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Nevertheless, I don’t say any of this, instead opting to silently observe him whilst he struggles. He’s all hot and bothered. I wish I had some popcorn.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “For the sake of your mom being my partner, and you being her daughter, and Tate being my son, there are a lot of people that I care about involved here, so I have to make sure that precautions are being put in place so that no-one gets hurt in the long run.” His eyes burn into mine as he tries to determine whether or not I’m taking him seriously. I nod, relenting. I almost roll my eyes but I do value my life. “So,” he says hesitantly. The muscles in his chest tense and he rolls his shoulders. I feel like he’s a quarter-back, and I’m one wrong move away from him mowing me down. “Were you careful?”
I knew that this is what he was going to talk to me about, but for some reason, now that heistalking to me about it, I feel unprepared. My little gasp escapes me before I can stuff it back down my throat, so I try to detract from it by narrowing my eyes at him. There is no way for certain that he knows what happened whilst he was away, so I’m not about to hand him such prized information over on a silver platter.
I opt for innocent until proven guilty. “I cannot imagine what made you assume such a thing, Mitch,” I say, my tone the perfect blend of distrustful teenager and scandalised step-daughter.
He narrows his eyes on me in return. “How about I rang my son’s landline every day for the past week and he picked up a grand total of – how many times was it again? Oh, right.No times.”
I almost do a little pony snort but Mitch doesn’t look like he’s in a friendly mood. I give him my best perplexed look instead and say, “Very suspicious.”
“River-”
“Yes.” I blurt it out and he pauses like a VHS freeze-frame – stopped mid-motion but glitching a little. He’s on the precipice of detonation so I choose to put him out of his misery. “I was careful. He was careful. It was all very nice and careful.”
We stare at each other, gauging our reactions like we’re not sure if we’re on the same team or not. After a few seconds he realigns himself, standing to his full height and his chest engorging as he takes a deep breath. He nods once. Then he winces.
“I didn’t need to know about the ‘nice’bit,” he mumbles, one rough tan hand scratching his scalp in irritation. I can’t help the small laugh that bubbles out of me and it catches his attention. His expression is softer now, although I can see his discomfort in the lines twitching beside his eyes and mouth. He looks apologetic as he says the next part. “Obviously Tate is going to come round tomorrow, but I can’t have you two being alone together at any point, okay? It’ll be too obvious, and I want for you to know what’s happening in your future before you let your mom in on this – if ‘this’is still going on by the time that you’ve figured out what you’re going to be doing. I know I sound callous and I’m sorry, but we need to be pragmatic about this.”
Everything that he just said is totally logical and correct, but now all that I’m thinking about is Tate on Christmas Day. Maybe I should have given him his cross back so that he could be feeling optimum holiness tomorrow, but I don’t want to draw anyone’s attention to it now, so I dismiss the thought.
He continues, “You might be able to find a moment at the house warming next week but, I’m telling you, strictlynothinginappropriate, River.If someone sees you and tells your mom you will be in deep shit.”
Mitch swivels the ball of his foot back and forth, watching it like it’s his soul’s compass. He looks over to the entryway and then back to me, scratching the back of his neck contemplatively. “You know when you first met me and you said something likeI just want what’s best for my mom?” he asks. I tilt my head, puzzled, but I say yes anyway, not sure where he’s going with this. “Yeah? Well, that’s how I feel about Tate,” he says, his voice tenacious yet kind. His hands are stuffed in his pants pockets, resolute. I nod in understanding, presuming that he’s made his point, but then he adds, “And you.”
My eyes flash up to his immediately, unsure if I just heard him correctly, and he holds my gaze.
“You’re… family now. Whether through my son or through your mom, it doesn’t matter. So that’s how I feel about you, too.”
I’m too shocked to speak so I just continue staring at him, the blood in my brain feeling as if it’s coagulating, my muscles tense and immobile.
