Dad’s grip on me becomes protective. “I have a lot of things I’d like to say to you right now, but Cam isn’t home. What I’m concerned about is the fact Emery was locked outside, half-freezing, while you made…brownies?” He eyes the mess, jaw tight. “You better clean up this mess now and apologize to Emery.”
“D-Dad—”
Dad turns to me. “You need to go take a hot shower and warm
up.” His eyes catch something on the side table by the kitchen entrance. Keys. Two of them. One of them has a little pink protector on the top that matches the missing one from my keychain. “Why the hell are the keys to the front door inside?”
My lips part.
Did Kaiden purposefully lock me out?
My nostrils flare and for once I do what Dad tells me to without much thought. Leaving them to argue, which Dad quickly starts doing as soon as I’m out of view, I close myself in my room. It takes a bit for my muscle and joints to cooperate enough to peel my clothes off, but once my body hits the hot water and steam in the shower, I finally start to ease.
Until I realize what Kaiden did.
Then anger settles where the stiffness did.
As the water cascades over me, the shakes turn into something entirely different. I’m sore, bitter, and emotional. I thought Kaiden and I were becoming friends, if not something close to that.
I don’t realize I’m crying until I let the water hit my back and feel the teardrops slide down my cheeks. Brushing them away, I run my fingers through my hair and wince at the way my shoulders tighten from the movement.
Resting my arms to the sides, I notice what’s wrapped around a few of my fingers.
Hair.
Lots of it.
More tears.
More anger.
Not just at Kaiden.
At life.
He’s there when I step out of the bathroom, wet hair, sweatpants, oversized sweatshirt, and all. No longer is he sporting his dirty clothes, but something new as he sits on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his jean-clad thighs.
I don’t say a word.
“Are you okay?”
I want to ask him why he cares.
I don’t grace him with anything.
“You look a little better.”
I scoff.
If he only knew how triggering those words really are. I’ve heard people talk about my image for too many years. On days when you feel closer to death than ever they’re a blow to the gut. It’s always about looks. You either don’t look sick enough for anyone to believe you, or you look so sick people feel the need to point it out.
For his sake, he’s probably right. My fingers aren’t blue and I can feel my extremities. Before leaving the bathroom, I noticed my cheeks and nose were a little red, but nothing unusual because of the scalding water I’d stood under for longer than I probably should have.
“Emery—”
“You should go.”
I want to lay down with a book or watch something on my laptop. Maybe go to bed early. Anything that means him going away.