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“Yeah. Plenty of times.”
“Well they were right.”
She glares at me for another couple of moments before spinning on her heel and stalking back inside. Fucking finally. If I have to keep putting up with her shit, it’s going to be a long day until King sends someone to replace me.
4
Zara
* * *
I pull up outside Mum & King’s house and kill the engine of my car. Kill is almost literally the right word. My old beat-up Ford has seen better days. She sputtered so much on the way here I wasn’t convinced I’d make it. I’m not sure I wanted to make it, though, because I have no doubt I’m about to hear what Mum thinks of my drinking the other night. I’m surprised I haven’t heard anything from her already. She always has something to say about the shit I do.
Taking a deep breath, I centre myself as best I can for this visit. As much as we love each other, we have a difficult relationship. I don’t blame her; she’s just being a mum and looking out for me and trying to stop me from the bad choices I make. But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier for me to accept her always being on my case. My defences come up way too fast these days. They always have, but it’s worse now.
Thank God for King. He might be overbearing and pushy, but he always manages to talk her around when she looks se
t to give me a hard time. I’m pretty sure it’s thanks to him that she’s not been too pushy about me seeing a psychologist the last couple of months. While he’s pushing me on that now, I think he tried to give me time to figure it out on my own. It’s because I love and respect him for that and a million other things that I’ll do as he’s asked rather than argue with him over it.
We will have to discuss Fury, though. The bullshit from this morning has put me on edge, and I’m already on edge enough these days; I don’t need Fury showing up like he did, causing me more stress. I get it if King wants him or any of the other guys to check on us, but his delivery needs some work or else my paranoia and panic are going to go into overdrive.
A tap on my car door startles me, and I turn to find my grandmother staring in at me. “Goodness, Zara, it’s hot out here. Come inside, child.”
Smiling at her, I say, “Hey, Gran,” before exiting the car and wrapping my arms around her. “What are you doing here?”
She takes hold of my shoulders when I end our hug, and meets my gaze with a seriousness I’m not used to from her. “Your mother isn’t doing well at the moment. She needs me.”
For Mum to need Gran, she must be in a lot of pain. “Her fibroids?”
She gives my shoulders a quick squeeze before letting them go. “Yes.”
With that, she leads the way inside where my three-year-old brother Cade throws himself at me and cries, “Zawa!”
I have no idea how Mum does it—two children under the age of four, plus Robbie who’s twelve. On top of that, she still worries too much over Holly and me. And then there’s her pregnancy and the complications her fibroids are giving her.
As I lift Cade up for a cuddle, Mum comes our way. She’s walking slowly, and while the pain isn’t reflected on her face or in her body language, I know she’s feeling it. I hate seeing her like this, and it just seems to be getting worse.
I give Cade a kiss and put him down so I can hug Mum. He runs down the hallway towards his bedroom, leaving us alone.
“Thank you for coming,” she says softly, hugging me tightly.
Gran calls out from the kitchen, interrupting us. “I’ve put the kettle on. Do you want your green tea, Zara? Or have you gone back to the dark side?”
Mum and I both smile at that. I gave up meat and coffee a few months ago. Gran thinks I’m a nutcase.
“Green tea, please,” I call out as Mum runs her gaze over me.
I wait for her to bring up the weight I’ve lost recently, or the new tattoo on my arm, or my drinking, but she doesn’t. Instead, she says, “How are you?”
Not what I was expecting. At all. It throws me for a moment, but I get myself together and say, “I’m okay.” It’s a lie. I am nowhere near okay, but the less I think about that, the better.
Her eyes soften and she starts to say something, but a sharp pain stops her. Her hand goes to her stomach and she bends, grimacing. Reaching for me to steady herself, she makes a pained sound, squeezing my hand through it.
I wait it out with her. When she eases her grip, I say, “Do you need to sit?”
“Yes.” It’s almost a whisper.
I help her to the armchair in the lounge room. It’s a huge chair and seeing her in it reminds me of just how tiny she is for a woman who is seven months pregnant.
