Page 2 of Under Pink Skies

Imogen knew I was struggling financially to keep myself and the store afloat, but even she didn’t know exactly how badly we were hurting. My father was the only one who knew the intricacies of the mess we were in, but he was barely sober enough to stand most days. Asking him to find an employee’s W-2 form from the first year Watford General was operational would only end with him laughing in my face and smashing his bottle against a wall.

“You know Cassie is a lawyer at a large firm in Seattle now, right? I could call her. I’m sure she’d be happy to look over your documents and give some suggestions.”

I smiled but shook my head. “Your sister has enough on her plate right now.”

Imogen made a small hum of consideration and acknowledgment.

A loud crash from above us shook me from my thoughts. The wooden floor of the ceiling creaked under the weight of my father’s feet, and I heard the muffled sounds of him stumbling and cursing, trying to find his way to the door.

Triple crap.

Today was not my day.

Imogen turned her head toward me, her lips parting in a silent question. I looked away quickly, not trusting myself to meet her eyes without crying. I silently sent a prayer to whatever God might be listening that my father wouldn’t make a fool of himself in front of my last remaining friend.

But God had turned a blind eye to my family a long time ago.

My father, in all his hungover glory, stumbled his way down the steps, leaning against the wall for stability. Even though I was standing well over ten feet away from the landing, the smell of stale beer, vomit, and a severe lack of showering hit me like a freight train. Malcolm’s black hair was stringy and overgrown, and his beard was patchy. Shabby clothing that was positively filthy completed his disgusting aesthetic. I barely swallowed my gag, even as distant tears stung the back of my eyes.

Imogen would never speak of this. I trusted her with every dark part of me, and she did the same for me.

But knowing she was seeing this part of my life—the part I tried so desperately to keep hidden from my customers, from Watford, from everyone—made me vulnerable in a way I hadn’t allowed myself to be in years.

Imogen stood frozen in place as Malcolm greeted her with a grunt. She clearly wanted to intervene but didn’t know how to do so.

I expected myself to be embarrassed by my still-drunk father heading toward the store’s beer cooler, but instead, rage filled my veins.

How was it I had lost my mother, but no one had allowed me to grieve? My father had found a broken solace at the bottom of a whiskey bottle and left me to fend for myself against the weight of the world.

I’d been struggling for the last five years to pick up the ruined shards of my family and the business that sustained us and our presence in Watford, all while trying to piece the jagged pieces of my heart afterheleft.

Because he’d left me. Days after my mother’s funeral, the person I’d sworn I’d live the rest of my life with abandoned me.

I swallowed the lump in my throat once more.

Not here. Not now. Never.

I couldn’t let these emotions out.

If I did, the entire world would fall to pieces. That, I was sure of.

“Imogen,” my father said, smiling as he inclined his head toward the black-haired female to my right. I took a small step toward her, ready to push her out of the way if my father suddenly stumbled or flew into one of his all-too-common drunken tirades. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you.”

Imogen replied with her own tight-lipped smile. “It’s nice to see you too, Mr. Malcolm. My mother was just asking about you the other day.”

The understatement of the century.Malcolm Collins had become an enigma since Tilly had died. No one, save for me, Imogen, and the bartenders at the Roadhouse, knew anything about what my father and I were going through. And even Imogen had never seen him like this.

My father had a talent for presenting his best face when we were in public, saving the worst of his moments for his family. And the days when he couldn’t pull his shit together enough to keep up the facade? He simply didn’t go out. He barricaded himself inside the walls of his house and created chaos there instead.

I’d noticed his alcoholism was getting worse, particularly after the anniversary of my mother’s death, but this was something different. Imogen sensed it, and I wanted to crawl into a hole and leave this place forever.

“Ah, your mother, such a lovely woman.”

I rolled my eyes. Using the term “your mother” rather than Kayla meant the drunken fool couldn’t remember my best friend’s mom’s name. I opened my mouth to speak, but my jaw hung open in shock as my father ripped open the door of the beer cooler and grabbed a bottle of Corona straight from an unopened six-pack, gripping it in his filthy fingers as if he held a claim to it.

“Dad,” I said incredulously, taking a step toward him. “Those are for paying customers. We can’t afford—”

“I’ll tell you what we can’t afford.”

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