The outcome of this is not black and white, open and shut, and that’s what’s scaring me.
I’m terrified my dad’s lying to me, or that he’s remembered the chain of events a certain way for so long that the truth is no longer concrete, but blurred. His temper has never been extinguished—it’s been on display, and I’ve seen it up close and personal.
But I remind myself that Charlotte also lied when she told everyone the baby was Jonathan’s.
I repackage the box and listen at the door for movement.
It’s eerily quiet.
Before I step out with the box, I want to make sure the hallway is clear.
And it’s lucky I do, because Charlotte is standing at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes narrowed. “Are you okay?” she asks. “You’ve been up there for a while.”
Shaking as I hold the door, I groan, “I was feeling sick. I’ll be right down.” I point to the coffee table. “I put your laptop right there.”
Her expression changes, as if she thought I was holding her computer hostage.
“Oh, thank you,” she says. “Take your time.”
I watch her retreat into her master bedroom, and I hurriedly replace the box on the top shelf.
When I creep back downstairs, she’s staring vacantly at the television screen.
I expect her to say something when I walk down the stairs, but only the noise on the TV greets me.
“Charlotte?”
There’s no movement when I say her name.
I try again. “Charlotte?”
Her shoulders flinch as if I hit her.
I take slow steps toward her, as if she’s a shelter rescue who’s distrustful of humans. Uneasy, I don’t want to sit down. Charlotte seems like a caged animal ready to pounce.
“Can I take the ice and put it back in the freezer for later?”
As she hands it over to me, I offer to make her some soothing tea.
Whatever she’s focused on or imagining, she snaps out of it. “Oh, yes, please. You can just microwave some hot water and pour it in a cup. The lavender chamomile is in the cupboard closest to the sink.” She pauses and adds, “And Elle, boil enough water so you can have some with me.”
I notice that the picture of Noah and her at a football game is back in its original place on the sideboard. I pretend to busy myself at the side table, where I can watch her out of the corner of my eye as I examine the photograph.
“You put it back?” I put it as a question.
“Uh-huh.” She’s not paying attention, her focus glued to the screen.
I count the keystrokes and watch her tap her fingers on the keyboard, but I can’t distinguish what the password might be.
Then, in the kitchen, contemplating Justin, I rest my hands on the counter as the water warms up.
Where would he get a gun?
He’s a skateboarder with an appetite for beaches and surfing.
His brother’s roommates, I bet. It wouldn’t be that difficult to get one, if you asked the right people.
Or could this be a random act of violence?
Justin wouldn’t have wanted to take her vehicle, and I still don’t know how he would’ve managed to find her and follow her out of a grocery store.
My hands go to my pocket, itching to call him again, but I don’t dare in this house.
Angry at the possibility that Justin might have had a part in a mugging and frustrated at my father for not telling me the baby wasn’t his, I accidentally drop one of the mugs out of her perfectly organized cupboard and watch it shatter into hundreds of tiny pieces on the floor.
But did he know?
I hear Charlotte holler from the living room, asking if I’m okay.
I need to go talk to my dad—maybe even Charlotte’s mother. Or Noah.
Someone who can tell me what the fuck’s going on in this house of secrets. Does she know who I am? I wonder.
The thought of her discovering that my dad is none other than the Jonathan Randall she’s spent her life running from makes me shudder.
Ignoring her, I find the dustpan. As I kneel, I blink away the tears running down my cheeks. I brush the glass into it and force myself to hum a song. When I finish sweeping up the shards, I dump them into the trash.
Who said breaking shit wasn’t cathartic?
“Is everything all right?” Charlotte’s head shoots up in concern as I reenter the living room with our tea.
Sheepish, I hand her a mug. “I had an accident.”
“Are you okay?”
I blush in response. “Yeah, but I broke one of your coffee cups.”
“That’s replaceable, not a big deal, but did you get hurt?”
“Nope.”
“Is there anything I need to sweep up?”
“Nah, I got it.” I shrug. “I found the broom and dustpan.”
Charlotte’s legs are tucked underneath her, and her gaze is still on the fire. The sole purpose of the television is for the sound, I suppose.
We sip our tea in silence.
Then she says something inaudible, and I have to ask her to repeat what she said, the noise drowning her out. She repeats, “Was Diane okay with you leaving tonight?” Then she turns down the TV.
“I don’t know.”
“Is she home?” Charlotte peppers me with questions. “Did you tell her why you had to leave?”
“She’s got enough problems to worry about, least of all me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Elle, I’m prying . . .” She touches a hand to her mottled cheek. “Please don’t mind me. We can talk about something else.”
“I’m just super tired, and I need to go check on the boys.”
“Oh no, they aren’t home alone, are they?” She seems upset. “It was so selfish of me to call you.”
I swallow the last of my tea, unsure how to respond.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about.” I push a strand of hair off my face. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t want a pity party.”
“I know, but it must be hard to feel like nobody cares about your time.”
“It’s whatever.” I glance at my phone. “I’m exhausted. Do you mind if I head home?”
“No, of course. I’ll request an Uber or Lyft.” She pauses and then adds, “Oh, wait. I don’t have my phone. Crap, can you request one, and I’ll give you some cash?”
The phone buzzes again from the kitchen. “Hold on a sec.” Charlotte motions to the phone and stands. She heads into the kitchen, and I again hear soft whispers.
There’s a lag, and I think they’ve disconnected until she becomes loud and insistent. Meanwhile, the laptop tempts me from the couch, the lid firmly shut.
After walking to the doorway, I lace my sneakers up, staring at my reflection in the hallway mirror. My cheeks look abnormally rosy, and acne is popping up in angry patches all over my chest. Charlotte’s voice carries over. “Okay, yeah, definitely, I will. Good night.” She strides back into the living room.
“I was thinking . . .” She approaches me. “Would you mind staying tonight? I’ve obviously got the room, and I’m on edge. I told Noah about you earlier, and he mentioned I should ask.”
Then, giving me a small smile, she continues, “We’d both feel better about it if you stayed here tonight.” Her eyes never leave my face, and I feel myself shrinking. “Peace of mind, if you will.”