Underneath the Sycamore Tree(37)

“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.

“I didn’t—”

“Kaiden,” I cut him off, “I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want you in my room. I don’t want…” I shake my head. “I just don’t want to deal with this right now.”

“This was my room first,” he points out.

I put my hands on my hips. “If you want it back so bad then fine. You can switch our stuff when I’m gone next week.”

His lips twitch. “It’s just a room.” Before I go to reply, he adds, “You’re getting quite the backbone. Maybe I shouldn’t call you Mouse anymore.”

“Mice are courageous,” I argue, not that it really matters. “For something so tiny, they risk a lot around people who want them gone.”

“They usually get killed.”

I think about the one time Lo and I had a mouse in our room. Mama swore putting peanut butter on the trap would lure it in and get rid of it, but the mouse was smart. Somehow, it licked the peanut butter off without getting harmed.

“Not all of them.”

We’re silent.

“I didn’t know you were out there.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t.” He stands, combing his fingers through his hair. “If I’d known, I would have opened the damn door. Rachel and I were listening to music downstairs and—”

I hold my hand up. “I don’t want to know what you two were doing. In fact, I’d like to think about anything but those possibilities. If you don’t mind, I’ve got things to do.”

He snorts. “Like what? More homework? Got another book to read? Is this one about a cowboy or army vet?”

Blushing, I throw back my blankets. I remember Mama reading books with guys like that on the cover of them, but not so much me. I don’t feel like correcting him though.

“I’m tired.”

“It’s not even six thirty.”

“The cold does that to me,” I snap, eyeing him as I slide my feet under the comforter.

He’s silent, teeth grinding.

I want to tell him that the cold does a lot more to me. It causes me bone deep pain that leaves me uncomfortable for days, makes me so fatigued I sleep for fourteen hours straight, and irritates my already sensitive skin. Instead of giving him those details, I lay on my side with my back facing him.

It hurts my shoulder and hip, but I don’t care. For once, I want to hurt him. I want to stop feeding into the way he treats me like I deserve it. For once, I just want someone to feel the pain I do so maybe then they’ll truly understand.