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They opened their car doors and jumped out of Cash’s new jacked-up, black Rubicon. She liked it. It fit his personality. He said it’d do in a pinch, whatever that meant. The tires practically came up to her hip bone, and she stared at the front one until he came around the hood and took her hand in his again.
Roman’s truck was parked at the top of the driveway.So he was here first. Good.If they were angry at her, he may have calmed them down.How would I feel if my daughter walked away for ten years? Anger might be tops on that list, but when she’d talked to them on the phone, they were anything but angry. More like better than thrilled.Happier than elated. So why the butterflies?
Each step toward the imposing front door felt heavier than the last. She couldn’t breathe. She needed to practice that whole inhale, exhale thing, maybe sit on the front stoop, trying to re-master that skill set. But her parents were expecting her. Hell, they’d expected her since she called home to explain she’d been swept into witness protection then the CIA.
And here she was, on the front steps, unsure.
The red door swung open. Her beaming mom—with teary eyes and a smile spread wide across her face—had her arms outstretched. Dad stood close behind. He was still huge and commanding, with warmth plastered on his face that made Nicola cringe in an emotional ache.
Nicola’s feet stopped moving. Her legs were made of cinderblocks, her arms cemented in place. The only things she could feel were pain and shame and… Cash’s hand. She couldn’t focus. Somehow Cash moved them toward her parents, and they took over.
Hugs and kisses. Words, certainly, but she couldn’t make heads or tails of them because of the fierce sobs racking her body.
“I’m so sorry.” She repeated it over and over, feeling less like a woman in her thirties and more like a child.
Wrapped in warm arms, one of them smoothing her hair, another holding her tightly, the pain began to ebb. There was shushing and murmuring. But the only thought she had was how strong their love was. Their forgiveness, too.
She wasn’t worthy.
But everything they did communicated that was exactly what she was.Worthy.
Blinking and wiping away the tear streaks, Nicola took a deep breath. Then another. Until she could inhale and exhale. Her chest felt lighter. The weight of her ice-cold guilt melted.
Her mom grasped her by the shoulders. “We love you.”
“And we understand,” her father tacked on.
All she could do was nod, knocked over again by the emotional blow. The tears started again. Her sight blurred.
“None of that now. This is a happy day,” her mom said, wiping at her eyes. Her dad nodded.
They smiled. Really, truly smiled. She couldn’t feel any hatred toward their lying daughter. She didn’t see it in their expressions. They simply held her.
Roman walked outside, stood next to Cash, and she tried for a weak smile. It came easier than she’d expected.
“Why don’t you bring this whole thing inside before the neighbors get too nosey,” Roman suggested, then laughed. “Nic always could make a big entrance.”
Then she did smile without having to try, and she laughed, loving her brother more in that moment than she ever had.
“All right. In, in.” Her mother shooed everyone in the door, keeping an arm wrapped around her, directing her to the living room. “I hope you’re hungry, angel.”
Angel.She’d never thought she’d hear her mom call her nickname again.
The house smelled delicious and familiar. Nicola sighed, sitting on the same couch in the same spot as always. Cash settled down beside her, an arm thrown over her shoulder. For a second, her stomach jumped. Her parents didn’t know about her and Cash. Not before, and she wasn’t sure how to define them now, other than that they were athey.
Her overprotective father didn’t bounce a sideways glance when he kicked back across from her.
In the background, she heard Roman rifling through the pantry, asking their mother where the snacks were. It all felt so normal.
Mom brought dad and Cash beers and Nic an orange juice, knowing that she would need her odd comfort drink. She’d drunk gallons of OJ with her mom over the years, rehashing teenage drama.
“Thanks, mom.”
Roman walked in, beer and dip in hand, potato chips under an arm.
“So CIA, Nicky?” Dad always called her Nicky. Drove her crazy until right now. He looked proud.
Nodding, she tried to think of what to say. “Yeah—”