Chapter 3
Mallorie Jade
I’ve been sitting in a jail cell for three hours.
THREE HOURS.
Okay, maybe I’m being dramatic. I’m not exactly in the cell, but I’m sitting in a hard plastic chair in front of Hayes’s desk beside the cell, which is bad enough. My butt is going numb, and on top of that, I can’t stop thinking about the phone call to my mom.
Hayes called her Abigail. While that may not seem substantial to anyone else, it’s a big flipping deal to me. I’ve never, and I do mean not once in my life, ever heard someone younger than my mom call her anything but ma’am. The woman I know would skin someone’s hide for discretions less than that.
Yet—Hayes did, and I couldn’t hear her screeching from the other end of the phone. The way he talked to her made it sound like they were old friends—which was not the case when I left. My mom couldn’t stand Hayes back then. She thought he was a bad influence because his last name didn’t reflect the status of our social circles.
What’s happened since I’ve been gone?
The swoosh of the automatic door catches my attention, and like a queen, my mother enters the room.
One look at her face, and suddenly, this chair doesn’t seem so bad. I’ll sit here all day if it means I can avoid that look.
Numb butt? What butt?
My mother is beautiful in the most regal way—with blown-out blonde hair, not even a strand out of place, and designer clothes down to her toes. We couldn’t be more different—her heels to my tattered tennis shoes, my red hair to her blonde—there isn’t one place we match.
My brother, though—he’s their darling—the one that met all their expectations. My whole life, it’s always been, “Why can’t you be more like Langston? or “Langston has straight A’s. Why can’t you?”
And yet, I became his keeper—the Cain to his Abel.
I never told my brother, but living under his shadow was hard.
But, I can’t think about that now because, with down-turned eyebrows—something I didn’t know they could do anymore considering the Botox—Abigail Harrison descends upon my plastic throne, towering over me in her stilettos.
I offer her a sheepish smile, but her face doesn’t soften. I’m starting to think she asked her plastic surgeon to make it stick like that.
“Mallorie Jade Harrison, what in the world were you thinking?”
The woman doesn’t scream. It’s unbecoming, but the truth is, she doesn’t have to. She sends shivers down your spine at a normal voice level.
I start to answer her, to explain my side, but she cuts me off.
“My own daughter arrested. What will people say? Oh, my nerves can hardly take it.”
At that, she eloquently, albeit dramatically, sinks into the chair beside me, releasing a heavy sigh that comes from her soul. I take back what I said earlier—we have one thing in common. People wonder why I’m so dramatic, but it can easily be attributed to this woman sitting beside me.
“Hello, Mother. It’s good to see you. I’ve missed you too.”
She narrows her eyes, and I fight to hide my wince.
“Young lady,” she says, “I do not need your sass right now. Why does everything have to be so hard with you? I mean, honestly, I raised you better than that. Langston would have—”
Her voice trails off. A sharp pain radiates from the center of my chest like someone has punched me, and my breathing becomes shallow.
I take a deep breath, hoping to pull air into my lungs, but they are frozen. I’m spiraling, and from the look on Mom’s face, she is too. I can’t focus long enough to consider the guilt written on her features. Blackness starts to form on the edges of my eyes as I try desperately to breathe normally.
I just need to breathe.
One gulp of fresh air—that’s all I need.
Looking around me, I look for an exit. I need out of here. There has to be a way out.
Coming back was a mistake.
What was I thinking?
Why can I never get anything right?
As I flip my head back and forth, looking for an exit, a door opens, and suddenly, Hayes is there, holding my arms against my body, face inches from mine.
“Breathe, MJ. I need you to breathe.” His voice is gruff, tortured—demanding that I listen to him—but I can’t.
I thrash my arms against his hold, trying to find my escape so I can breathe.
I need out.
Logically, I know I’m having a panic attack. I’ve dealt with them for six years, but logic never seems to matter when I’m like this. I can never talk myself out of it.
“I…can’t…I can’t breathe,” I huff out.
Hayes’s hands move from my arms to cup each side of my face. The roughness of the callouses against my face gives me a focus point, and I try hard to put all my attention there instead of how my lungs feel like they may collapse.
“Okay,” he says, keeping his voice calm this time, “Let’s do this together then. Are you ready?”
I jerk my head, acknowledging him and keeping my eyes on his as he takes a deep breath and releases it. I mirror him, slowly pulling air in and then pushing it out, the pressure on my chest dissipating with each breath we take in sync. Then, as the air starts to reach the bottom of my lungs again, I become conscious of how his eyes are locked on mine, the smokiness of the gray turning to charcoal as I continue to breathe with him.
The darkness I see there finally pulls me out of the panic I was drowning in.
