29. Teddy #4
“Nana and Pop had to encourage me to be independent,” I tell Indie.
“Without them, I’d probably still be living at home.
She encouraged me to go to school and paid for my dorm.
They encouraged me to live with Luke and Heath,” I smile softly.
“She encouraged me to come meet you. Every good thing in my life was because of my Nana… and yet…”
“Your mother’s claws were in deep, Teddy,” Indie says, her voice scratchy. “It’s hard for someone to get out from under their abuser, no matter the age.”
“Don’t comfort me, Indie, I don’t deserve it—”
“It’s just not about deserving or not,” Indie says flatly. “Things are not black or white. Not in this situation.”
I nod in agreement. “I still hurt you.”
“Yeah, you fucking did.” Indie then frowns like something just occurred to her.
“What, Indie?”
She looks at me, and the expression on her face is a challenge.
“Name it,” she says, and I frown in confusion. “Name the ways you harmed me. The ways you hurt me. So I know that you understand.”
And this is it. This is my trial; this is my time to present the evidence. This is my time to own what I did, if I have any hope of atoning to Indie. My throat tightens like the words don’t want to come out, but I push through it.
I look at Indie, and I name every charge.
“I did not defend you or correct my mother firmly enough when she called you Cindy or Bindi. I corrected her—barely—but I didn’t set boundaries, which led her to think she could keep doing it.”
Indie nods once.
“I did not set firm enough boundaries between my ex-girlfriend and me. There were no romantic feelings on my end—I only think of you like that—but it doesn’t erase the fact that I was spending energy on her that I should have spent on you.”
My throat feels raw, but I push through.
Indie deserves this.
“When you were grieving Nana, when you needed me, I was giving that energy to my mother—doesn’t matter that she manipulated me or not—I should have been there for you. Nana loved you, and you loved her. You were grieving her as I was. More honestly than my own mother, if we’re being real.”
Indie’s eyes fill with tears once more, but her jaw is still set, her lip quivering. I ache to reach out and hold her, but I don’t have the right.
Then I wince, knowing these are going to burn.
“The celiac incident. I should never have let you back into that house again. The constant fucking disrespect that makes me sick to think about now. The way you would fold in on yourself. The way I let my father and uncles be disrespectful to you, to my Nana, to my sisters… I should have stood up for you. All of you.”
I want to kiss each of Indie’s tears away. I want to catch every single one. I want to stop her from hurting, but the only way out is through.
Closing my eyes against the sting of my own tears, I take a deep breath before I finish.
“For not communicating with you about that night, the day you lost Andrea, when I should have been there for you, and not at that stupid fucking theme park with my family and my ex. I should have supported you, comforted you, held you.”
Indie’s eyes soften.
“Fuck if it was my mom’s birthday or not, you’re my fucking life.
My heart. And you were hurting,” I clear my throat when my voice breaks on the last word.
“And for what I said… the horrible, awful things I said to you. For backing out on this vacation that we could have spent together. For backing out on Jersey that I wanted so fucking bad, you don’t even know, honey—”
Indie flinches at my slip, and I curse myself before taking a deep breath.
“There are not enough words in the English language to express how sorry I am, so…”
Indie frowns as I clear my throat.
“I’m so incredibly sorry for my abysmal behavior, Indie,” I say, and the tension in her body bleeds slightly.
I press my hand to my chest and stumble in French, “Je suis désolé, Indie.”
The firm line of her mouth eases slightly at that.
“Het spijt me,” I apologize in Dutch, stumbling once more over the words like my mouth is full of peanut butter. Indie snorts, before schooling her face.
In German, I say, “Es tut mir leid, meine Liebste.”
Indie swallows hard.
“Mi dispiace, dolcezza,” I say, my Italian is a little better than the other languages.
The corner of Indie’s lips quirks, and I finish in Greek, “Λυπ?μαι, Indie.”
Indie is quiet for a long moment, and she just studies me before she chuckles lightly.
“Wow. Okay, that was…”
“Only some of what you deserve.”
Silence stretches between us, to the point of awkwardness. I shift in my seat, and Indie drops her arms from across her chest.
“So what now?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I mean, are you still speaking to your mother—”
“No,” I shake my head firmly.
“No?”
“No. None of them.”
Indie looks skeptically, rightfully so; I didn’t inspire confidence. She doesn’t know this version of me—healing. Setting boundaries. Doing things right.
“And when she calls?”
“She can’t. She doesn’t have my number.”
Indie blinks, surprised and skeptical still. “Really.”
