my stomach twisting. This is just awful. So damn awful. I got home on such a high and now all I want to do is crawl under a blanket and cry a little. They are draining me.
“Well, I’ve got to run, darling, your father and I are going for dinner on a yacht tonight. Say hello to your brother for me, and I’ll see you next week.”
She hangs up before I can get in another word and I sag, letting myself slip down the wall I was leaning against to sit on the floor. I turn my cell to silent and wrap my arms around my shins, bringing my chin down to my knees. I would’ve ignored the call if I didn’t know she would call every minute until I picked up but now she’s gone and ruined my whole day.
I woke up so damn happy this morning, I felt free. But it was a ruse, a lie I made up to give myself one day of freedom, but here I am once again, in this gilded cage.
I need to get out and yet I don’t know how.
My grandmother used to be an escape for me. My dad’s mother but she was nothing like him. Her wealth was sickening, truly, but it never made her change. She was humble. She helped and cared and gave back, so I don’t know where it went wrong with my father. After she passed, her estate went to him which only added more to his ego.
She would be here rooting me on to tell them all to go shove it. She hated my mother and barely tolerated my brother, but me and her had an amazing relationship. It makes me miss my ribbon even more since that is literally the only thing I have. My mother wouldn’t let me go through her things to pick out keepsakes or trinkets, or even pictures of us together, I know she hated that we were so close, and I overheard her on several occasions warning my father that she could rot my brain.
I miss her tremendously. It’s been seven months, and the grief is still a constant ache in my chest. It got easier after the first couple of months, but it never leaves me, even when I feel like I’m floating on cloud nine with River.
She’d love him, I think as I sit here on the floor in the hall. She’d give him hell and question him incessantly, but I know she would like him and tell me to shoot for the moon with him.
There are people that are just good , they don’t scheme or cheat or manipulate, they just are who they are, and that was my grandmother.
My lashes are wet with fresh tears, dripping over my cheeks and then onto my legs. I just feel so heavy, like I have a boulder strapped to my ankles and I have to drag it around everywhere I go. The pain and the anger are so evident inside of me I can’t even revel in the way I felt this morning waking up next to River. The memories of last night are ones I will cherish but even they can’t fight the grief crushing me from the inside.
I’d come home and practically skipped through the house, I showered and washed my hair again before I’d changed into a pair of leggings and thin sweater. Rain had come in on my way home, chasing away the intensity of the heat and I’d been chilly.
I felt good, sore but good and I couldn’t wait to see River again but now I don’t even want to see myself.
I don’t know how long I stay on the cold floor for, long enough for the light to dim beyond the window and darken the space around me. I still don’t move though. The tears have stopped but my skin feels tight, dry and my eyes are sore. Rain pats against the windowpanes, not having stopped for a single minute since it started this morning.
When darkness fully falls though, I decide to get up, my muscles aching from having stayed in the same position for so long. I stretch my body and then slowly trudge through the almost pitch-black house, knowing it so well I don’t need to turn on any lights. It’s so big and sterile, my steps echo and long corridors stretch left and right, the very ends of them swallowed by darkness so black it feels like you’re looking into a void. They used to scare me as a child but not so much anymore. I’d often dreamed of stepping into it and getting lost.
I push the door to my bedroom open, inhaling the scent of the rain that has filled my bedroom from the open window. It calms me a little, the cool air a refreshing change from the dusty stale air in the rest of the house. In the bathroom, I wash my face with cold water and brush out my hair before I change into some sleep shorts and River’s Sinclair Motors t-shirt and then climb into the bed, facing toward the window so I can see when he arrives.
It's already almost nine P.M, he usually shows up between now and midnight and while I’m a little tired, I could probably stay awake until he does. I reach for the book on my nightstand, opening to the last page I was reading and settle against the pillows.
But I can’t fully commit to the words on the paper, not when every little noise, every bump or movement of my curtains grabs my attention. I keep thinking it’s him, but it never is. And when the clock ticks over the hour and then another, the numbers reading seven minutes past midnight I start to doubt he’s coming.
We’ve spent every night together for the past several days, it’s quickly become a routine, and he said he would come.
I’ve formed an attachment to him, he feels safe when everyone doesn’t. He’s a real and raw human being when I’m constantly surrounded by fabricated or watered down versions of people.
When the clock ticks over to one A.M and he still isn’t here, I lay my book down.
Perhaps it’s for the best really. I don’t feel good myself, I feel drained and empty and my problems aren’t his problems. Hell, my problems aren’t really problems at all.
What a poor, spoiled, little rich girl I am.
What do I have to complain about? I have a nice house, a nice car, money to never have to want for anything.
Money doesn’t buy happiness, Marly . My grandmother warned me so often I lost count of how many times she did, and of course she is right. But then there’s the guilt for wanting more for myself.
And it’s the guilt that keeps my mouth closed and my complaints unheard. Be the good girl they want you to be, smile and be polite, don’t cause a fuss. Marry the man your father wants because it’s the least you can do for everything he gave to you.
I swallow down bile that rises in my throat at the thought.
I just want out. I just really want to get out.
Rolling over, I push the thoughts away and squeeze my eyes closed.
Sleep takes me swiftly but it’s anything but peaceful.