I wrench my face out of his hands and step back, creating distance between us. It’s important I remember who I’m dealing with, and from the look on his face, I can’t tell if he’s angry with me or not. It’s not like I asked for his help.
He reaches out for me, but I take another step back.
“I’m fine,” I snip.
Dropping his hand, he flexes it in and out of a fist by his side.
“What was that, MJ? What just happened?” he asks, watching me as if I’m a flight risk.
I can’t stand the kindness in his voice. Not now, at least. There was a time that I basked in the warmth of his attention. He was my brother’s best friend, but he never once made me feel like I was the annoying little sister. He always tried to include me, even when Langston wanted to leave me behind.
Now I can see that kindness for what it was—placating. Hayes hated conflict, and I always caused it. All the actions I thought were out of kindness were actually to keep the peace.
“Well, I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I would say it was a panic attack,” I snap, voice dripping with condescension. I can’t do this with him, not here. I’ve played all the games I can today.
His concern is replaced with a sneer as fury ripples across his body, shoulders stiffening, and his hand finally landing a full fist. This man in front of me is different from the boy I used to know—his anger simmering just below the surface of the carefully constructed boy next door persona.
“Am I free to go, Officer?” I ask in a tone that is nothing less than syrupy and sweet.
The muscle in his jaw jumps, and I have to tell myself to look away.
“You may go. You need to sign some paperwork on your way out,” he says, inching towards me. A hiss of air whistles through my teeth as his fingers brush against mine. He pauses, letting electricity arc between our hands, before leaning in and whispering, “I won. I’ll see you soon. We’ll visit Langston together.”
He might as well have poured a bucket of cold water over my head. He’s right. My mother fussed at me for being arrested, but she hasn’t said anything to Hayes the entire time she’s been here.
Looking over to where she is sitting, I notice her sit up a little taller, but she must not have heard what Hayes said to me because if she had, there’s no way she would have let it go. Her eyes bounce between us, a funny look flitting across her face before she schools her features.
Unwilling to answer him and admit he is right, I turn on my heel and flee.
______________________
Escaping from Hayes only solves one of my problems because my mother follows me with a click of her heels against the tile and a shrill call of “young lady” that I ignore.
Goosebumps pebble my skin—from the air conditioner, not the way I can still feel tingles sparking up my fingertips at the exact places Hayes’s touched mine—not that at all.
I stop at the front desk to fill out the forms and gather the belongings that Hayes brought in from the car while Mom stands behind me, waiting politely, face devoid of emotion—we are in public, after all. It would be a shame if people were to think she’s actually human.
With the paperwork complete and my phone and favorite chapstick in hand, I make a beeline for the parking lot, refusing to look back.
It isn’t until I’m outside, melting in the sweltering heat again, that I realize I’m about to spend alone time with my mother for the first time in three years. Inside the station didn’t count. People were milling about. She wouldn’t dare air the family drama—especially not after what happened six years ago.
This entire day has been less than ideal, but getting into the car with her will be the low of the low.
Yippee for me.
My mother’s voice floats from behind me in the polite but detached tone I hate so much. “My car is over there. I’ve already sent someone to pick yours up from the side of the road.”
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes—a habit that is exacerbated anytime I’m in my mother’s presence.
It shouldn’t be surprising that she sent one of her people to pick my car up. There aren’t a lot of things she does on her own. I should be grateful—it’s one less thing I have to do from this day from the devil—but it irritates me that it’s one more thing I owe her for.
The day I called and asked if I could come home made the top five in the worst days of my life. I didn’t want to admit I failed, but it was the cold, hard truth that I couldn’t run from. I had nowhere else to go. I needed a place to figure my life out because the one I planned for was crumbling apart faster than a crumb cake. So—I called home, and the moment I did, I subjected myself to a lifetime of being in my mother’s clutches. I escaped them once, but I won’t be able to do so again.
I didn’t tell her why I was coming home, though. I couldn’t make myself. The event that caused me to make the drastic decision to come home was the second worst day of my life. I couldn’t talk about it—especially not with her, so I told her I needed a change of scenery. She was content to accept the lie, or maybe it was just that our mother-daughter relationship is so fractured that if she had asked for the truth, she would have to face all the places where we are broken.
When I called, I’d asked if I could stay in my old room while I looked around for a place, and she had said, in a voice that held no excitement about my return, that she would have someone prepare my room. We haven’t spoken since that day three weeks ago, besides the one text I sent her to tell her the day I would arrive—which she didn’t bother responding to.
The silence between us has been surprising—the woman likes to gloat, and my return home was reason enough for her to. She didn’t think I would make it half as long as I did on my own. Yet, she hasn’t said “I told you so” once. It’s—strange.
