Filthy Foreign Exchange(56)

It’s then that I shift my gaze to my left arm, and sure enough, there’s a bulky cast covering it from my wrist to well past my elbow. And here I was just thinking my entire body felt heavy. I wiggle my legs and toes again, just to be sure, and they’re fine. That’s a huge relief.

“Mama,” is all I can say, silently questioning her further with what I know is a scared, baffled expression.

“Yes?” She takes my right hand in hers. “I’m sure you want answers. You’re in Mercy General. When we got home from dinner, you were—”

She gets choked up, and little Sammy pats her gently on the back.

“At the bottom of the stairs, out cold. I called the ambulance. I’m so, so sorry I couldn’t ride with you, honey. I had to stay with Sammy. Your father ran into the surveyor he’s been trying to get ahold of all week, and convinced him to go out to the new worksite tonight.” She covers her mouth and pinches her eyes shut, shaking her head. “He was just here, though—rushed straight over when I called him—but…”

“But what?” I ask as I look around, only just now realizing my dad isn’t anywhere in the room. “Is he okay?” My stomach seizes up, worst-case scenarios flying through my mind.

“Yes, yes, of course.” She squeezes my hand, and the worried cramp in my belly relaxes. “He just needed to run home, while they were putting on your cast.”

“Why?” I couldn’t be more confused. What is she not saying?

“To call the cops on those punk bastards!” Sammy spits out, obviously having also memorized my father’s words.

“Samuel!” my mom gasps.

“He’s right.”

My head jerks toward my dad’s voice as he walks into the room, the instinctual motion hurting like hell.

“How’s my girl?” he asks with a warmth in his tone I’ve never heard, coming up to the side of my bed. “Gave us quite a scare, young lady. But you’re gonna be just fine. My tough lil’ Echo.” He bends to kiss my forehead. “I love you.”

“W-what happened?” I ask, my voice still scratchy. “Punks?”

“Don’t worry about all that right now,” my mom says.

“No, please tell me,” I plead. “What happened?” I want to ask about Kingston, but think better of it when I see the flash of enragement cross my father’s face.

When no one answers me, I attempt to sit up, frustrated and in pain but determined.

“Echo, no, you need to relax,” my mother says as my father steps closer.

“Dad?” I ask. I lock my gaze with his, hoping to convey that I can handle the truth.

“You get too worked up, and I stop talking. Understood?”

I whisper my “Yes,” because I certainly don’t feel like nodding, or straining my voice more than necessary on simple answers.

“Kingston held a party at the pavilion,” my father tells me. “One with crap music blaring loud enough to wake up Mr. Stewart next door. And a bonfire, which he of course saw—when they woke him up.”

“Why would he do that?” I ask, refusing to believe Kingston would disrespect my family’s property by hosting a party there.

“When Kingston finally decides to turn up, I’ll sure as hell be finding out. Rest assured.”

“He wasn’t there?”

Something isn’t adding up. Kingston wouldn’t do this, I know it. And even if I wasn’t steadfast in my faith in him, how could he have done it, without being there? I may be groggy from meds and a head injury, but my common sense still works.

“No, and he’s not answering his phone. Clay was there, though—now there’s a good man. Told me he heard about it from some buddies and got there as quick as he could to break it up. Not only did he move fast to help our family, but he was even trying to look out for Kingston…before I could find out. I can respect that, loyalty to a new friend. But Kingston—”

“Wait, no!”

I shuffle my body, anger flaring through my sore limbs and pounding skull. I look to my mom, widening my eyes at her, begging her to say something. Clay is anything but a good guy, and Kingston—and I—need her to speak up. She knows I can’t argue with or correct my father, but I can’t lie here and listen to another minute of misconceived bullshit either!

“Yeah, Clay’s a great guy,” I say with more sarcasm than I thought I’d have in me at this point. I watch as my mom says nothing, dropping her head so she doesn’t have to look at me.

And then it hits me: She isn’t saying anything because her loyalty lies with her son. To “out” Clay would be to “out” Sebastian, and she won’t do it. Unfortunately—and I know shamefully, for my mom—that leaves Kingston as the sacrificial lamb of a mother’s love.

“What aren’t you saying, Echo?” my dad questions.

Tears prickle my eyes, blurring my vision. I’m in the same boat as my mom. It’s a gross injustice, and Kingston doesn’t deserve all these uninformed assumptions. But Sebastian comes first with me too, so I remain silent.

Plus, until I hear the facts from Kingston myself, wouldn’t I just be assuming too? Although at least my assumptions are based on blind faith in him, rather than completely undeserved faith in Clay.