Chapter Seven #3
We make small talk. He gushes about his granddaughter, about her school, about how she is apparently the brightest child he has ever known. I promise to meet her, his daughter, all of them, over coffee. It feels good to speak to someone who isn’t performing.
Then I see her.
My mother stands at the top of the marble stairs, framed by the towering pillars, a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette pressed to her lips.
The estate behind her forms a stage built for her, every detail curated to match her brand of cold perfection.
She looks exactly the same. Perfect hair. Perfect posture. Perfect disdain.
I step past Will and look up at her. “Mom.” My voice is tight, strained, forced.
“Marcella.” She says it with the same clipped tone she used throughout my childhood. I cringe.
My father appears next, stepping into view with a brightness that doesn’t match the house. “Mara. You came.” He jogs down the stairs and pulls me into a hug that is far too tight. I awkwardly pat his back.
“Hi, Pop.”
“How long has it been? Four… no, five years?” He holds me at arm’s length, eyes scanning me, lingering on the new tattoos. His gaze shifts past me, landing on Kade. His expression sharpens.
“Do introduce me, Petal.”
“This is Kade.” I gesture toward him.
Kade steps forward, hand outstretched, voice all business. “Kade Mercer. It’s a pleasure.”
“Mercer, as in Mercer Autos?” My father practically lights up, gripping Kade’s hand so hard I wince for him.
“Dad, calm down. You’re going to break his wrist.” I place a hand on his shoulder and push him back slightly.
“Mercer Autos would be the one,” Kade replies with a grin, glancing at my confused face.
My mother drifts down the stairs, wine glass still in hand, cigarette now gone. She stops beside Kade, eyes sweeping over him with clinical detachment.
“He’s handsome,” she says, waving her hand as if she is commenting on a piece of furniture.
Half an hour passes with my father trying to adopt Kade as his new best friend. I escape upstairs to my old bedroom, kicking off my boots and tossing my dress bag over the vanity chair. The room smells faintly of old perfume and dust.
“You don’t get along with your parents, do you?” His voice echoes from the doorway.
I prop my head on my palm and look up at him.
“My dad isn’t too bad. My mom, on the other hand, is an Uber cunt and I can’t stand her.” The insult earns a chuckle.
“Fuck, I’m exhausted.” I rub my eyes, stretching my sore limbs after the long drive.
“I was thinking,” he says, taking a seat behind me. His hand reaches out, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. “We order some takeout and watch something. Today has been a lot for both of us, and I’d really like it if I could just hold you again.”
My heart flutters. I nod and grab my phone, scrolling through Door Dash.
“I swear, why the fuck is there a Michelin star restaurant on here?” I toss my phone aside. “I just want some questionable Chinese food.”
Kade pulls me into his arms, picking up my discarded phone. “It’s not exactly dodgy Chinese takeout, but there’s a Japanese place. We could get ramen and dumplings.”
My stomach growls loudly.
“I’ll take that as a winner.” He leans down and presses a kiss to my temple.
Kade
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Dinner arrives just as the sky outside the estate turns the color of bruised lavender.
I grab the bags from the butler at the door, thank him with a nod, and head back upstairs.
Mara is curled on the bed, scrolling through the TV options with a look of pure exhaustion.
Her hoodie is too big, sleeves swallowing her hands, hair still damp from earlier.
She looks soft in a way she never lets herself be around anyone else.
I set the food down on the vanity and watch her for a moment.
She doesn’t notice. She’s too busy frowning at the screen, muttering under her breath about how every movie on the list looks terrible.
I don’t care what we watch. I just want her close.
I just want her calm. I just want her here, in this room that still smells faintly of her childhood perfume and dust.
She finally lands on some low-budget horror film with a title so generic I can’t even remember it.
She sighs, grabs her ramen, and crawls back to the pillows.
I sit beside her, close enough that our shoulders touch.
She doesn’t move away. She leans into me instead, head resting lightly against my arm.
The movie starts. It’s awful. Grainy lighting. Bad acting. A monster costume that looks like it was made from leftover carpet. She laughs under her breath, the sound soft and tired, and I feel something warm settle in my chest.
I eat slowly, more focused on her than the food.
She slurps noodles, complains about the plot, throws commentary at the screen every few minutes.
I barely hear the words. I’m too busy memorizing the way her face softens when she’s comfortable.
The way her eyes half-close when she’s tired.
The way she curls her legs under herself, small and warm beside me.
She shifts, leaning more fully into my side.
I wrap an arm around her without thinking, pulling her closer.
She melts into the touch, head resting against my shoulder.
My heartbeat stumbles. I keep my eyes on the screen, but I’m not watching the movie.
I’m watching her reflection in the glass.
I’m watching the way she breathes. I’m watching the way she trusts me enough to fall into me after a day that should have broken her.
The monster on screen jumps out. She flinches. I tighten my arm around her, steadying her. She laughs at herself, embarrassed, and I feel my mouth curve into a smile I didn’t plan.
She doesn’t see it, the way I look at her, the way this room feels different with her in it, the way the estate’s cold grandeur fades when she leans against me.
She just watches the movie, unaware of the storm she quiets in me.
I rest my chin lightly on the top of her head, breathing her in, letting the moment settle. The horror film drones on, terrible and loud, but she is warm against me, soft, real.
She lasts maybe twenty minutes into the movie before her body starts giving out.
I feel it before I see it. The way her weight settles more fully against me.
The way her breathing shifts, slower, deeper, softer.
The way her fingers loosen around the bowl she’s holding until I gently take it from her and set it aside.
She doesn’t even notice. She’s too tired. Too worn down. Too trusting.
Her head slips from my shoulder to my chest, cheek pressed against me, warm and quiet.
I freeze for a moment, not because I don’t want her there, but because I want it too much.
I want to stay exactly like this. I want to hold her until the sun comes up.
I want to keep her safe from every shadow that has ever touched her.
The movie flickers across the screen, some ridiculous monster chasing teenagers through a forest, but I barely see it. I’m watching her. The way her eyelashes rest against her skin. The way her lips part slightly as she drifts deeper. The way her hair falls across her cheek in a soft, messy curl.
I reach out and brush it back, tucking it behind her ear. She doesn’t stir. She just breathes, slow and steady, trusting me with her entire weight. My chest tightens. My pulse stumbles. I rest my hand lightly against her shoulder, feeling the warmth of her through the fabric of her hoodie.
She murmurs something in her sleep, too quiet to understand, but her fingers curl into my shirt as if she’s reaching for me. As if she knows I’m here. As if she needs me close even when she isn’t awake.
I swallow hard, staring down at her. She looks peaceful, soft, nothing like the girl who walked through her parents’ estate with her jaw clenched and her eyes sharp. She looks younger, safer, mine in a way she hasn’t said out loud yet.