Page 5 of Meant to Be

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I don’t leave the house for a week.

My arrival back in town is going to be newspaper-worthy gossip. I need to look my best. And for that, these damn bruises need to fade.

I slept, mostly. Ate a little. Cried a lot. Slept some more.

Dad’s not speaking to me. Sam is trying to find out everything that has happened in my life since I left. Mum won’t stop trying to fatten me up. Despite the constant sleeping, I feel exhausted.

Being back here is mentally draining. Everything I fought so hard to ignore and forget has caught up with me and doesn’t look like it’s letting go anytime soon. I would have gone anywhere else—if therewasanywhere else.

It’s noon, and I’m a little more than tipsy. I’m cruising around the house in a bikini top and denim shorts that leave “little to the imagination.” Mum scoffed when she saw me. She didn’t make a comment about my breast implants, but the disapproval is radiating off her.

“Do you need to walk around in that little of clothing?” she barks in annoyance when I fling myself beside her on the back chair, an iced tea clutched in my palm. My mother has a timeless beauty about her. Sun-kissed skin, pretty golden hair, and pale blue eyes.

“It’s, like, forty fucking degrees,” I argue.

She flinches at the profanity as if I’m still a child who’s not allowed to say a naughty word. I want to snort at her expression, but I don’t. She let me back in after everything. I appreciate that.

“Have you spoken to him?”

She wanted to ask this all week. I was wondering when she would finally build the courage.

“Who?”

She gives me a flat look. “You know who.”

“Voldemort?”

Mum scowls, shaking her head. She’s never appreciated sarcasm.

“Elliot,” she hisses. “Has he tried to contact you?”

“Sure.”

“Sure?” she counters, furrowing her eyebrows.

“Yes,” I grind out. “He calls. Texts. Leaves voicemails. Threats. All that garbage.”

A pitying look falls across my mother’s face. I look away and slurp loudly on my drink, keeping my expression as blank as possible.

“Are you afraid?”

“No.”

“You looked terrified, hon. When you arrived.” Her voice is low now as if scared I might overreact. It’s a possibility.

“I’m not.”

Disbelief is clear in her eyes. “You drove five hours in the middle of the night.”

I take a long sip of my iced tea, which is partly filled with vodka—okay,mostlyfilled with vodka.

Mum sighs as she stands, her knees cracking. “You want a cup of tea?”

I wrinkle my nose, unsure how she could possibly suggest a hot drink on a day like this.

“No thanks.”