Page 6
Three
Grief is a strange thing. No one is crying. Dad’s upset, but not for the right reasons. It transports me back almost a dozen years to when Grandpa Burt died. I knew then, at eleven, that no one expressed the right feelings. Now, it’s happening all over again.
But the craziest thing of all? Me, with my swelling throat and stinging eyes.
My insides quiver, doing their best to fall apart—over Amelia. I fight the oncoming blink, refusing to let one tear fall. I’d look absurd if I broke down over a grandmother who I haven’t seen or talked to in eleven years.
Why on earth should I be grieving?
When I graduated from high school, I sent her an announcement. Dad said it wasn’t necessary, but I wanted to. We shared a secret, and I needed to remind her that I existed. I never heard from her though. Not one word. No card. Not even a phone call. And yet, here I am, turning to wipe away a tear.
Mom and Dad don’t even notice. They’ve turned back to their ongoing discussion. I pull in a deep breath and push back my stupid emotions just in time to hear Dad say, “It’s bad timing, Shell. I can’t leave.”
“Wait.” I hold up one hand. “What are you talking about?” It’s two in the morning and my brain can’t connect these dots.
An impatient puff of air huffs from his mouth. “The funeral—it’s in three days.”
“Jonathon—” Mom’s protest is weak. She’s losing this battle.
“Wait.” I shake my head. “Are you trying to decide whether or not you’re going?” But I already know the answer. His justifying face gives everything away. My eyes prick with insane moisture again.
My father is unafraid of my attempt at a bitter tone. “Yes.”
I swallow, blinking his face in and out of focus. How is this even a decision?
“It’s the office.” His arms cross over his chest. “Not only do I have four new employees, but the Laughlin case would be impossible to leave right now.”
I let one tear fall and then another. So what if my parents think I’ve gone crazy? I don’t care anymore. Then, I look Dad in the eye and let my insticts speak, “Three employees.”
Dad tilts his head, watching me, and blinks half a dozen times. “What do you mean three?”
“I’ll be going to my grandmother’s funeral.” My voice rings cold. All at once, I am exhausted. From the time of night, from pleasing my father my entire life, from the news given—and I don’t care if my actions shock him.
“Olivia Jane Benson.” His jaw clenches. “You will not be.”
He’s scolding me. “I am not five years old. You can’t tell me what to do.”
His brows lift. “You don’t understand. You’re not living in the real world yet. I have responsibilities.”
I scoff. “The real world? What world am I living in, then?” I have never spoken to him so disrespectfully, but I can’t stop myself.
Dad’s face is speckled with red to the tips of his ears. Squinting, he inches one step closer to me. “When you pay your own car insurance, you can declare yourself living in the real world.”
“I never asked—”
“No, you didn’t.” His arms tighten in their hold. “You didn’t ask for your college fund either, but your mother and I provided that as well.”
“I’m not ungrateful. I know you’ve provided well for us. I know work is important. But Amelia was your mother. Doesn’t that mean anything?” He acts as though she were a mere acquaintance, and maybe on some level she was, but she gave birth to him. She raised him.
His face softens. He loosens the knot he’s tied his arms into and rests a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Of course it means something.”
I soften my gaze too, his words easing my angry head.
“But I am swamped at work right now.” And somehow his eyes are tender as he speaks, as they rove over my face, talking about work.
I shrug out of his caress, feeling no warmth in it now. My body aches to let loose the dam of tears building behind my eyes. “Of course,” I deadpan. “How thoughtless of Amelia to die during your busy time of year. Maybe you’ll make it to her next funeral.”
I don’t wait for a response. I stomp off to my substitute room and slam the door behind me, reassuring my parents of my absolute immaturity.
