Chapter 12 Sierra #2
When he doesn’t say anything and I can no longer take the pressure, I mutter, “If this is about me talking to your family, I swear Layne and Kaylie just came into the smoothie bar—”
“I heard. And I’m not a monster. I’m not going to tell a little girl she can’t have a smoothie just because I don’t like the proprietor of the shop.”
“Right. Thanks,” I say neutrally, trying to just draw breath and ignore the tiny, unexpected arrow that pierces my lungs when he says he doesn’t like me.
It’s fucking deflating, and I hate that he has this effect on me. I know he doesn’t like me. But to hear it out of his mouth hits different.
“Especially not when she tells me your shop is ‘total slay.’” The tiniest hint of amusement seems to flicker at the corner of his mouth. “I think that means cool.”
“I can assure you it does, Grandpa.”
He gives me a look, one eyebrow cocked. “You know I’m her uncle, right?”
I do, of course, but giving him even a moment to question whether I actually think Kaylie might be his granddaughter has me snorting inside.
However, I’m trying to convince myself that antagonizing him won’t help my cause.
I let him off the hook. “Yes, I know you’re her uncle.”
“She’s ten. And I’m thirty-four,” he says defensively.
Which is curious. Why would he care what I think of his age, or anything else?
His left arm is toward me, and a streetlight catches on his bicep. I see the name scripted through his tattoo, which clearly matches the Samantha one on his right arm.
This one says Christopher.
I’d love to not say anything about it, but it feels wrong. Too cold. And that’s just not me.
I clear my throat. It’s still kind of sore from the chili shrimp incident. “So . . . Samantha and Christopher . . . Those were your parents, right?”
I know I’m right. He doesn’t have to say a thing. I can feel it; the sudden shift in the night air around him. The tension in his body.
I take a deep breath and rip off the bandage. “I just heard from some of the locals about what happened to them. I’m so sorry that your family has suffered such a loss. I know you wanted me to stay away from them, but I really like Layne and Kaylie.”
Mason slows his pace as I speak, and I slow along with him. I don’t even look at him. I can’t.
I don’t think I want to see his pain, if it’s there, or his discomfort. And I’m not in the mood to handle his anger, so I hope he’s not mad. I really don’t know if I just upset him or not, but I do know he doesn’t trust me.
So, I offer up something that I think will prove I’m sincere. That this isn’t some trick or a cruelty.
“I lost my father when I was young,” I say quietly, looking off into the night, “like I told you. He left me when I was three. I know it’s totally not the same thing as the loss you experienced, but I’m just saying, I know how it feels to lose a parent too soon.
To no longer have them in your life when they should be. ”
I can hear Mason breathing next to me, but I still don’t look.
He doesn’t say anything.
The others are really getting ahead of us as we approach Twisted Tree Orchard, and we just keep walking, slowly, side by side.
“It’s not something anyone can really understand,” I go on, “unless you experience it first-hand. And you definitely can’t prepare yourself for it. There was no way I could prepare myself for my own father choosing his next family over me.”
We both come to a stop. We’ve reached the entrance to June’s property, the Twisted Tree Orchard sign wrapped in fairy lights. Small lanterns light the way up the drive, toward the cider house and beyond.
Sophie stands next to one of the lanterns, waiting for me.
Layne and Trish are farther up the road, maybe oblivious that they’ve lost us. Trish’s laughter floats to us on the breeze and skitters away into the trees.
A shiver runs up my back.
I can feel Mason watching me.
When I turn to him, our eyes lock. “This isn’t about our ‘war,’” I tell him. “I promise.” I feel disarmed. My weapons, for the moment, tucked away. My armor laid down.
If he wants to take a jab, now would be the time to hit me with whatever he’s got.
But I can feel his weapons withdrawing, too.
“That’s . . .” He seems to search for the right word to respond to what I just told him about my own loss. Then he admits, “Terrible.”
A bubble of laughter floats out of me. If he only knew; “terrible” is the absolutely correct descriptor for the way my biological father treated me that one time I got to speak to him in the last twenty-seven years.
“I’m sorry,” he adds softly.
I don’t know what he’s sorry for. His loss of words? The fact that my own father crushed my self-esteem into a snarl of shame and uncertainty and self-doubt that I’m still trying to untangle?
I kind of laugh again, and there is absolutely no reason for it.
Mason stares, like he’s trying to make sense of me. His gaze weighted and dark, his hands crammed in his pockets. And neither of us moves.
I feel rooted to the road, to this moment where neither of us says another thing as the night air between us charges with potential energy.
A lock of hair dances across my face, and I swear he’s about to reach out and smooth it aside for me.
Or move closer. Or say something else, good or bad, that I will not be able to handle.
An impulse throbs deep in my chest, overwhelming and dangerous.
It’s the urge to touch him.
Followed quickly by the urge to push him away.
I take a step back before I can do either.
He waged war on you.
He told you to leave town.
You have to be tougher than this, Sierra.
“Anyway,” I blurt. “We’re in charge of the food and drink area at the festival. You and me. You know, together.”
His eyebrows pinch together. “What?”
“So, I guess we have a meeting with Power Mom in the morning?” I bite my lip. “Shit, I mean Pamela. I’ve been calling her Power Mom all night in my head,” I explain, though I know that’s not the part he’s confused about. “So. See you tomorrow, I guess!”
Then I turn and run. Up June’s driveway, where I know he won’t follow.