Page 22 of Emmett
“Anything you need for school, grab it,” he demands, his voice clipped.
“What the hell are you doing?”
For a second, he stares at me like he thinks I might have actually lost my mind; as if he’s not the one who barged into my house and didn’t bother to get any context...not that that would have helped all that much. He’s a great dad, but he doesn’t get this. He can’t. He’s never had to dangle his feet over the edge to be sure that he doesn’t want to jump off of it.
He’s never seen my darkness before. Up until now, I’ve done a good job at masking it, for the most part. I’ve kept it at bay for years. But now that he’s gotten a glimpse of it...
“You are coming home.”
What?
“Dad—”
Curling his hand into a fist, he says, “Save it.” I don’t think he’s ever been this mad at me before. There’s a veinsticking out of his neck that makes me worry his heart’s about to explode or something, for Christ’s sake. “I don’t care if it was ‘just a bathtub’ or ‘just a few hours’ at a nightclub. I. Do. Not. Care, Emmett. You’re being reckless and you need help. So get whatever else you’re going to need and get your ass in the car.”
“I need privacy,” I tell him. “And so do you.”
“What Ineed,” he grits, “is for my son to grab his things so that I can get him home and get him through this.”
As much as I hate it, as badly as I want to argue, I know that if I don’t do as he asks, he’s just going to be up my ass even more. First, it was a copy of the house key. If I don’t give him this now,he’sgoing to move inhereinstead and then I really won’t have any space for myself. I know he’s only doing this because he’s worried, but that doesn’t mean I have to agree with or like it.
Half an hour later, we’re speeding down the road in his Bentley, and neither of us is making a move to speak to the other. I’m pissed at him for the intrusion, and he’s pissed at me for…well, I don’t actually know what he’s pissed at me for, but he’s not talking.
It isn’t until we finally pull into his massive garage that he turns to me and asks, “What were you resetting?”
“My brain,” I tell him. “I go under and wait until the fear hits, then I come back up and I’m reset.”
“The fear…?” His brow creases. “Do you do that often?”
“I used to,” I admit, “at the old house.”
Dad twists the key and pulls it from the car’s ignition, and a thick, heavy silence falls between us that hangs in the air for long moments. “You were in middle school at the old house. Were you trying to—”
I shake my head, trying to brush off his rising concern. “The first time it was an accident,” I assure him. “I don’t remember why I was even out in the yard, I think I was mad at you for something. I fell in the pool, hit the bottom, and the fear hit. By the time I got back out...I don’t know, Dad, I was reset.”
“Were you planning on coming back up tonight?”
“I think so.”
“Okay.” His chest heaves with a deep sigh and he gives me a pat on the thigh, nodding his head. “Let’s get you settled in. Tomorrow, we can talk about next steps.”
I nod in agreement and follow him out of the garage with my bags in hand, and into the house. We round the banister and up the stairs, passing through the long hallway that leads to one of the four upstairs bedrooms.
The girls’ and Davis’s rooms are on the lower level with another spare, and dad and Rowan are in the room nearest the stairs; so I’m grateful when we walk toward the farthest room, tucked away into its own little alcove. I’m getting the privacy that I wanted, but also the bedroom furthest from any of the bathrooms in the house; I’m sure that’s not by coincidence.
Tossing my bags onto the guest bed waiting for me, I kick off my shoes and drop down onto the mattress.
“So, how long am I gonna be on house arrest?” I ask, trying to make a joke, but Dad’s not in a laughing mood. It isn’t until now, under the overhead light from the ceiling fan, that I really notice the droop in his shoulders and the tension in his jaw.
I hurt him again.
“Until I’m not worried about you picking up a bottle or taking a dive when something is wrong,” he answers. “Breakfast will be on the table at seven. You will be there on time and you will eat.”
“Dad…” I sigh. “I know you have to tell Ro, but—”
“I won’t tell anyone else,” he promises.
I offer him a tight smile and a lazy salute, waiting for him to leave so I can unpack all my crap, but he stops at the doorway and turns around, taking a few strides toward me, and he wraps his arms around me in a crushing hug. It’s quick, no more than a few seconds, and he claps me on the back as he breaks the embrace. Then he heads out the door, half-shutting it behind him just like he used to do when I started bringing girls home and he wanted to tell me without words that I had better not be getting into trouble under his roof.