Unhappy to have his attention focused on me, Chelsea eased in next to him and wrapped an arm possessively around his waist. “Cornlette, meet Gavin Acres. Current lead on a film I can’t tell you about without killing you afterward.”
Typical Chelsea, describing him by his most notable role. Acting school and life in Los Angeles hadn’t helped my sister’s personality. If anything, it had amplified all her worst characteristics.
These days, we kept in touch, mostly by text and an occasional call,but I hadn’t seen her in person in almost two years. She hadn’t been home in much longer. She hadn’t set foot in Dad’s house since he’d told her not to come back until she could talk to him with respect. It had been the last straw in their already torn relationship that had only shredded more after Mom had died.
Chelsea taking off had left me holding all the threads of our lives here, trying to keep them from unraveling completely. My therapist said I was allowed to be angry about it. That I should verbalize my feelings to them about what their departures, physically and emotionally, had done to me. But I hadn’t brought it up to either of them, because doing so wouldn’t change anything, even if it made me feel momentarily better.
I inhaled slowly, counted to five, and then exhaled. “What are you doing here, Chelsea?”
Her eyes narrowed. “We’re due on set for a movie we’re filming in the Sierras. I thought it would be nice to stop by and see my family on the way.”
Meaning she’d wanted to rub our noses in the fact she was working on some important movie while showing off her newer, more famous boyfriend. I couldn’t keep up with the men in her life. She’d gone through more than I could count when she’d been at the California Institute of the Arts. And since graduating with her MFA in acting and moving to LA, she’d gone through even more.
I was pretty sure Chelsea saw each guy as a stepping stone to something bigger. Something she was working her way up to. Maybe Gavin would be the pinnacle, or maybe she’d move on to someone else by this time next year, especially if his movie flopped.
I whirled around, heading for the kitchen. I didn’t need this. I could shower at my own house later. I just needed to see Dad, get dressed, and get out of here.
Over my shoulder, I tossed back, “I doubt Dad has anything for breakfast. So, you’ll have to hit the diner if you’re hungry.”
I’d expected the kitchen to be empty, but instead, Dad was sitting at the tiny table shoved in the corner with his head in his hands. It drew attention to the bald ring at the crown of his auburn hair. For all my life, Dad had been a sturdy and robust man. Solid and tough. Today, he looked unexpectedly thin. Almost frail.
He didn’t look up as I approached, hadn’t even registered I was in the room, until I put a hand on his shoulder. He startled, turning to look at me with a face that shocked me to the core. His green eyes that had always been as vivid and bright as Chelsea’s were pale, empty, and glassy. The wrinkles on his face weighed the skin down like an aged hound dog’s. His beard looked ragged rather than neat and clipped, unlike how he usually wore it,and the white seemed to have completely taken over the warm brown, like weeds in the yard.
Something was wrong. Something far worse than the house mortgage. I hadn’t seen him look this devastated since Mom had died.
“Dad? What is it? What’s the matter?”
His eyes shot to a stack of papers in front of him. He tried to fold them up, but I yanked them from under his hand before he could stop me.
The first was a statement from the bank. Just like Carter had insinuated, Dad was behind on the mortgage, and they were threatening to foreclose. I forced back the panic that threatened like it had when I was fifteen and I’d seen a similar statement. This wasn’t my home anymore. I wasn’t going to lose the roof over my head. But my father might.
“Why would you let this go so long?” I demanded. “You have money in your checking account.” I knew because we both still received the statements. So why had he stopped the automatic payment for the mortgage? He didn’t have enough in there now to pay back all the mortgage with interest, but he could have kept up with it monthly.
Damn him for making me feel guilty for not holding his hand and making sure he did what every grown-up was supposed to do.
He was the father. I was the kid!
Dad rubbed a hand over his face, and it pulled my eyes to a bruise on the back of his hand and a scab I recognized. Painful marks left behind by an IV that hadn’t been put in properly. A new fear settled over me.
He was sick.
I sat in the chair next to him, brought his hand to mine, and gently rubbed the bruise. “Dad. What’s going on? You were in the hospital?”
He looked down at my touch, avoiding my eyes. “Had a mild stroke on the road. Crashed my rig.”
Shock slashed through me. “What happened? Where were you? Why didn’t you call me?”
He didn’t answer any of my questions. Instead, he looked away, out the screen door to a porch in desperate need of refinishing. “They pulled my commercial license until I can pass my DOT cert again.”
Meaning, he was grounded. The Department of Transportation wasn’t going to approve his medical certificate with a stroke on his record. He’d never drive a semi again. He’d lost his job just as he was about to lose his house.
Tears filled my eyes. Fury and sadness. Not just for him and his losses, but for me and what it said about our relationship that my father had been in the hospital somewhere, alone, and hadn’t even thought to call hisdaughter.
“Nothing really has changed, has it?” Chelsea’s sharp voice ripped our attention to her as she glided into the kitchen.
She was wearing a navy dress with side cutouts, that probably cost as much as I made in a month, and stiletto heels with red soles I knew she couldn’t afford. Not with the debt she’d racked up paying for college on her own.
When Chelsea didn’t get the reaction she wanted from either of us, she dug deeper. “Dad is still an incompetent ass, Maisey is still the lost little saint who needs saving, and I still don’t belong.”