Page 63 of Severed Heart

“Enlighten me.”

“Happy to if you stop with the tone,” she snaps and inhales deeply, shaking her head. “It’s because your father was dead set on winning me. So much so that he spentthree straight yearschasing me. A year of that showering me with a kind of love I didn’t think existed in anything but movies and books, and Iwas notan easy shell to crack. I was terrified. A gorgeous man like that, capable of getting any girl he wanted, and dead set onme? But he waited, and he was faithful to me when I wasn’t even his to be faithful to. He spent every day, for three straight years, proving his love for me until I gave in.”

“He’s not faithful anymore.”

Her eyes water. “I’m waiting for him, Tyler, for as long as it takes, and if that’s three more years, I’ll wait three more years. I’m not condoninganyof his behavior, and my resentment is building, so our marriage might not make it. But you have to love the light and the dark in a human being for longevity in any relationship. All of that person, that’s what true commitment is.”

“Even if he’s cheating?”

“Tyler,” she snaps, “you don’t have to keep reminding me of your father’s infidelity, which is unusually cruel ofyou. And you’re missing my point. I’m in it and waiting for the best friend I have made a life and raised a son with. I’m still in this for a man I love far beyond our physical relationship, and I’m not leaving my best friend at his worst until I know he’s safe. At least from himself. Only then will I confront what’s left of our marriage. I’m not in denial, Son. I’m waiting. He needs help, but he needs to want it. It’s the only way.”

Shaking my head, I push off from the counter. “Whatever you say, Mom.”

Flouring her hands, she grabs the dough and resumes pounding it with her fist. “You know, if you don’t want honest answers to hard questions,” she spits bitterly, “don’t ask them.”

“Can I take the van?” I counter, done with the conversation.

“Fine,” she sighs in disappointment, “just be home by curfew.”

Grabbing the keys from our ancient Gone Fishin’ dish, I crack the garage door and am rounding the back of the van when the whisper reaches me, and I freeze.

“... I must master it as I must master my life. My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless.”

Chapter Twenty

TYLER

“IMUST MASTER ITas I must master my life. My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless.”

Terror grips me as I will my feet forward, and he comes into view. Sitting on his weight bench, a plastic card table sits in front of him as he continues his chant.

“... I must master it as I must master my life. My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless.”

Eyes glazed, his hands blur in motion on the table in front of him as he loads and unloads his rifle. Fear is etched on his features as he stares blankly in front of him—through me.

“Dad?” I croak, terror and dread overwhelming every inch of me. Nausea threatens as my stomach roils as he continues his chant, dismantling his rifle before assembling it again in a blur of well-rehearsed motion.

I jump back when he lifts it and aims straight in front of him at the closed garage door before dismantling it again, the chant pouring from his lips.“... IS. My. Life. I m-m-must master it as I must m-master my life. My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle,I amuseless.”

Paralyzed, I watch him doing this in rapid succession, softly calling his name as tears start to pour out of his eyes, his voice barely a whisper.

“... without my rifle, I am useless.”

“Mom,” I croak, the fear of leaving him to get her help crippling me in place. I don’t move. I don’t so much as blink as I watch him repeat his lightning-fast movements again and again, slight spittle dripping from his lips as his whispers grow more urgent.

Hitting my knees, fear rips from my throat as I close my eyes.

The crack of the garage door sounds before a swish of air brushes against me as Mom passes. Ifeelit the second she sees him.

“Carter? ... Baby?”

Keeping my eyes closed, even as my fear for her sets in, I can’t open them because the man sitting feet away looks every bit like my father while at the same time holding no resemblance to Carter Jennings.

Dread grips me tightly, muffling the world around me before Mom’s pleas break through.

“... Son, please, Son, call your Uncle Grayson right now. Tyler? Please go. Carter,” Mom orders calmly before turning back to him. “Carter, baby, look at me, put the gun down. Carter, please put the gun down.”

Time blurs as do faces before I come to, the neighbors crowding our yard as Dad is strapped into a gurney, his eyes glossy, mouth moving almost imperceptibly, no sound coming out—though I can still hear the chant as clear as day.