“Stop it!” I yell, my hands held above my head, waving to get their attention. When they both snap their gazes to me, I drop my hands to my head. “I’m eighteen. I had a birthday…which you didn’t acknowledge,” I say sternly, pointing to my father who opens his mouth to rebut my accusation, but I keep talking, cutting him off before he can begin a single word. “You don’t have any right to say anything about me, to me, on my behalf! You gave that all up the moment you fucked my best friend, you piece of shit. You don’t get to be my father ever again, and when I think about it, you never really were.”
There’s a feeling of power that comes over me the longer I talk, the words I’m saying freeing, my voice growing calmer, stronger. There is so much I want to say to this man; so much I want to say to my mom, too, for even letting him in the house. But Owen needs me. Those things are going to have to wait.
“Mom,” I speak to her, holding my hand up to my father’s face, my gesture cruel and insolent, but I don’t give a fuck, because Owen needs me. “I need you. It’s personal, and I don’t want to talk about this in front of him.”
I hold her gaze, watching her mind process what she’s able to read in mine. Please, Mom. Just this once, stand up to him. Don’t let him charm you; make him leave.
“Kens, can we just talk first, then when your dad goes back to his hotel, you and I can talk about anything, whatever you need?” she’s trying to make us both happy. That’s no longer possible, though—we both don’t get to be happy.
“No,” I say. Nothing more. I won’t talk about Owen in front of him, and I won’t sit here and listen to them try to talk about me, their marriage, fake apologies, my dad’s rights or wishes for me, his role in my life. I’m not having that conversation—not ever.
“Dean…” my mom sighs, her head leaning to the side, her eyes falling on him. She’s exhausted, and I can tell he’s probably been here for hours, wearing her down.
“Karen, have you forgotten who the parents are in this house? My god…” my dad says, kicking away from the counter, his stool crashing to the floor with his temper. “Are you pregnant? Did that little thug next door knock you up? That’s what this is, isn’t it? Jesus, Karen!”
I don’t answer. My father couldn’t be more off-base, and it takes every breath in my body to stand here and keep my eyes on my mom, not to acknowledge him at all. But he just isn’t worth it.
“Dean, I think you need to leave,” she says, standing and putting her hand slowly along his shoulder. My dad shrugs her off, his brow low and hard, shirking her touch. “Dean, it’s time to go.”
“A goddamned mess. You…both of you! You did this to yourself!” My father points his finger back at me as he leaves, his face glowing red, his anger radiating.
When the door slams shut behind him, I turn back to my mom, her eyes wide and staring at the door, her face flushed. She stumbles on her feet, her balance failing her, and then grips behind her for her stool, looking for anything to save her. I wait as long as I can, but time is moving, and Owen needs me.
“Mom, I need your help,” I say. She shakes her head, rubbing her temples before nodding a few times and bringing her eyes to me. “It’s Owen…”
I can see her face flash with panic, worry that my father’s guess was right.
“I’m not pregnant!” I blurt out, relief washing over her quickly. “But Owen needs you. It’s his brother, James. He came home, and he’s…” I don’t know how to say this in a way that doesn’t shed more negative light on the Harper family. I don’t know what my mom has heard, and I don’t want to contribute to those terrible rumors, but damn if so many of them aren’t true.
“James is an addict, Mom. He’s detoxing, and Owen’s mom has to work, so Owen’s at home, by himself, trying to take care of James. He doesn’t want Andrew to see any of it, and it’s killing him. Mom…oh god, Mom, it’s so bad,” I fall apart a little, remembering everything I just saw, knowing how hard it is on Owen. I place my palms flat on the counter and breathe deeply, closing my eyes, finding my strength. “Mom, Owen has a game tonight. It’s all he’s got, and he has nobody to help him. Can you just, I don’t know…come take a look? I don’t know what to do, Mom. Please…help.”
My mom stares at me for long seconds, the air around us quiet and cold. I can’t tell if she’s judging Owen and his family, or if she’s just disappointed in me, that this is the person I’ve decided to connect with, the one I’ve decided to love. And I wonder if she knows I love him? She finally stands, silently, and holds a finger up, leaving the kitchen and moving to the stairs. She climbs them and disappears into her bedroom for a few minutes before coming down with a small bag.