Page 41 of The Persistence of Thornes
“It sounded like it couldn’t,” I finally reply, tamping down my rising panic attack.
“Halle.” His tone is stern, so unlike his typically gentle way. “You need help, don’t you?”
I bite my tongue to hold back a whimper. Yes, I need help, but admitting that out loud is more than I can bear. I’ve always had to handle my own shit. I don’t knowhowto let someone help me.
“Exactly,” he says when I remain silent. “I’ll get what I need from here and be on my way in thirty. Pack a bag. The boys too. Take it over to my place.”
Before I can protest, Caleb hangs up on me.
I stare at my phone and give myself a solid three seconds to wonder what the fuck just happened before I move. He ended the call like that on purpose, so I couldn’t argue with him. Smart man.
The boys have already unhooked their gaming console from where it was set up beneath the TV—naturally that was their main concern—and Casen is setting it on the kitchen table when I clap to get their attention. “Pack up your stuff. We’re going to have to stay somewhere else tonight.”
And tomorrow night too. And who knows how many nights after that.
They exchange a look, communicating in the silent way they do. “Are we going to have to sell the house?”
I snort. I was the only one stupid enough to buy the house, and that was before the water damage. “No, but…” I eye the water soaking into my sneakers and wiggle my toes, cringing at the way they squish. “I don’t know what kind of repairs we’re looking at. Water is serious. It means mold.”
“The house is moldy!” Quinn practically shrieks. “Isn’t mold deadly?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, sending up a silent prayer. “I just meant that watercausesmold, and it doesn’t take a lot for that to happen. This much is enough to mold the floors and baseboards.”
The worried look they exchange guts me. They’re fourteen-year-old goofballs, but they’re more perceptive than they let on. Their lives haven’t been easy either, and I hate that I can’t take away all the stressors. I want them to be teenagers, to enjoy being carefree at least a little before they have to grow up.
“Can we help?” Casen asks.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say no, but I won’t infantilize them. They’re strong boys, and they can clearly see that I need help. “Yeah, we need to get everything we can out of the water. With any luck, some of it will be salvageable.” I gesture to the couch and other furniture downstairs. Most of our belongings may have been thrift-store finds, but it doesn’t make the loss of it any easier to swallow.
Just as we’re starting, Thayer returns with his wet vac.
“Thank you so much.” If I can be thankful for one thing today, it’s that he hadn’t left for work yet.
“It’s not a problem,” he says, smoothing his hands down his jeans. “My wife is home, so if you need help or somewhere to hang out, just knock on the door. She knows what’s going on.”
“Thanks,” I say, throat tight. “I really appreciate it.”
The boys help me move furniture around, taking what we can upstairs and wiping each piece down. In the end, I think most of it will be fine. We use the wet vac to suck up all the standing water, then use every towel we own to soak up all we can. I tend to overreact, and honestly, I hope that’s the case now. If anyone could use a break, it’s me.
“There isn’t much else we can do right now.” Hands on my hips, I face my brothers.
Sweaty and a tad out of breath, my brothers eye me, but neither speaks. Casen pushes his hair out of his eyes.
“Are your bags packed yet?”
They nod in unison. I should be used to it by now, how in sync they are with each other, but I’m not sure I ever will be. “Okay, just hang out… wherever while I do mine, and then we’ll…” I trail off and sigh. I’m not sure how to even finish that thought.
I really don’t want to take Caleb up on his declaration—it was far too blunt to be called an offer—to stay with him, but I can’t afford a room at a hotel, regardless of whether insurance will eventually reimburse me.
With a deep breath in, I head to the stairs, resigned to accepting help. Maybe a normal person would do so easily, but my trauma response includes the need to be in control of every aspect of the emergency. How could it not when that’s what’s always been expected of me? And despite my self-awareness, it’s still difficult to fight the urge.
The stairs creak beneath my feet, further quieting my brothers’ whispers. They’re worried, and that’s the last thing I want. But the moment I enter my room, I freeze. Maybe because of the stress, but I can’t be sure.
I give myself a minute to mentally reboot. Then I yank a bag out of the closet, toss it onto the bed, and start packing. I don’t need much. We can easily come back over. But I find myself piling the bag full anyway.
As I zip it closed, a tear slides down my cheek.
Crap.
