Page 20 of The Late Hit
The parking lot of the townhouse complex is surprisingly not full, and I’m able to score a parking spot close to our unit. Putting the car in park, I climb out and sling my backpack on my shoulders. I can see the lights are on at home, and I can’t decide if I’m happy to have my roommates home to distract me, or if I just want to wallow in self-pity alone.
Storming into the house, the door slams behind me. Three heads whip in my direction from the couch—Chloe, Macy, and Gregg. Not bothering to acknowledge them, I go straight to the kitchen. Alcohol is calling my name.
“Woah, you look like shit,” Chloe calls from the couch.
My middle finger flies in the air instead of a response. Digging through the fridge, which needs to be cleaned out, I grab a Coors Light. Shutting the door, I make my way back into the living room where sounds of one of theHousewivesshows fill the room. Plopping down in the armchair, I swing my legs over the side and make myself comfortable.
“It’s cute she’s already got you whipped enough to watch theHousewives,” I snark, taking a long pull of my beer.
“Someone’s in a bitchy mood tonight. Not getting laid enough this week?” Macy quips back.
Staring at the TV, I add, “Nope, it’s about to be shark week, and I got an email from my mom.”
“That explains the mood,” Chloe adds.
Silence ensues in the room as we watch the housewives fight, and one of them flips over a table. Seriously, why is someone always destroying dinner, especially when there’s hired help at the dinner party? Wouldn’t that be so embarrassing to show your ass in front of the help?
For the next half hour, I find myself zoned out staring at the TV, nursing my beer.
“Brinley, you ungrateful, spoiled brat,” she says, and I roll my eyes. It’s two forty-five in the morning, and I’m just coming in from another party. You would think that, given what happened six months ago, a party would be the last place I’d be, but we all grieve in our own way.
“Look who decided to be a mother,” I crack, slurring my words. “Did you finally remember that you still have a child?”
Smack.Her hand flies across my cheek. I can’t even say that I’m shocked. Did I deserve to be smacked? Probably. Am I surprised she did it? No.
Carolyn Cabot-Wilder is the picture of the perfect woman. She’s climbed the ladder at the hospital. No surprise there since it’s our family’s “legacy,” a legacy I have absolutely no desire to continue. Even if I wanted a career in the medical field, being under the scrutiny of the Cabot name is a big fat “fuck no.” She wears her fitted dress with her perfectly poised attitude while clutching her precious pearls. But what most people don’t know is that Carolyn is a ticking time bomb.
Every woman in this society has her secrets.
And Carolyn Cabot-Wilder has many.
“Did that make you feel good, Mother?” I ask, rubbing my cheek. “Does it make you feel powerful to hit your daughter?”
“Do youreallythink you’re the first daughter to be slapped? Get over yourself, Brinley,” she scoffs. “It’s about time for you to grow up and start preparing to join your family’s legacy. Lucky for you, you’ve got two legacies to choose from.”
I laugh, actually laugh, at the audacity of this woman.
“Please Mother, like I’d join either one of the family legacies.” Making my way to the fridge, I pull out a water bottle and start guzzling the ice-cold liquid. “Do I take after the adultering mother and her many conquests? Or the crooked politician who floats to whichever side has the most money?”
“Speak ill about your father or myself one more time young lady and see where that gets you. We will not allow you to disgrace our family’s reputation any longer,” she snarls.
“Bryce lucked out,” I whisper.
“Why couldn’t it have been you?” she mutters, knowing it was loud enough for me to hear. And, oh how she hit her target with that shot.
On the six-month anniversary of losing my brother, my twin, and my best friend, I lost the remaining respect for my mother. I was hurting. I just wanted to feel loved. And she told me she wished I was the one to have died in that accident, not her son.
That night, I lay in my bed, wearing my brother’s favorite hoodie and cried myself to sleep. I dreamed of more time together. Of the time I fell and cut my leg. Bryce sat next to me with his arm wrapped around me, wiping my tears, just like I wished he would do for me tonight.
Only this time, in my memory, I can feel him.
I feel him wrapping his arm around me. I feel him brushing the tears from my cheek with his thumb. I hear him trying to console me. “Wilder!”
Wait…Bryce never called me Wilder.
“Wilder! Wilder, stop crying. Hey, Wilder.”
Waking up, I look over to find Quinton squatting in front of me. He lifts me up from my spot on the armchair before taking my place and pulling me tight against his chest. I was so lost in my memory that I didn’t even hear him come in.