Stalking across the five-car parking lot, I throw open the door on her car. It’s the only pretentious car in the lot full of old beaters. No one flaunts their money quite like my parents.
I slam the door and wait for the fight that’s coming.
It only takes two seconds before Mom slips behind the wheel, but instead of the lashing I’m waiting for, silence fills the car, making my skin itch. The silence leaves me too much time to think about today and Hayes and Langston, and suddenly, I’m doing the one thing I never imagined I would—starting a conversation with my mother.
“So—how was your day? Do anything exciting?” I ask.
I regret the question as soon as it’s out there. I opened a direct path to finish the conversation that was started back at the station.
What I don’t expect, though, is the laugh that comes from her side of the car. I whip my head around so fast that a cramp runs up my neck.
Aliens have taken over my mother—it’s the only logical reason I can think of for the laugh.
My mouth drops open as I continue to stare at her.
“Darling, close your mouth. It’s not very lady-like to stare.”
And, just like that, we are back to our regularly scheduled programming.
Turning my head, I roll my eyes to where she cannot see.
“Glass reflects, Mallorie Jade. You aren’t as sneaky as you would like to think.”
How did I get here—back in a town I promised I wouldn’t come back to? Why can’t I get a handle on my life?
Mom pulls me out of my musings when she clears her throat, another out of the character action for her, and says, “I think it’s time we discuss your future now that you’re back.”
There it is—the need to control me until I live up to her standards.
“I have a plan, Mom.”
“Yes, well. We’ve seen how your plans have worked out for you so far. Maybe it’s time you try listening to your father and me.”
Would it hurt if I opened the car door and jumped? We aren’t driving very fast—forty at most. I would survive. On the flip side, I might end up with a broken ankle. Then, I would be stuck in their house, unable to escape.
There’s not a win for me here, but I push the unlock button just in case that feels like the better option after this conversation.
“Mom,” I say, “I don’t want to live off my trust fund and head up the next social soiree.”
Hurt etches into the creases of her forehead. That jab wasn’t fair. Just because that life wouldn’t be fulfilling to me doesn’t mean it hasn’t been for her, but she always digs and digs until I lose the sense that God gave me.
“‘I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Don’t be. You certainly said what you meant, but I’ll have you remember Mallorie Jade, you came home to us, not the other way around.”
“Yeah, I know.”
She’ll never let me forget it.
She sighs. “Did you at least find a church while you were away?”
I want to laugh because church to my parents has always been a way to keep up the appearance—to be the good Southern Christian family we portrayed. Yet, to me, it was a place where I found peace when I felt out of place with my family—until Langston, that is.
It’s been six years since I last stepped foot in a church because I figured God didn’t have much to say to me.
I force myself to keep that bitter laugh from spewing out and say, “No, Mom. I didn’t.”
Then I brace myself for a verbal lashing, but once again, it doesn’t come. She merely purses her lips and slows to a stop at the stop sign. She looks right, then left, and instead of turning right to go home, she makes a left.
“Where are we going?”
I want to go home and have this day end—not extend it.
“Your father wanted us to stop by the hospital. He couldn’t get off today, so I promised to bring you to him.”
“Color me shocked,” I say, crossing my arms. I scoot lower in the seat, waiting for her to scold me on my posture, but it never comes.
Within minutes, we are pulling into the Harrison Memorial Hospital—owned by none other than the Harrison sitting right beside me and the other one somewhere in this hospital.
My great-great-grandparents opened it, and with each generation, it has grown bigger. It’s no big city hospital. Patients have to be transferred out if anything major happens because we can’t handle a big patient load, but it works for the town. And as a doctor, it keeps my dad swamped. That, plus the fact that he has a hand in running the place, means he’s practically never home. Not that he’s ever had a good home-life/work-life balance.
From behind me, Mom reaches for her purse and swipes on some lipstick before flipping her sun visor closed and opening her door.
“Come now,” she says without bothering to look my way.
Once out of the car, she slips her purse high on her shoulder and walks with her nose pointed up like the queen she knows she is. She doesn’t look back to make sure I’m following. She just assumes I am because no one would ever be crazy enough to go against a direct order from Abigail Harrison.
With a frustrated growl, I shove my door open and race after her to catch up, keeping my head low in case we run into anyone.
Inside the hospital, we walk silently side by side until we are on the elevator, taking us to my father’s office. Nerves flip my stomach. There’s a sore spot on my hand where I’ve dug my fingernails a thousand times over the last few days. The tenderness doesn’t stop me from doing it again as I count the numbers, taking us up to my dad.
