Page 21 of Redemption
I don’t even know this man, but the pure cockiness of that statement makes me want to take him down a notch.
Pulling my shoulders back and standing tall, which puts me nowhere close to his height but still gives me confidence, I ask, “Does that line ever actually work for you?”
I scrunch my nose, distaste settling in my mouth like a rotten tomato, but he merely shrugs and straightens his suit jacket, clearly unbothered by my comment. “I’ve never had a girl run over me to talk to me. So, I guess you will have to tell me. Is it working?”
“Absolutely not.”
My mom’s heels click from behind me, and the man’s eyes flick over my shoulder to where she’s approaching. When he sees her coming, that smile of his turns even more feral than as his eyes flick from her to me. I can see him piecing together who she is to me. I’ve seen that look in others a thousand times—it’s a look that says I’ve become a pawn in whatever game is being played here.
“I guess I’ll just have to try a different approach next time,” he says with a wink, and then he’s gone, slipping out the door before my mom reaches us.
“I see you met one of our newer firefighters,” Mom says, watching the man out the window as he jumps into his truck and drives away. Her face doesn’t hold the same contempt as mine, and I have to wonder what her thoughts of him are.
“Yeah, and he was a real jerk.”
She purses her lips but makes no comment.
“There seem to be a lot of new people around town,” I say as we walk over to an empty seat by the window.
I used to know this town—they used to think they knew me—and while some people might find it sad that the town they left is not the one they came back to, I don’t. This town was never my home, but maybe it can be now.
“That’s what happens when you are gone for six years. The town changes—grows. Time doesn’t stop just because you’re gone.”
The words aren’t meant to slice me. She merely states it as a fact, but it doesn’t matter. They slice me anyway.
I stayed away for my sanity. I had to find myself after everything that happened, but instead, I only lost myself further.
“Yeah,” I say, defeat dampening my words until there’s no emotion behind them, “I guess you’re right.”
Mom nods, sipping on the water the waitress brought us when we sat down, and the silence surrounds us. For a person I’ve always wanted to be able to talk to, I’m finding it surprisingly hard to start now. I’m just going to have to spit it out.
“Will you answer my question about Dad now?”
The straw in my glass spins between my fingers as I roll them together, my mind getting lost in everything that’s happened in the short week since I’ve been back home.
Nothing’s the same—but I wouldn’t have wanted it to be.
With careful moves, Mom sits her drink back on the table and sighs.
“I’ve been asking your father to retire for several years, but he refuses. I think the simple answer to your question is no. He will work until the day he dies. But the more complicated answer is that after Langston—well, after everything—he no longer had anything to throw himself into besides his job. So he uses it as an escape.”
I know she wants that answer to be enough. It’s clear by the set of her shoulders, but it’s not. Maybe these are questions I should be asking my dad, but the reality is, there’s only one parent here right now willing to give answers—and it’s not him. It will probably never be him. So, I’ll take what I can get, even if the answers don’t change anything.
“And what about before, Mom? What was his excuse before? Because it’s not like we saw him much before I left town either.”
There’s another sigh, and it hits me just how tired my mom seems. Gone is the shrewd woman from my memories, and in her place is a parent trying to understand her daughter.
It causes guilt to eat at my stomach. I came back expecting to have the same relationship with my parents as before I left, but I didn’t account for the fact that people change—sitting here having a peaceful lunch with Abigail Harrison is proof of that.
My mom has always been the villain in my story—the one who never understood me—but she’s been different since I’ve been back. And I can’t help but wonder if maybe I was the villain in her story, too.
“I’m sorry, Mom. You don’t have to answer that. How dad chooses to spend his time is not your burden.”
She offers me a half smile. Then the waitress is back, taking our orders, and as we eat our lunch, I vow to make a better effort with the woman sitting in front of me.
Chapter 7
Hayes
