34. Mark My Words
Mark My Words
Melody
It didn’t take long for the moment of tranquility to fall apart.
“We barely know him,” I said, shaking my head at my brother and sister. “The porch is beautiful, but we don’t know him, and he doesn’t know us. We can’t ask him to live here just like that.”
“Why not?” Marcus whined.
He had wheeled me in on the ramp he, Miriam, and Greg had set up on the stairs of the brand-new porch. Marcus was so proud to push me up, telling me they’d all worked on it together. It was pristine white and without any creaks, and, to my astonishment, the house was also clean.
Now I was in the kitchen, swatting questions about whether Greg could basically be their new father-figure.
How could I tell Marcus that we’d broken up?
That I didn’t know where we stood…if we stood anywhere at all.
That I couldn’t ask Greg, because I didn’t know if he’d feel forced to stay out of pity.
Or maybe he’d tell me that all he wanted to do was run far, far away from the drama I always left in my wake.
And most importantly…because…
I wanted him to be the one to make the choice.
To choose me. Us. All of this.
But he hadn’t done so earlier, and I was afraid he wouldn’t do so now. When we’d arrived home, Miriam helped me into this stupid wheelchair. Greg had stayed outside by his truck, wiping down some tools.
“Doc got you all cleared?” he’d asked, nodding at us.
“Yeah,” I said on a breath.
“Good.”
Then that was it. He didn’t help push me up the ramp, didn’t say anything when I admired the new porch.
He was a nice man. A helpful man. Everyone knew it. And I didn’t want to see love in every kind gesture that he gave to everyone and anyone.
“But he likes us. He told me so.” Marc looked like he was eight years old again. “He loves us.”
I wished that was true.
This was far too serious to give in, though. We had to weigh the options, to have tough conversations. To talk.
Was Greg ready to be a father to two teenagers?
What kind of man would go from being a bachelor to this?
To all of this? Complete with a house that was falling apart and kids who went from loving you like you were the best thing in their lives to ignoring you like mud on the bottom of their shoes—with the occasional visceral disdain for you.
“You don’t get it!” Marcus yelled, his face drawn and red.
I sat there, holding my glass and frozen in place.
“Don’t you care?” he started taking deep, ragged breaths. He was trying to keep himself calm. “About me? About him? I mean, you don’t even look like you give a shit right now.”
“Language,” I peeped out, able to say only that single word reprimand, though I wished I could have taken it back. Said anything else.
He looked at me, his face melting in hurt. He’d tried to talk to me, and I’d reprimanded him about his language.
I was so tired.
And I my heart felt like a crushed up can when his face went from the helplessness of a pleading boy, to the boiling anger of the teenager I’d known in the past two years.
“You’re not Mom, and you’re definitely nothing like Dad.” Marcus scoffed. “They would have listened.”
The words came out of him like he couldn’t control them, and for an instant, I thought I saw him wince. Like he couldn’t believe he’d said it.
Oh, poor ignorant fool. Mom and Dad, as generous as he believed they were, would never have let a stranger move into the house. He idealized them so completely, it was a menace.
I thought the worst was over, but I should have known better.
I laughed, braying like a fucking donkey, then stopped the hysterics building inside my chest.
“Are you okay?” Miriam came and placed a hand on my shoulder, probably wondering if I was choking.
“I am nothing like your dad.” The words were ripped from my lips, angry and bitter. Seething. Hot enough to burn.
I pushed Miriam behind me, worried about Marc’s temper.
“Yeah.” He mocked, crossing his arms as he grumbled. “I know. You never liked dad. Never…”
The arrogance of youth reminded me of the confident little boy he had been. The one who, at eight years old, told me he would never let anyone hurt me. That he was going to take care of me, because he was a man now.
I was only sixteen at the time, but I remembered it. I remember believing with my entire being that he would be a good man, and every time I saw signs of Luke in his actions, that hope was scratched, scuffed, or tarnished just a little more.
“You’re being mean, Marc.” Miriam was as annoyed as I was. “You don’t even know what’s going on.”
Miriam wouldn’t look at me. What did she know? How much? Had he hurt her?
Her hazel eyes turned to me, her frown far deeper than any that should exist on a girl of her age.
As if to answer my question, she shook her head. For me, and me alone, she said, “He didn’t get a chance to hurt me.”
I slumped over the armrest of my wheelchair in relief. She bent at the waist to hug me, and I wanted to weep. The worst had not happened. Not to her, and I was so glad for it.
“What does that even mean?” He was angry. He was in denial. Worse yet, I think he knew that I wouldn’t say it out loud.
His sisters would never say out loud what a monster Luke was, and he wouldn’t believe it unless we did.
I would not sully his memories of his father. Not until he had a better place for his feelings and more control of himself. Not until he was more centered.
Or maybe never. What good would it do to tell him what his father had been like? What Luke’s side of his genes were capable of?
“I wish you hadn’t come back!” Marcus hurled the words at me, and they felt like a slap in the face. “We’d be better off with anyone else!”
But then there was a flash in his eyes, a moment of remorse.
An apology he could not force through his prideful lips.
Instead of red with anger like I expected him to be, he was pale.
He wasn’t on the brink of breaking the kitchen table again.
Instead, he was closer to tears, like his world was falling apart.
“That’s enough.” Our heads swung to the open front door where Greg stood, hands in his pockets and a cold anger in those immaculate green eyes.
His socked feet had quietly let him sneak in on us, and I had no idea how long he’d been He didn’t do anything but walk in and suck the air out of the room, making my heart clench as the sheer sight of him brought tears to my eyes.
Greg pointed at Marcus, his finger inches from my brother’s nose. “Apologize.”
He didn’t yell. Didn’t even raise his voice. But his tone had so much promise, so much command, that Marcus opened his mouth to do just that before shaking himself out of the daze and clamped his mouth shut.
“It’s okay,” I said, because Marc looked like he was in pain. “Greg, back off.”
“Apologize.” Greg didn’t look at me.
He stared at Marc. Marc stared back. There was an entire conversation happening in their eyes that I couldn’t even begin to interpret. Something had happened while I wasn’t paying attention. Something had happened while I was too busy being sick, and…and…
Shit.
“Boy, you’ve got a choice to make. Either you grow the fuck up, or you keep acting like a child and hurt everyone that you care about.” Greg got right up on Marc, eyes glowing with rage, but his voice a deadly calm that terrified me. “Ask me how I know.”
The two of them stared at each other, and I had to get up. I had to put an end to this.
Marc said nothing, and I wanted to shake him. Not because I was angry. He was stuck. He was frozen.
I couldn’t even imagine what was going through his head.
“Say something, damn it!” Greg grabbed him by the collar, shaking him. “Say something!”
Pain spread through my body as I forced myself to get up from the wheel chair, and I launched myself at Greg, grabbing his collar, turned his head, forcing him to break eye contact with my brother so I could breathlessly, weakly say, “You have no right to talk to Marcus that way.”
I wanted to be stronger. I wanted it to be a command, not a half-whimpered request of an injured woman.
With the last of my strength, I whimpered, “Marc, Miriam…go. Go to your rooms.” When no one moved, I shouted, “Now!”