Page 102 of Pretty Little Threats

The answer to that is simple. The emotions swirlinginside me have been absent since the day my mom died. Her death left a gaping hole in my life, and Dare, as larger than life as he is, can’t fully fill it. I’ll always be incomplete. Grief descends on my happiness like a guillotine.

Dare’s face scrunches. “Hey, you okay?”

Averting my gaze, I make up an excuse to leave before he can see the tears and try to shove the grief away. “I’m going to go get dressed.”

Dare doesn’t respond. For a moment, I think he’s going to ask, but he releases my hand and my grip falls away from his throat. “The food will be ready soon.”

Managing to pull on the familiar impassive mask, I nod and leave the room on steady feet, but as soon as I’m in our bedroom, memories slam into me.

Mom braiding my hair. The gentle scrape of her fingers along my scalp as she gathered my hair.

My throat burns with suppressed tears, and I try to inhale, but it’s hard to take a breath.

The melody of Mom’s sweet voice softly singing a lullaby floats through my mind.

My lungs hold air hostage, and they won’t let go; the oxygen suspended in my system turns corrosive, making my head spin and my heart stutter.

Phantom limbs embrace me, the memory of the security of her hold as she danced with me in her arms.

Something sharp stabs into my chest. A blade cutting me open and leaving nothing but suppressed pain behind.

Mom used to push me on the swing she demanded Dad buy for me, higher and higher until it felt like I was soaring. But she’s gone now, and there’s no one left to steady the back of the swing and set me back on course.

Blood like acid in my veins, I shake my head to try and stop the grief, but there’s no capping this leak of emotions.They’ve been denied for too long, and they refuse to be pushed aside. They scream through my mind, as if angered by my denial.

Mom will never come back. I never got to know her. I was robbed of so many years with her. My chest. It’s too tight. I rub my palm over my sternum, but even the touch hurts. The more I try to ground myself, the more my body revolts.

Trembling, I lean against the wall right as my legs give out and I sink to the floor.

She used to take baths with me. I remember playing in the tub with her.

But I never really got to know her, at least, not in the way I want to. I want to know what she’d think of me. Would she be proud? Would she be as mad at Dad as I am?

Pinching my eyes shut, I wrap my arms around myself.

“Where’s Rosie Posie?” Mom walks right past me and excitement zings through me. She’ll never find me.

A tiny giggle bursts out of me.

The curtain is yanked away. “There she is!” Mom grins at me, and I scream,running away to find a new hiding spot.

Then there are memories that aren’t fully formed. I was too young to remember much, but there are pieces of moments. French vanilla candles. Christmas ornaments. Reading in the rocking chair. Cookies and sticky hands. Kisses on the cheek. Giggling. Bubbles. Hugs. Unyielding love. Safety.

But that’s all I have. I can’t hug her or learn how to make her infamous cherry pie. And the worst part is, there’s no one in my life that can even compare. No one who loves me the way she did.

Stop. I have to stop. But as much as I try, I can’t controlthis. I can’t stop the shaking. I can’t stop the burn of pain. I can’t stop the tightening of my chest.

I can’t stop.

I can’t.

Can’t.

Tears track down my cheeks.

A sob wrenches from my throat.

Strong arms pick me up. Vetiver twines around me.Dare. He crushes me to his chest. I cling to him, hating the tears, but they won’t stop. Dare cradles my head and carries me to the bed and sits, holding me as I fall apart. And the strangest part is, I don’t feel like I have to stop. There’s no reason to hide the sorrow.

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