I just dove into the ocean and pulled her out without her even knowing I was outside. I’d be creeped the hell out too if I was yanked from the water by a stranger.
But what was I supposed to do?! She was drowning.
“Chill out,” I said, tossing my hands out in surrender. “I was helping you.”
“Helping me?!” she hissed, trying to stand on her feet, startled and still looking terrified. “I didn’t need your help!”
“The hell you didn’t. You were drowning.”
“I was not drowning!”
“Yes, you were. You didn’t come back up for air! I saw you.”
“I know! It’s called swimming!”
“Swimming can turn into drowning!”
“Not when you know what you’re doing,” she snapped. “I was talking to my mother.”
Crazy woman says what?
“What the hell does that mean?” I asked, uncertain if I wanted her answer.
“None of your business! Jeez. I like to go into the water to swim, okay? So, if you could leave me to do that, that would be great.”
“Fine.”
“Great.”
“Wonderful,” I hissed back.
“Fan-freaking-tastic!” she replied.
I turned to walk away, annoyed that I even allowed myself to care for a short period. Next time, without a doubt, I’d let the woman drown.
“What’s your deal, huh?!” she snapped, making me turn around to see her in a complete fit. “What’s your freaking problem?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your problem, what is it? From the moment I met you, you’ve been nothing but rude.”
“Me? You pretty much went psycho on me over a damn scone.”
“I didn’t go psycho. Besides, you don’t know the meaning behind it all.”
“There is no reason good enough for the way you’ve acted in and outside of that bakery,” I told her.
“That’s not true. I—”
“Don’t have an excuse—”
“It was his favorite scone!” she hollered, her nose flaring as emotion burst out of her from the seams. Water dripped from her body as emotions built behind her eyes. Her voice dropped a bit as she continued, trying her best to gain composure. “It was his favorite scone. For over two decades, Kevin would go into town on Saturday morning and wait in line at Jerry’s Bakery. He then would come home, and we’d share a blueberry scone with one another. We never missed our Saturday scone date up until today.
“So, forgive me for being weird this morning. Forgive me for not being my complete, stable self. But today, I laid to rest the one man who meant the world to me. The one man who was there for me through thick and thin. Today, I lost my father.” She choked back her tears. “So how about you give me a freaking break because if you think your criticism and judgment of me are needed on one of the worst days of my life, then you’re unbelievably wrong. I’m broken to my core, okay? I’m currently drowning. You don’t have to proceed to hold my head beneath the water. I’m having a bad enough day.”
“You think you’re the only one having a bad day? On top of finding out who my father is, I found out that he raised another person’s child for her whole life. He gave someone else’s kid everything I’d ever wanted. He was everything I wanted in a father to someone else. And I was told to come here to find out more about my history when, in reality, I was given puzzle pieces to my life as if it’s a fucking game.
“Kevin Michaels is a puppeteer, and I am the damn puppet attached to his strings. He could’ve easily just straight out told me who my mother was, but instead, he made that messed-up, complicated will of his. Then he wrote the letter handed to me in his office just now to tell me that I was standing in the same room with my mother. I just stood in a room with three women, and one of them was my mother. He made a game out of my life, so excuse me if I’m bitter. Forgive me if I’m an asshole today. You had a bad day? Try having a bad fucking life. You might be drowning in grief, but I’m already dead.”
Her mouth parted in shock. “Is that what your letter said? That one of them was your mother?”
I pulled the floppy piece of paper from my back pocket, which was destroyed from the waves, and held it in her face. “The letter stated how your father dearest slept with all three women in the same timeframe that matched my birth certificate. Any of the three could’ve been my mother.
So great to learn that your dead father was a manwhore.
What a great day.
I saw the color drain from Stella’s face. “Oh, my goodness. One of the wicked stepmothers is your mother?” she asked.
“That’s the rumor.”
“None of them reacted at all to the news,” she remarked.
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
“Do you have to be sarcastic about everything?”
“Yeah. It’s kind of my thing.”
“That’s a tacky thing.”
“I’m a tacky fucker.”
She reached out and placed a hand against my forearm. “Damian… I’m-I’m so sorry. I can’t believe that Kevin is making this out to be some sort of game when it’s your life.”
Her touch sent a sensation through my system. I stared down at her hand against my arm. “What are you doing?”
Her eyes narrowed in confusion. Her brown eyes. Even though she’d annoyed me, Stella’s eyes were remarkable to take in. They expressed everything she was feeling without any words.
“I’m comforting you,” she explained. “Has no one ever done that?”
“Of course, they have,” I shot back, yanking my arm back to my side. “I just don’t need your pity.”
“It’s not pity. It’s comfort,” she explained. “It makes me sad that you can’t tell the difference.”
“Don’t waste your sadness on me.”
“When in life did you become so cold?” she asked.
That question hit hard against my chest and made my head begin to spin.
Before I could reply, I noticed my driver walking in my direction. “Mr. Blackstone. I’ve arrived.”
I locked eyes with Stella and saw her hurt sitting behind her stare. A level of discomfort hit me as I realized I didn’t know if the hurt was for herself or me. I know she said she didn’t pity me, but I could see it. I knew very little about that woman, but I knew enough to know that she felt bad for me.
She was one of those people who felt terrible for all individuals. Even the villains in the stories—maybe even more for the villains because she knew that villains weren’t born that way. They were raised from a life filled with disappointments and letdowns.
4
Damian
Seven Years Old
* * *
My bedroom door had a sign that said, “Do not enter” with a skull head sketched across it. Mrs. Gable helped me draw it, because she thought I was talented. She didn’t know what kind of art I’d do some day, but she believed I’d be good at whatever it was. That was why she got me art supplies and a disposable camera to try different kinds of art.