Page 141 of Burning Daylight
She smirks. “I knew that was your art.”
I grin softly, but it’s coated in dejection that I can’t shake.
“He was charming, and she was lovestruck, and she definitely didn’t know—or maybe she didn’t care—that he was married. They were together for two years before I was born.”
Juliette’s hand goes to her chest like she’s trying to digest the information.
“I don’t know why my father gave me his last name when he never intended on letting me actually behis, but I’d see him every once in a while. And whenever he’d come into town, my mom would light up like the Fourth of fucking July, and I remember thinking, ‘why can’t I make her smile like that?’”
“Roman,” Juliette whispers.
She stands up and moves to the bench I’m on, sitting down next to me and gripping my hand, tangling our fingers, holding them in her lap.
“It’s stupid,” I mutter.
Her thumb ghosts across the back of my hand. “It isn’t.”
“Then Brooklynn was born, and I don’t know what happened. Maybe he was pissed that she wasn’t his, or maybe his wife got fed up, but he stopped coming around. He stopped caring.”
“He quit seeing your mom?”
I bite the inside of my cheek and stare down at our hands. “Nah, I think they still got together—she seemed happy then, still. At least, some of the time. But then something changed, and she took us on a trip when I was fifteen. Brought us here to Rosebrook Falls to visit and wrapped our car around a tree.”
Juliette sucks in a breath. “And you think my father did it.”
Slowly, I nod, gritting my teeth. “I don’t really remember much of it, just waking up and not knowing what happened. Brooklynn and I were lucky. She had a broken arm and collarbone, and I had some gashes from the windows that shattered. But my mom, she broke her spine.”
“I remember reading that you all were dead.” Her voice cracks on the word, and she covers her mouth. “Sorry, I just… I don’t like thinking about you that way. Or that my father is capable of something like that.”
I bring her hand up to my mouth and press a kiss to the back, using her to ground me, because this is the first time I’ve really talked about it to anyone. It’s hard for me to relive things, especially when the memories aren’t what I thought they were. I’m still trying to piece everything together in a way that makes sense.
“My dad whisked us away, took us out of the hospital, sent us to a new spot in California…gave us new names. I never did know why. Never asked, I guess. I was too busy taking care of my mother while she relearned how to walk.”
“That’s a lot for a kid.”
My eyes burn, and I push it back, not wanting to tear up over something that doesn’t even matter anymore. Although, I guess that’s not true. It matters a little; otherwise, it wouldn’t hurt so goddamn bad when I think about it.
“It’s a lot for anyone,” I reply, my voice low. “She lived on oxycodone for a while. And the doctors, they let her… They did what they were supposed to do, you know? Pain meds work when they’re used appropriately, and shewasin pain, Juliette.”
I say it with more force than necessary.
“But she grew dependent on them?” Juliette asks.
I nod, pursing my lips and breathing deep to keep the old wounds at bay. “Yeah. And then just like that, all her medical support disappeared.” I snap my fingers. “I think my dad might have broken her spirit long before she broke her spine. She’s never been the same since.”
Clearing my throat, I spin my ring faster. “What nobody tells you is those pills help curb the emotional wounds, too, at least at first. And when that’s the only kind of hurt left, and the doctors rip those meds away from you, well, some people spend the rest of their lives scraping at the hole they’ve unknowingly fallen into, just trying to numb the pain.”
“I’m so sorry, Roman.” Her voice is small and sad, like she doesn’t quite know what to say. “She was an artist?”
A soft smile blooms at the memory, my chest lightening. “Yeah. A great one. She painted with bright, messy strokes; color everywhere. It was always under her nails, and all over the walls, and sometimes even in her hair.”
Juliette smirks. “Sounds familiar.”
My throat thickens.
“She’d play music too loud and dance barefoot in the kitchen, and I remember thinking that the whole world revolved around her laugh,” I say, my voice ragged. “She wasn’t perfect, but she was mine.”
Juliette’s eyes go glassy, her hand pressed against her chest like she’s holding something in. “That’s… I don’t even?—”