I still talk to my dad on the phone, but our conversations never last long before I make an excuse to rush off the phone. Everything that’s happened with my family should have pushed us closer, but truthfully, it only tore the rift between us wider. I never know what to say to my parents.
There’s a loud ding, and the elevator doors slide open.
My dad waits on the other side.
For his age, he’s still handsome, with silver hair gelled back into a professional cut and limbs that make him tower over most people. He’s dressed impeccably in a suit, his typical uniform when he isn’t in his white coat, and the watch on his wrist screams wealth. Appearances are still important to the man.
A hushed gasp slips past my lips when his gaze clashes with mine. There’s a tenderness in his eyes that I can’t ever remember seeing there before. It leaves me a little breathless and unable to think of anything to say.
Then he clears his throat, and that cool, distant professional I grew up with is back on his face. It’s sad, but it almost brings me comfort to see. It’s like a well-worn blanket. Maybe it has holes, but the sentiment has you keeping it. I didn’t know what to do with the love I saw in his eyes, but I do know what to do with the man standing before me now.
“What’s up, Pops?” I say, putting on the mask of the girl I was when I left here. We all have our roles to play, and mine has always been the one who pushes buttons just to see how far she can go.
“Mallorie Jade,” he greets, his voice deep and distant, “I heard you had some trouble on your way into town.”
Shrugging, I say, “Eh—nothing that hasn’t ever happened before.”
The muscle in his jaw ticks. It’s obvious he’s recalling the first time he had to bail me out of jail, and it’s not a fond memory for him.
For the record, it’s not for me either, but I refuse to let him know that.
“Follow me to my office, please,” he says.
At least he says please. My mother would never.
Mom, whom I had forgotten about until now, follows behind him, her heels clacking against the tile floor as she goes. As they walk, my dad reaches behind him, taking her hand in his. For everything bad I have to say about my parents, that’s one place I can’t criticize them. My dad loves my mom, and vice versa. I’m just not sure they know how to love anyone outside of that bubble—including their daughter.
We make it to his office without passing a single person, and for that, I’m grateful. I’m sure the rumor mill about Hayes and me is already going wild, and I don’t want to answer any questions right now—actually ever.
Walking into my dad’s office makes me feel like I’m a ten year old little girl again, excited for a chance to see my dad. Eventually, the excitement of coming here wore off, and I realized that this place and the reputation he had because of it would always mean more to him than his family. But after not seeing him for the past six years, I can’t help letting a small part of the broken girl who would have done anything for her dad’s attention hope that this will be the time her dad actually sees her.
“Have a seat, Mallorie Jade,” my dad says, motioning towards the chairs in front of his desk. He sits in his chair, and my mom stands behind him, resting her hand on his shoulder.
Ignoring him, I stand, taking in the space where I could always count on finding my dad.
Nothing has changed in his office since I’ve been gone. It’s still the same sterile environment it’s always been, with the exception of the family picture that sits on a bookshelf behind him, and even that was my mom’s doing. My throat aches as I stare at the image where we are all smiling, and Langston is right there in the middle with the biggest smile of all of us.
With a harsh swallow, I turn my head, unable to look at it any longer.
My dad watches me from his desk. His eyes are guarded, hiding his thoughts, but I can guess them. They’ve always been the same—Look at you, Mallorie Jade, causing a scene again.Don’t you ever learn, Mallorie Jade? Or my personal favorite, I’m so disappointed in you, Mallorie Jade.
While he scrutinizes me under his cool gaze, I stiffen my spine and sit up straighter, refusing to let him see any weakness. It’s why the next words out of his mouth catch me off guard. “I’m glad you’re home, Mallorie Jade. I’ve missed you.”
My mouth drops open, a response on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t get it out. The shock has frozen me in place. This is like the equivalent of my dad telling me he loves me, and honestly, I can’t ever remember that happening. He’s not a touchy-feely kind of guy. It’s like I’ve entered an alternate universe between this and how my mom acted earlier.
Just as I think I have a coherent thought formed to respond, his office phone rings, and he picks it up, lifting one finger and indicating that I should wait one moment.
“Dr. Harrison….yes, yes, I’ll be there.” He hangs up the phone, and like every other time I’ve been in his office, he stands up to leave within minutes of me getting here.
“I have to go,” he says, walking around his desk to stand beside me. He places his hand on my shoulder and gives it a light squeeze. I tilt my head back until I’m staring into his face—a face I’ve dreamed so many times would look at me with love and not disappointment. When I meet his gaze, he gives me a wink, and for what feels like the millionth time today, I’m left flabbergasted. With a cheeky grin I’ve never seen him wear, he continues, “Try to stay out of trouble.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m left in the twilight zone.