Mitchcaresabout me? It’s impossible. Mitchhatesme. I heard what he was saying to Tate in the attic that night. He thought that I was going to use his son and then leave without a trace, which – okay – is essentially true, but not in the sense that I have no feelings about it, because, annoyingly, I do. But Mitch doesn’t know that. Right?
Finally he nods again and exits the room, leaving me alone and dumbstruck, with only the kitchen counter for support.
*
The housewarming party is tucked in perfectly between Boxing Day and New Year’s Eve - that time of the holiday season when no-one wants the celebrations to end - so the Coleson’s home is lit up like a middle-aged frat house tonight. Mitch’s workbuddies, who are all as thickset and sun-kissed as you could ever possibly imagine, are lounging in the living area near the back with their partners, reclining into the soft brown sofas with beer bottles swinging from lose fists. Tate’s mom has even been invited here, but I’m pretty sure that she’s going to politely decline coming round. Above the fireplace the mantle is lined with an evergreen garland, shiny red baubles intermittently dispersed through the leaves, and bowls of butter cookies and bottles of opened wine are set across the dining room table. The atmosphere is hazy with laughter, old Christmas songs, and cinnamon-bun scented candles.
Obviously I’m invited – I mean, technicallyIlive here now – but I’m staying as out of the way as possible, although, for my mom’s sake, I’ve made an effort to dress ‘normally’ just in case. I’m wearing my dark denim jeans as it’s freezing outside, although the initial blanket of snow has disappeared for now, and for a touch of personality I’m wearing my cream long-sleeve top with a little Kewpie in the centre.
I’ve been in my room for the past hour, lying on my bed in the flickering candlelight and listening to a CD that I shouldn’t be, but now I’m so hungry that I’m going to have to brave going to the kitchen. I pull on a pair of fuzzy socks and pad quietly out of my room until I reach the downstairs entryway. I turn right to the dining room and pluck two butter cookies from the bowl, biting into one as I head into the kitchen to put the kettle on. God, this is a really good cookie. It feels really bad to be enjoying it so much, but the fact that Tate made them makes them even better. I can’t wait for him to get here tonight. I don’t know why but I need to see him. The cookie melts down my throat, creamy and sweet, and then I shove the second cookie into my mouth. I flip the kettle on after checking how much water is inside, whilst simultaneously retrieving a mug from the cupboard and a teaspoon from the drawer.
Then I hear it. The quiet shuffling sound behind me. It results in a prickling sensation at the back of my neck, seeping down my spine and into my muscles - a type of primitive paralysis keeping my body stilled.
What the hell?
I slowly lift my hand to the cupboard above my face and I open it to pick up a teabag. I’m moving like Frankenstein’s monster, slow and unsteady, as I pour the water into the cup, staring straight ahead at the now-closed cupboard door, determined to stay as still as possible.
There are eyes boring into me, through my hair and to my skin, but there has been no shift in the air around me, implying that I am the only person in the room.
My spine flexes and a light shiver ripples over my shoulders as the realisation dawns on me. The kitchen window. It’s right behind me and I’m almost one hundred percent certain that someone is staring at me through it.
I have a really bad feeling. On an animal level my body can sense the ill intent and it’s making me lightheaded. The noise and cheer from the living room has descended to the underworld, throbbing in my ears as if I’m below a surface of water.
A slight movement catches my eye and suddenly I’m looking at the round silver doorknob on the cupboard in front of me. It’s blurry and distorted but there is a blot of colour in the black smudge that depicts the window, like light catching on something pressed up against the pane-
I flip around and a flash of gold evaporates from view. There’s someone out there who isn’t meant to be. My heart is in my throat and I’m gripping the countertop behind me. Even if I didn’t trust my eyes, I wouldn’t be able to deny the whip-fast rustle of shoes on Mitch’s gravel border. Now the only thing that I can see in the pane is my own terrified reflection, washed out ina watery silver tint against the blackness beyond the porch. Ten seconds, twenty seconds, thirty. I’m too panicked to be able to move. I want to run upstairs and hide under my bed. I want to get my inhaler and release the pain in my lungs.
