Page 90 of Between the Lines

“I’m good—what’s going on?” My heart beats out of sync.

“I wanted to let you know, I’ll be spending the next few months in Tampa.” She pauses. “Without your father.”

She doesn’t have to explain. I already know what this means.

Mom only goes to their second home when my father fucks up and she wants to avoid the humiliation that comes with staying with him. No matter how bad it gets, she would never leave him, not while he’s providing the lifestyle she craves.

“Mom . . .”

“I don’t need your sympathy or your advice.” Her voice is sharp. “I just wanted you to know where I’ll be until this . . . blows over.”

It’ll be over in a few weeks, a month tops.

He’ll buy her a new car, or take her on a European cruise, and she’ll be back home like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t have another affair with someone half his age.

I sigh and close my eyes. “Alright, thanks for letting me know.”

“Your father is nearly seventy, and he still doesn’t grasp boundaries with his employees.” She lets out a shrill laugh.

Her words are unexpected, a cold slap to the face. And an old familiar fear—that I’ll turn into my father—creeps up my chest . . .

But I’d never cheat on Fia, even the idea of hurting her makes my heart ache.

I rub my sternum with a closed fist.

“Anyway, I need to finish packing.” My mom sighs into the phone.

“Okay, Mom. Safe travels, let me know when you get to Florida.”

We hang up, the conversation leaving me cold, inside and out.

I slip my shoes back on, turn around, and march straight to the garage.

I hate that I went from having the best day to this. I thought I was over it. Over the worry of dating my employee. Of being like my father.

The smell of fuel fills the garage when I rip the cap off the plastic red container and pour gasoline into the riding mower tank.

My phone rings again.

Seriously, can people leave me alone so I can stew in my destructive thoughts?

“Hey,” I answer with an aggressive tone.

“Who the fuck wronged you?” Matt asks.

I puff out my cheeks.

“Sorry, man. Just stuff with my parents. Mom’s going to Tampa for a bit.”

Matt’s known me since we were kids, he’s been down this road before.

“Ah, shit. Sorry.” He sighs. “You want me to come out, hold the bag while you kill yourself punching it?”

I laugh despite myself. “No, I’m going to mow the lawn.”

“What a productive way to channel your anger,” he says, the words dripping in sarcasm.