Things We Didn't Say - By Kristina Riggle Page 0,1
wants more time alone, my id wants out of the cold. The bare November trees lean over me, and I wish I could climb one and hide in its old branches.
The house’s pitched roof and twin top-story windows create an air of surprise that I’ve returned.
“You there?” Tony asks.
“Yeah.”
“You going to make it today, kid?”
I exhale a plume of white winter breath, considering. “I think so.”
“Think?” His voice bears the strain of concern. He knows what stupidity I’ve survived. He knows about my old job, which I used to love—the only place I’ve ever excelled in spite of myself—the people I once considered friends, how I never see my family anymore because all of it comes braided together with booze.
“Okay. I will.”
“That’s my girl. Stay strong.”
It’s too corny for me, but I’m glad he says it all the same.
“Some days, I just—”
I have my hand on the rear storm door when the inside door jerks open. I yank the phone away from my head and hang up.
“Who was that?” asks Michael, rubbing his eyes, then his bare arms. He’s still wearing what he wore to bed.
“My mother.” I step into the kitchen’s harsh yellow light and shrug out of my parka.
“She called early. And you hung up on her?”
The phone is buzzing in my hand with Tony’s number showing on the display. I turn my phone over, his number toward my palm. I nod.
“You’ll hear about that later.”
“I expect I will. I thought you were at the gym.”
“Headache.”
“I’m sorry.”
My phone chimes again, one brief tone, and I stuff it in my pocket. “Angel is up, I noticed. You talk to her yet?”
“Before her ladyship has come down the stairs? Heaven forbid.”
I don’t rise to this. I once joined in with his half-larky, half-serious use of this title for Angel, and the conversation fell to silence like a rock off a cliff.
“Going up to shave,” he says, leaning in to plant a quick kiss on my forehead. I would usually seize up and treasure this small affection. Today, it stings.
When I’ve heard his steps go all the way up the stairs, I check my phone.
Tony didn’t leave a voice mail. His text reads: Caught by surprise?
I send back one word—sorry—and delete both messages.
So Michael hasn’t seen Angel. He doesn’t know yet. Maybe she won’t tell him at all, or maybe she’s waiting. She’s smart like that, knowing how to hold her cards until just the right moment.
Like mother, like daughter.
That’s another thing I’m not allowed to say.
In the kitchen, pouring Jewel a bowl of Honeycombs as the older kids loll at the table, I offer Angel some breakfast, as casually as I can. “Want something to eat?” I fight to keep my voice level and mild, like I’m only the recorded voice on the phone, giving out the time.
“Do I ever?” she spits.
I laugh, as if this is an amusing joke. I do this partly to deflect her, partly for Jewel’s benefit, since conflict gives her a tummyache.
I rinse my cereal bowl in the sink. Michael is to my left, pouring coffee. I don’t know why I bother, but I cut my eyes over to him, searching for him to meet my gaze. He glances up at me, and I tip my head toward his daughter.
He sighs and turns around, flashing me a quick, shamefaced look as he does, knowing his admonition will be too mild, too late.
“Angel, you really should eat. And watch your tone.”
Angel barely hears him and grunts at her phone, where she’s texting. She pauses to push her white-blond hair behind one ear. There are candy-pink streaks in it at the moment, though she’s promised the director of the school play she will bleach them out by dress rehearsal. She stretches out long in her chair, her body a graceful arcing swoop. She’s gotten taller in the short time I’ve known her, more graceful, too. Truth be told, she’s a stunner of a girl. Yet I’ve seen her scowl at herself in the mirror, caught her patting her stomach and fiddling with her waistband as if trying to check if she’s thin enough yet, beautiful enough yet.
I try to ruffle Dylan’s hair as I come back to the table, only he ducks my hand so I just swipe through the air above his head. I stuff that hand in my pocket.
“You’ve got music class today?” I ask Dylan.
“Yeah.”
I should know better than to ask yes-or-no questions. “What songs are you working on?”