EIGHT #5
The frustration I’d been carrying for my father vanished instantly, replaced by a dull ache in my chest. I reached out, hesitantly at first, and rested a hand on the edge of the mattress—not quite touching her, but close enough to offer some comfort. “Do you miss them? Your mother and father?”
She took a moment to answer, staring forward. “In a way. It’s hard, isn’t it? I hate some of the things they’ve done," she continued, "but they’re still... they're my parents."
I suddenly needed to know more. “What type of stuff?”
Amelie’s eyes met mine again as she shrugged and toyed with the covers. “Just stuff. Nothing you’d be interested in talking about.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Try me.” I noticed she didn’t have any stuffed animals in her room. Didn’t most girls sleep with a fucking teddy? Even teenagers? I’d volleyed enough of that type of girly shit off the mattresses of the girls I’d fucked to know it was a thing.
Amelie maintained eye contact, searching my features.
“Anyway, you’re turning the tables. We were talking about you and your dad.
Not me and mine.” She clearly wasn’t comfortable sharing too much with me.
And why would she be? I’d been nothing but a dick to her, and here she was, still trying to find the good in me.
“There’s not much to say. He hurt my mother, and I can’t forgive him for that.”
“Physically?” she asked without breaking a sweat. Her face suggested she thought the question was normal: like asking someone’s favourite colour.
“Hell, no.” I didn’t hide how abhorrent I found those words.
Cameron was many things, but never that.
I found it interesting that Amelie went straight there.
It made me want to find out more about her own parents.
Jessa had already alluded to Amelie having experienced some abuse when she lived at home.
“Let’s just say that he wasn’t there for her when she needed him most.”
“I’m sorry,” she said with a stretch.
“For what?” I questioned.
“Your pain,” she said, lowering her arms.
“Yeah, well. That’s life,” I grunted.
Amelie straightened her legs out, tugging the hem of her top down. “Have you ever spoken to him about it. Asked him why?”
“I don’t need to, I know what he did, I was there.” I took a deep breath before putting it out there. “He cheated on my mother when she was dying of cancer, Amelie. I don’t think it gets any worse than that.” And there it was, Amelie Thorn had prised the truth from me without even trying.
She didn’t look surprised and just said with a strange expression. “How about hitting a young girl with your car and then leaving her body at the side of the road?”
“Yeah, well, there is that. How did the police find out it was him?” I hadn’t even finished my sentence as Amelie’s expression became more guarded. Looking away, she shrugged, shutting down on me. And I had the answer right there, clear as day.
Shuffling forward, I tilted my head and asked. “Did you shop your father to the police?”
There was a beat of silence, and the blood rushed in my ears. “Yes." Amelie’s voice was a fragile thread as she looked at me: her eyes wet, scanning mine for judgment. "So, what does that make me? Not exactly perfect daughter material.”
I felt another sharp tug in my chest. I wanted to grab her by the shoulders—not to shake her, but to hold her steady, make her understand.
The words formed in my mouth and left without any compulsion to stop them. “It makes you one of the bravest people I’ve ever met, Amelie.” And I meant every fucking one of them.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I reached over and brushed a stray hair from her forehead with my thumb, my hand lingering for just a second too long against her skin.
The tension in her shoulders finally snapped, her whole body sagging in relief. When I looked at little Amelie Thorn, I didn't see a traitor, if anything, the girl was a fucking hero.
“Lay back,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. I could see she was tired. “Time to sleep it off.”
She obeyed me, her movements heavy with exhaustion, and I tucked the duvet around her, smoothing the fabric like my mother used to do for me.
“Night,” she whispered, snuggling into the pillow. Her eyes flickered shut, then opened just a crack. “And thank you again. For looking after me. For... everything.”
“Yeah, don’t get used to it,” I muttered with a joking edge, though the bite was gone, replaced by a softness I couldn't quite mask.
I didn't leave. I pulled the cramped wingback chair nearer to the bed, close enough so that I could hear her breathing.
I told myself it was just safety—paranoia about her choking on her own vomit or waking up disoriented—but as I watched her features soften in sleep, I knew there was more than that to how I was feeling.
Folded into a chair far too small for my six-foot frame, I watched her sleep under the dull glow of the bedside lamp. She had been brave enough to do the right thing, even when it cost her everything. Could I say the same?
The question chased me for at least another hour until exhaustion finally pulled me under.