Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Hopper
The fire crackles in the stone fireplace. The scent of burning wood lingers in the air, mixing with the faint traces of wine and Nysa’s floral scent.
She sits curled into the corner of the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, one hand wrapped around a half-full glass of wine. Her other hand trails lazily along the stem, her thumb tracing slow circles like she’s lost in thought.
I’m in the armchair across from her, my own glass resting against my knee. Maddie is upstairs, fast asleep, and for the first time in a long time, the house feels . . . quiet. It’s not a silence that suffocates. No, it’s the one that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, the world outside can wait a little longer. But her question, though, that still remains in the air, and she’s obviously waiting for an answer.
What happened to Maddie’s mom?
I should’ve expected it. She’s asked a couple of times before. I take a slow sip of wine before answering. That’s something I haven’t told many people. My brothers don’t know, they haven’t even asked. They just accepted that I’m a father of an energetic baby girl.
My mother knew, but she took that to the grave. Maddie may start asking soon, and what will I tell her? I’ll have to tell her the whole story, won’t I?
This isn’t that time to give any explanations. Nysa is temporary. Even when I would like her to stay longer, when I feel comfortable around her . . . I know that this might not happen. Would she stay in this small town? I don’t even know what her plans were before she took off for three years. Three years.
It’s better to do what I always do. I use the same short sentence I’ve given to anyone who’s ever asked. “She died.”
There. Simple. No messy explanations. No guilt. Just the way it should always be.
Nysa exhales slowly, her gaze never leaving mine.
“I assumed as much,” she says carefully. “But . . . I mean, obviously, I don’t want to pry, but there are no pictures of her anywhere.”
I shift in my chair, gripping my glass a little tighter.
“When my parents and my brother died,” she continues, her voice softer now, “my grandparents made sure I had their pictures with me. The therapist said it’d help with the grief.”
I nod, but I don’t say anything. Because I never had pictures. No one gave me anything. Was there anything to be given?
Nysa watches me for a long moment before she finally says, “You can’t just erase her.”
Not erased. Just . . . put away, maybe? That’s not even exactly the thing, is it? Maddie’s case is different. So complicated, or maybe it’s easy. I don’t know for sure.
As I’m trying to defend myself from this inquisition or . . . I’m not even sure where this conversation is going it finally dawns on me. “I remember you well now. You were friends with Atlas, weren’t you?”
Nysa stills for a moment, then tilts her head slightly. “The outcasts, you mean?”
I smirk. “I don’t remember you being an outcast.”
“Well, no one wanted to talk to the new girl,” she says, shifting slightly. “And no one wanted to be friends with Atlas because that would mean treason to Ledger.” Nysa shakes her head slightly. “I hope they grew out of that feud.”
I sighed, because wouldn’t that be nice. “All of us are part of a feud. None of us get along. At all.”
“Still messy, huh?” she asks, raising an eyebrow like she already knows the answer.
“My father never made things easy.”
At that, she hesitates, her fingers trailing along the rim of her wine glass. “I remember the time Atlas came to school with a broken arm.”
I frown, the words not sitting right. “Our father never touched Atlas. He never had a broken arm.”
She looks up at me, her brows lifting slightly. “Yeah, he did. Had a cast and everything. It wasn’t just a sprain.”
I shake my head. “If he did, it wasn’t because of my father.”
“The usual excuse was ‘I fell,’” she murmurs. “He stopped him before he went after Ledger. This was our sophomore year. You were already in college.”
I go still.
“He had some game or tournament that weekend,” she continues. “So Atlas took the beating instead.”
The wine glass feels too heavy in my hand. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how I never knew.
“My father was cruel,” I admit, my voice quieter now. “But he was calculated. He didn’t break things he considered useful or . . . Atlas.”
Nysa’s eyes hold mine, unflinching. “Maybe Ledger was the useful one.”
Something inside me twists.
“I had no idea,” I say, the words feeling foreign in my mouth. “It seems like you know more about my brother than I do. You still in touch with him?”
Nysa doesn’t gloat, doesn’t say I told you so . She just nods. “We text from time to time. He’s always traveling.”
I know that much. He’s traveling and trying to get his comics off the ground. Which is why he needs the money from the timber company. He wants to sell while Malerick insists we keep it, that it’s important.
We sit there in silence, the fire crackling softly, the weight of the past settling between us.
It’s strange. I never talk about this kind of thing with anyone. My brothers don’t ask, and I don’t offer. But sitting here with Nysa, wine in hand, the firelight dancing in her eyes, it doesn’t feel as impossible as it should.
“Do you think you’ll ever tell Maddie the whole story?” she circles back and fuck this woman is as persistent as she is beautiful.
I swallow hard, staring down at the deep red of my wine. “I don’t know.”
She nods like she expected that answer.
“You’ll figure it out,” she says, setting her glass on the table beside her.
I smirk. “That your professional opinion?”
She grins. “As a child who lost both her parents—absolutely.”
“Her parents and my then-girlfriend died in a car accident,” I blurt out. “I was the only survivor.”