Page 128 of Wicked Little Darling

I debated not even picking up the call.

Almost let it go to voicemail.

But she’d just call again. I swiped to answer so we could have the same conversation we did every year.

The disappointment was smothering me now, and in spite of the fact that I couldn’t breathe anymore, I said, “Hi, Grandma.”

She called me every year on the same day—the anniversary of my dad’s death.

I’d completely forgotten. I never forgot the date, how could I forget it? The day that I’d been left all alone in this world. The day that had carved into stone the awful truth: that I wasn’t worth living for.

I wasn’t worth a single thing.

“Reese. How have you been? All is well, I hope.”

She didn’t actually care. All of this was just lip service; she was doing what she thought my dad would’ve wanted her to do.

“Fine. What about you?”

“I’m getting by. Going to see your father today. Any requests?”

Yeah, I had a few.

Could you ask him why he put all the blame on me? Could you ask him what, exactly, it was about me that was so unlovable? Could you ask him what I could’ve done differently to be worthy of his love? Could you ask him if any of the good memories I have are real?

Because they all felt like some other kid’s memories, some happier child who had a dad who’d loved him once upon a time.

“No. No requests.”

“Alright. Do you need any money?”

No, I didn’t need her money. I didn’t want anything from her, especially not these pointless phone calls. All they did were dredge up bad memories; I was always left feeling hollow and wrong for days afterward.

I wasn’t sure why I still picked up. Maybe because she was my only tie to a family I’d once had. She was the only living proof that any of it was real.

She was flesh and blood and a croaky, disapproving voice on the end of the line.

Except…what happened when she died?

Fuck, I was all out of sorts today.

I cleared my throat. “No, I’m all set. Thanks, Grandma.”

“Alright. Take care.”

“Yeah. You too.”

I hung up and stared at the black screen of my phone, picturing her time-worn face pinched in disapproval as she donned her lavender shawl and matching hat to go visit Dad’s grave. She also left flowers at Lauren’s, but she refused to visit my mom. I never asked about that anymore; anytime I had in the past, she’d clicked her tongue and changed the subject.

I knew she blamed me for Mom and Lauren’s death as much as my dad did, and she blamed me for his death, too, in spite of the fact thathewas the fucking adult who’d made his choices.

He chose to drink to the point of blackout, he chose to get behind the wheel of his car that night. I’d never know if he drove off that bridge intentionally or not, but it didn’t matter. The end result was the same.

He chose death over his own son, and that…

There was no coming back from that kind of knowledge.

I thought about going to the cemetery, but decided against it. It would only make me even more miserable and hyperfixatedon the fact that Dakota wasn’t here and he hadn’t returned any of my calls or messages and I didn’t know if he was lying dead in a ditch somewhere or not.