Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Cordelia
I would not advise drinking on an empty stomach. Not even if you’re in a silent fight with your mother and trying to prove a point.
My head is sloshy, and my eyes are blurry, and I’m in no position to ride my bike back to my apartment. So when Mom offers me a ride, I have no good reason—or good sense left in me—to reject her.
Mills, who’d been waiting outside, rushes toward me when I stumble to the town car.
“Miss Cordelia, are you okay?” he says in that crisp voice that I used to swear carried a subtle British accent.
“Contrary to what’s shown in the media, not every driver is British, Miss Cordelia,” Mills used to say when I accused him of hiding his true Englishman heritage.
“That’s EXACTLY what a British driver would say, Mills.”
Those were simpler times.
Happier times.
Before my life changed forever.
“She’s fine, Mills. Just tipsy,” Mom says.
“I’m not tipsy. I’m perfectly sober,” I mumble as my eyelids droop. Mills helps me into the backseat. I melt into the leather seats. It’s so warm. So soft. It’s been a while since I’ve ridden in an expensive car. I’d forgotten how good it smells. How smooth the drive is.
My eyes start to close. Maybe, for once, I can fall asleep without a prescription.
Before I can test that theory, Mom sticks a water bottle in my face. “Drink this.”
I shake my head and wrap my arms around my torso, curling into a ball.
“You’ll have a terrible headache tomorrow if you don’t sober up, Cordelia. I don’t know why you drank tonight when you know you’re not a drinker.”
I shake my head again.
Mom lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Sit up. I’ve been patient enough. It’s time to explain yourself.”
That’s why she wants me sober. So she can talk to me.
In that case, I’ll lean into my tipsy state because the last thing I want to have right now is a conversation with my mom.
I groan and wrap my arms around my stomach.
That doesn’t deter my mother at all.
“Young lady, do you know what a mess you’ve created? You left home so suddenly. And with nothing but a text saying you were heading onto the road and not to contact you! I was worried sick for months!”
I keep my eyes closed.
“You didn’t answer my calls. Didn’t answer my texts. Thank goodness you used the family card, or I would have had no idea if you were dead or alive. But then you stopped using the card completely, and I was back to guessing again.”
I let my head loll, pretending I’ve fallen asleep.
“I know you can hear me, Cordelia.”
Tilting my chin up, I croak, “What do you want me to say, Mom?”
“I want an explanation.”
“Adults leave home all the time. It’s no big deal.”
“That’s not an excuse, and you know it.” Her eyes are wide. The shadows from the passing lampposts bathe her in light one minute and darkness the next. What a perfect imagery.
Sometimes, it feels like Mom and I can finally see each other, finally find common ground. And then there’ll be darkness, and I can’t tell which one of us is human under the mask.
“We both know you’re not just anyone. You’re Cordelia Davenport.
You’re a woman with your own trust fund.
You’re someone with legacy, with responsibilities.
You walked away from everything this family offered you for…
for what? An auto-mechanic certificate at a community college halfway across the country? ”
I inhale deeply.
It was a mistake to get in this car.
“And now you’re working for pennies on the dollar in the hot sun, fixing cars, when you have an entire life back home. A family.”
That word strikes a terrible chord.
And I snap.
“What family?”
Mom’s mouth claps shut. She blinks with hurt, and I wish I could take back the words. I wish I didn’t love her and resent her in equal measures. I wish I could pick a side and stick to it rather than rotate between needing a hug from my mommy and hoping everyone will just leave me alone.
“You’ve never been like this, Cordelia. Not even after Gwen—” Mom flinches before the word fully leaves her mouth.
The sharp, cutting pain is back.
“Mills, stop the car,” I say firmly.
“No, absolutely not. Do not stop the car,” Mom orders. “Cordelia, I’m sorry. If this is about your sister—”
“Mills, stop the car now.”
“No,” Mom says.
I grip the handle, yanking. “Mills.”
“Alright, alright, stop the car,” Mom says, her eyes squeezed closed.
Mills flicks the indicator and slows the vehicle to a crawl on the dark road.
Mom argues, “Cordelia, this isn’t wise. At least let me take you home safely.”
“I’ll be fine. Like you said, this is a small, peaceful town. The bad guys are more scared of me than I am of them.”
“Cordelia—”
“I didn’t leave because of her, Mom,” I blurt. The words roll off my tongue, stinging the way lies always do when they’re born from desperation. “I left because I met someone. Someone great. The love of my life.”
“Who?” Mom raises her eyebrows.
I shake my head because I don’t know how to build on that lie. “This is the life I want to live. I’m finally doing the things I love, and I’m with people I love. I’m happy. Happier than I’ve ever been.”
Mom’s lips pin together, and she watches me with tears gathering in her eyes. “Those words sound good, Cordelia, but why is my heart breaking for you?”
I don’t answer her.
Instead, I get out of the car and close the door.
Mom and Mills stay right behind me while I walk home, not that I expected any less of either one of them. The headlights illuminate my path. My jacket wards off the chill of the night.
I’m fine. I’m stronger. I didn’t fall apart then, and I won’t fall apart now.
I keep going. Put one foot in front of the other until I get to my small apartment. I hear the town car idling right outside until I flick on the living room lights. Then Mom leaves.
Dragging myself to the couch, I collapse there and stare, unseeing, at the blank television screen and yellowish-cream walls. It’s a worn, rustic hull of a home. I haven’t put up any pictures in the apartment. Haven’t bought any new furniture or rugs.
It’s quiet here.
And that’s all that’s important to me.
I squeeze my eyes shut and turn into the couch, hoping that the sleepiness that hit me in the car will return.
No such luck.
Instead, all I feel is hot and uncomfortable.
Plus, my feet are cramping. I usually ride my bike everywhere, and if I’m not riding, I’m standing over the hood of a car, working on a repair job. It’s been a while since I’ve walked that much.
I lean over and massage my thighs, fighting back the swell of loneliness that threatens to hit me.
“I’m happy,” I say out loud to the quiet, to the stillness, to the darkness. “I’m happy.”
As the clock strikes 2 a.m., I happily brush my teeth and put on a T-shirt and short pants.
I happily open the dresser and take out my prescription sleeping pills.
I happily shake out two into my palms, read the label that says I shouldn’t mix sleeping pills with alcohol, and knock them back with a glass of water anyway.
And then I happily lie on my back, hands folded over my stomach, and let my gaze bore a hole into the ceiling while I wait for sleep that never comes.