22. 22
22
B o
“ B o,” Dad calls as I head up the stairs to collect Hettie for dinner.
I may have left her outside alone, but I won’t leave her to face my family by herself. And I did stop midway back to the castle and saw her walking to the bench.
And then inside, I checked out the window and saw her sitting on the bench.
I wait for Dad and Duncan to join me on the landing. “It’s good to see you back,” Duncan says as he gives me a one-armed hug. Duncan has been a constant at the castle my entire life and to see him without Dad would be strange.
“Hettie excited about dinner?” Dad asks.
“Would you be?” I counter.
He considers that. “Maybe not,” he admits, which I don’t believe. My father is the most outgoing person I’ve ever met. “But it’ll be fun. And I can’t wait for more of that little girl.”
“She’ll definitely shake things up around here,” Duncan agrees, and after a nod at Dad, he keeps walking.
Dad puts a hand on my shoulder. “I want to talk to you.”
“That doesn’t sound good.” Not that I can blame him—I’ve dumped a lot on this family today .
“Hettie said something to me that I didn’t agree with.” His face loses his customary grin. “Something about how you feel responsible for your mother’s death.”
My stomach twists painfully and I search for the right thing to say. “Yeah,” I come up with.
“Is that true?”
I shrug.
“Bo—you can’t be serious.”
I can’t meet his gaze. “I told her about Hettie,” I mutter, staring at the wall behind his head. “She left to pick up Lyra and never made it home.” I drag my gaze to him, so afraid of what I’ll find in his expression. “What would you think?”
“I wouldn’t think anything like that.” He grips my shoulder, his expression earnest, like he’s begging me to believe him. “Son, it was the weather. It was a storm in October that surprised everyone. Ice on the roads. And really, bad luck. It was an accident.”
“She was upset,” I say doggedly, like I’m a broken record skipping on the lyrics.
“You don’t know that.”
“She was when she left.”
“But you have no idea what she was like in the car. Your mother was rarely upset, unless it was at me. She loved you, so so much, and I can’t imagine her ever being as upset as you think she was.”
I shrug because there’s nothing I can say. There’s nothing my father can say. I’ve felt this way for eight years and I’m not about to change just because he says no, it ain’t so.
Dad stands and watches me for a moment. He’s a tall man but I still have an inch or so over him.
His beard is mostly white now, with more in his hair as well. It’s a new thing and I can chalk that up to his recent bout of appendicitis, the stress of running a country, and Lyra.
“I’m not going to convince you that you don’t need to blame yourself, am I?” he asks ruefully.
“Probably not.”
Dad nods. “Have it your way. I made an appointment with you tomorrow with a Dr. Patel.”
I take a step back with surprise. “I don’t need a doctor.”
“She’s a psychologist. I want you to talk to her. I think it’ll help.”
“I—what? You want me to see a shrink?”
That’s the last thing I expected him to say.
“I should have made you go years ago,” Dad continues. “Gunnar and Lyra have both talked to someone. Odin too. I should have made it mandatory for you all to go.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” I say with more heat than I need to.
“I know.” He squeezes my shoulder. “But you’re going to.”
Doesn’t sound like I have a choice.
I turn and walk—stomp—away. It’s difficult for me to talk to people on a regular basis but delving into emotional terrain isn’t my idea of a good time. What am I supposed to say? How am I supposed to bring things up? Am I even allowed to talk about royal stuff?
All this flies around my mind with warp speed, distracting me enough that I don’t realize I’m outside Hettie’s door. And my hand is raised to knock before I can stop my whirling thoughts .
Hettie opens the door just as a squeal of Tema’s laughter drifts out. “She’s almost ready,” Hettie begins, but I cut her off.
“You talked to my father,” I blurt.
Her mouth opens with surprise. “I—yes, I did.” She steps back to allow me to come in. I know it’s not because I’m welcome, but she had always hated confrontations where other people could hear. She spent years hiding her family issues even before we got together, and any disagreements—not that there were many—would happen in private.
Not in the hallway of my family home, but behind closed doors.
Spencer asked me once if we ever fought because he had never seen any evidence of it.
I step in and firmly shut the door behind me before I face Hettie. She crosses her arms. “About me,” I add, just to clarify.
She lifts her chin. “I did,” she repeats without an ounce of apology. “I thought he should know that you blame yourself. I thought he might be able to help.”
“I don’t need help.”
The words slip out automatically and the expression on Hettie’s face tells me I’m so very wrong.
“Is that Bo?” comes Abigail’s voice from the other room. “She’s almost ready.”
“I don’t want to eat dinner,” wails Tema.
“Is everything okay?” I demand.
“It’s fine. Tema is just being Tema. You lost me once.” She lowers her voice. “Are you willing to risk that again?” Now it’s my mouth that drops open. “You should talk to your father. ”
More voices from the bedroom, and suddenly Tema laughs. The sound does something strange to my heart.
“She’s fine,” Hettie adds. “Abigail’s got her.”
I don’t want Abigail to get Tema. I want to be the one who makes everything better for her.
For my daughter.
But just looking at Hettie, I know there’s no chance of me getting that opportunity unless I— “He wants me to talk to a therapist,” I admit. I might be welcome in Tema’s life, but already I know I want more.
I want to be able to get her, to make her laugh like Abigail does. To comfort and console and help her with her homework—
I’m jealous of Abigail and that’s a horrible way to feel about my friend.
Hettie looks thoughtful and clearly doesn’t have a clue about what’s going on in my mind. “That might be better.”
“I’ve never—I don’t know—”
She reaches out and squeezes my arm, her hand lingering on my forearm for an extra moment. “There’s a first time for everything.”
“Hettie…” And then I look at her—really look at her—and I forget what I’m about to say.
Her hair is long and straight and… glossy. The light hits the top of her head and gives her a glow. She’s wearing makeup—not a lot but enough for me, who vividly remembers every freckle and birthmark on her body—and a dress.
At least I think it’s a dress; it’s black, short sleeved and looks like an over-sized T-shirt that hits at her knees. Tights .
Yes, I check out her legs. “You changed,” I say stupidly because my mind flashes back to another Hettie—twenty-years old and impossibly beautiful in a pink dress with flowers in her hair. Walking toward me on a warm autumn day with a smile brighter than the sun.
Why did I ever make her leave?
“I’m about to dine with royalty.” She tries for casual, but there’s a note in her voice that I suspect is fear. I’m glad I didn’t make her go down alone.
“It’s my family,” I counter, my own voice sounding strained.
“What’s wrong?”
“You—the dress.” I motion to her legs, which probably isn’t a good thing. “Made me think of you in your wedding dress.”
“Oh.” Her hand slides off my arm.
“You looked so beautiful then, and your hair.” I swallow, fighting the urge to touch her hair. “You look even more so now.”
Her voice catches and the way she looks at me… “Thank you,” she whispers.
I’m not one to believe in second chances but the way Hettie looks at me… maybe.
Just maybe.