I nod.
“I’m done with them, Indie. All of them. My parents. Lily. My entire family, besides my sisters. When Nana passed and gave us that money, she was also giving me freedom. I don’t have to work as an electrician anymore,” I smile softly. “This one amazing woman told me I was a pretty good artist.”
“You are,” Indie whispers, almost too quietly to catch, and her eyes shift over to her suitcase. “You’re incredible, Teddy.”
I swallow thickly. “So, I’m going to go to art school.”
Indie smiles, a little sad.
“There are some good ones in Chicago,” Indie mutters. “I remember looking…”
“Yeah, but there’s a better one in Jersey,” I tell her.
Indie startles, and I tense, bracing myself for righteous anger. It’s not how I wanted to tell her. Not that I wanted to surprise her or anything, but I wanted to tell her a little more delicately. I received the email four days ago that I had been accepted for their spring semester.
“What?” she says, eyebrows shooting to her hairline.
“I’m moving to Jersey.”
A few expressions pass across Indie’s face. There’s confusion, irritation, and then—briefly, but there—a tenderness I latch onto.
“Why?”
“Because you’ll be there.”
“And if I never want to see you again after tonight?”
If she stabbed me, it would be less painful.
“Then I would respect your wishes, Indie,” I say, the words burning me. “You won’t see me, but I’ll never stop making it up to you. Any way I can.”
Indie’s brow furrows at that, but she looks affected by my words. Not displeased, but not entirely pleased either. If she truly wanted to never see me again, I would leave her be. I would follow her wishes, even if it hurts.
“How did you finally… leave?”
“I woke up… and you weren’t there.”
“Did you really expect me to be?”
“Yes,” I laugh bitterly. “I did. Like the selfish asshole I was. I thought that I could fix it later. Always later. I thought you would forgive me.”
“Not for that.”
I shake my head. “Indie, you’d be well within your rights to kick me square in the balls right now. And I would let you.”
Indie shrugs, some amusement causing her lips to twitch. “Thought about it.”
I give her a brief smile before I sober up.
“I freaked out when I realized you left me. It was like a veil being lifted from my eyes. Or… fog finally clearing. I don’t know, it’s hard to explain; my mind felt so tangled, but all I could think was that I had ruined everything. I had hurt you, and you left. My mom said you left.”
Indie’s mouth twists in disgust, her eyes going cold.
“What did she say to you?” I ask Indie.
Indie sighs. “She said that I was never good enough for you, and that she was glad I saw it now.”
My eyes close. That fucking…
“No,” I snarl quietly. “She has that all backward.”
Indie snorts derisively, and it makes me smile.
I then think of the video on my phone, and I ask Indie, “Can I show you something?”
She looks skeptical, but nods.
Reaching into my pocket, I tap a few times to bring up the video my cousins took and hand it to her.
I watch Indie’s face as she watches the video, amusement at the cake mess on the floor, brows raised when I eviscerate my family and call them out on their shit, and she actually huffs a laugh at my mom’s scream.
“That number one girl shit always made me uncomfortable.”
“Me too,” I admit, taking the phone back from her. “I didn’t recognize that it was discomfort; I thought it was just embarrassment at being treated like a child.”
“She’s very good at decorating,” Indie says, meaning not just the house. Dressing terrible things up and framing them as pretty and normal.
“She is.”
“So, you’re really… done with her.”
“Yes.”
Indie hums shortly, before frowning and looking torn for a moment. She then points at the phone.
“Could you… send that to me?” Indie asks, her lips twitching. She glances around the room for her phone resting on the side table. “I’ll unblock you—”
“No need,” I say softly, and she whips her head around to me. “I got a new phone and a new number.”
Indie blinks, looking taken aback. “You still have my number.”
I nod.
“And you still didn’t call me,” she says it more as a statement, not a question, but I nod anyway.
“You set a boundary,” I shrug.
“And you listened.”
“I’m listening, Indie,” I whisper. “Tell me anyway—tell me to do anything—and I’ll listen.”
Indie rolls her eyes, but doesn’t look irritated. She looks teasing. It makes my blood sing.
“Yes, you were quite obedient when you first walked in.”
“I can listen,” I rasp, my voice gravelly and low. Heat rises in my body. My tone is eager, and I sit up straighter, wanting to do anything she says. “I can do the hard things. I’ll do anything you ask.”
Indie snorts and looks skeptical.
“Stand up,” she says.
I do, practically bouncing up from my chair.
Something curls low in my belly, sinking lower and lower, all the way to my dick.