Pricked (Page 29)

“Well, that’s the one,” I say, hoping she’ll find it in her heart to let me complete the transaction anyway.

The woman hesitates at first before clearing her throat. “Twenty-three dollars and eighteen cents.”

I hand her my debit card, and she wraps the piece in thick paper before placing it in a nice bag.

I return to my car a minute later and place the bag on the passenger seat floor mat, and then I shoot Madden a quick “happy birthday” text before getting back on the road.

I’m not looking forward to going home, but I am looking forward to getting this over with.

I make one last stop before reaching Park Terrace, opting to grab a coffee and scone from my favorite café. Nothing like a sugar and caffeine pick-me-up before walking into what I’m positive is about to become WWIII.

The backyard is filled with various people tearing down tents and packing up stemware, everything being loaded meticulously into the back of the vans and trucks that take up the entirety of our rear driveway.

I enter the house through the back door, trekking through the kitchen where the weekend chef is cleaning up the breakfast spread.

I keep my eyes down and head to the hall, hoping I can make it to my room without being spotted by my parents first.

I’d like a shower and a fresh change of clothes before they rip off my head and spit down my neck, but all my hope is dashed the instant I glance up to the top of the landing and find my mother standing there, arms folded and stare piercing.

“Charles,” she calls over her shoulder. “She’s home.” She looks back at me, down her elegant aquiline nose. “Brighton, why don’t you have a seat in your father’s study. We’ll be down shortly.”

With my head held high, I make my way to the study and take a seat in one of the tufted velvet club chairs on the guest side of his mahogany desk. A small clock on one of his bookshelves ticks to fill the silence, and my gaze lands on the collection of family photos that line a narrow table next to the door. He always said he wanted his children to be the last thing he saw when leaving this room, a reminder of why it was he worked so hard.

“Good morning, Brighton.” My father’s bellow startles me and his commanding presence fills the double doorway. My mother stands to his left. He takes his oversized chair and she takes the club chair next to mine. “I thought now would be a good time for us to have a talk about last night.”

I sit straight, legs folded. “All right.”

“First and foremost, your mother and I are curious … what brought on this sudden change of heart?” he asks. And I know what he’s getting at. Madden was right. Their first instinct is to blame the boyfriend.

“I’ve been feeling this way for quite some time,” I say. “Since my sophomore year, actually.”

My parents exchange looks.

“Then why wait until now to make such a life-changing decision?” my mother asks. “Something had to have happened to change your mind. Something very recent.”

“This has nothing to do with Madden, if that’s what you’re implying,” I say.

“You say that, Brighton, but all you did the first several weeks you were home this summer was lie to us,” my mother says. “You can’t possibly expect us to believe you when you say this has nothing to do with that boy.”

“That boy has a name, and it’s Madden,” I remind her. “And he’s a man. Not a boy.”

“Brighton,” my father barks my name. “Let’s stay on track here.”

He runs this like a staff meeting at Monarch Pharmaceuticals, trying to cut down on meandering and tangents.

“Your mother and I discussed it this morning, and we feel that if you think you’re grown, if this is really what you want, then it’s time for you to move out.” His hands fold on his desk.

Mom glances down into her lap.

While my mother has always been the head of the Karrington family, my father is the neck that moves the head. She doesn’t want this. But she doesn’t have a choice.

My father has already made the decision.

“Charles,” she says, voice quavering.

“Temple, this is what she wants. She made herself perfectly clear last night,” he says. “We’ve done our best to guide her, to help her make the right choices and begin her life on the right foot, but she’s choosing a different path. As an adult, we have to allow her to make her own choices. We can’t force her to go to medical school if she doesn’t want to.”

For a second, I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

Is he … is he agreeing with me?

Did he finally decide to see things my way?

Returning his pointed gaze to me, he forces a hard breath through flared nostrils. “You’re to hand over your car keys and bank card immediately.”

My mother flees the room in tears.

“And then you’re to go to your room and pack your bags,” he says. “Effective now, you’re no longer living here. And you’re no longer our responsibility.”

“Where am I going to go?” I ask. “And how am I going to get there without a car?”

“Perhaps you can call your boyfriend,” he says. “You’re an adult, Brighton. And you’ve demonstrated that you’re perfectly capable of making your own life choices. I’m sure you’ll land on your feet just fine.”

He’s punishing me under the guise of giving me exactly what I asked for.

I should have waited.

I should have waited until I had a couple of paychecks under my belt and an apartment lined up. That was my original plan. But it took longer than I thought it would to find a job, and the days were ticking by so fast—I had to tell them before they started making plans to move me back to school, before they got the first tuition bill or paid the deposit on a campus town apartment.

Reaching into my purse, I retrieve my bank card and my car keys and leave them on his desk. And then I walk out, head held high as I head up to my room and grab my biggest suitcase from the back of my closet.

I text Madden before I start packing, asking if he could come get me ASAP and adding that I’ll explain everything later.

I hate to burden him. He didn’t ask to be a part of this. And it isn’t his problem. But I don’t have anyone else right now.

My mother’s wails can be heard from down the hall.

Honestly, I’m shocked my father is doing this to her after everything he’s done to pacify her over the years.

I stuff my luggage full with as many clothes as I can fit, and then I grab a duffel bag and fill it with toiletries, hair appliances, a few framed photos of my brothers and I in happier times.

I don’t know when I’ll be back again.

Checking my phone, I notice my text shows as delivered but not read. I know the shop is closed on Sundays and as far as I know, he uses the day to relax and recharge. Sometimes he’ll spend the day with his sister and other times he’ll catch up on sleep or laundry.

I’m sure he’ll see the message soon enough.

When I’m finished, I take a seat on my bed, inhaling the soft, sweet scent of my childhood bedroom like it’s the last time I’ll ever breathe this air. Nostalgia comes in crushing waves.

I check my phone again, and again after another ten minutes, but he still hasn’t read my text. I send another.

ME: So sorry to bother you … I really need a ride. Are you around?

This one shows as delivered right away and stays that way.

He must not have his phone on him?

I try to call him, only it goes straight to voicemail—his phone is off.

Gathering my things, I carry them down to the foyer and park them along the wall before pacing and checking my phone every other minute.

Rising on my toes, I glance out the sidelight by the front door, though I’m not sure why. It’s not like he’s read any of my messages. It’s not like he’ll be pulling up any time soon. If his phone is off, he doesn’t know that I’m in trouble. And by the time he gets my messages, it’ll be at least another half hour before he can get here.

“Where’s your knight in shining armor when you need him?” My father’s voice startles me, and I turn around to find him standing at the bottom of the staircase. “I’ve always said, you can tell who your true friends are when you’re in dire straits. The real ones are there right away. The fake ones scatter like leaves to the wind.”

“You don’t have to be so condescending, Charles,” my mother steps out from behind him, surprisingly coming to Madden’s defense despite the fact that I very much know how she really feels about him. “The situation is already difficult enough.”

“Madden’s a good man with a good heart,” I say. “I’m sorry you two aren’t able to see that.”

My father scoffs. “He’s a small-town, uneducated tattoo artist with no future. I don’t care if he’s a good person, he’s not worth throwing away your entire career over.”

I ball my fists. “This has nothing to do with him. I told you that. The decision was made before I ever met him. And he has a future. His shop is one of the most successful businesses in Olwine. And he didn’t need to go to college. He’s a naturally gifted artist. You should see his work. It’s beautiful—the kind of talent they can’t teach in school.”