Page 67 of After We Fall

A puff of air escapes, relieving the pressure in my lungs. I finally inhale so I can speak. “Why are you here?”

“I brought you tea.”

“Why?”

“To help your headaches.”

“Okay. Thank you. You’ve come to do what you needed to do.” I nod to the door, hoping he’ll take his exit. But the gift, the thoughtfulness, the man, are all burning a hole in my resolve.

“I wanted to talk to you about Bianca’s drum lessons. I was thinking when I came home between trips, I could—”

“It’s probably best not to come in and out of the girls’ lives. They need consistency. They need to be able to depend on the people around them.” Standing in front of him with a straight, steely spine and what feels like fire coming out of my glare, I dare him to defy me. My responsibility is to protect the girls. If the shield I throw up for them protects me as well, so be it.

The muscles in his jaw tick.

“Miss Penelope? Miss Penelope? I’m sorry. I forgot. I totally forgot.” Tanya’s urgent voice pulls me out of our stare-down. When I shift my focus to the door, she skids around the corner and braces her hands on either side of the frame.

Bianca, face fuming, stands behind her like a sentry, readying for battle.

When I arrived home this afternoon, Tanya and Bianca greeted me with homemade cookies. Well, they purchased a roll of dough from the grocery store and baked them here at the ranch. But with all the concern and love they packed into their tight hugs, the cookies tasted like they were made from scratch.

“What did you forget, Tanya?” I ask.

“With all of the plutonium this week, I forgot.”

“I think you might mean pandemonium. But, Tanya, what did you forget?”

She stares at the sling on my shoulder, then snaps her gaze back to me. “They called. I forgot to tell you. Now they’re here. I didn’t know. I didn’t know they’d come.”

As the next question forms on the tip of my tongue, a waft of icky-sweet, expensive cologne hits my nose. I freeze just before the man I know it belongs to comes into my line of sight.

“Hello, Penelope,” my adoptive father says as he stalks into the room, pushing the girls out of his path with his mere presence. Phillip Nelson is rarely seen in anything other than a pristine, tailor-made suit. This particular one is navy with almost imperceptible pinstripes in a lighter shade of blue. I used to imagine he slept in these suits.

In spite of the death grip I plant on Tanya’s arm, I stand straighter and level my voice. “Hello, Senator Nelson.”

My adoptive mother strides into the room behind her husband. Her heavy Chanel perfume competes with her husband’s but loses to its dominance. Clearly it was a travel day for her, as she chose what I know to be her standard casual wear: a pair of black wool slacks and a heather-gray cashmere sweater set. She stops in front of me, her heels lifting her just an inch higher than I stand. “Penelope, your face.” While filled with concern, her tone is laced with the tiniest hint of judgment.

“She looks beautiful as always,” Jason says as he pats her on the shoulder and they walk farther into the room.

I glance at Jason and raise my eyebrows.

“They messaged me from the air,” he says. “I drove in from Denver and picked them up from the airport.”

Jason. I shouldn’t be surprised. He has always served as a mediator. I could look and play the role of the senator’s grateful adoptive daughter, but Jason always fit in just a little better with the Nelsons.

Of course, he was never disowned by them. That always helps relieve the tension between family members.

Despite a small paunch and early-onset balding, Jason looks good in his pressed khakis and hunter-green long-sleeve polo. He turns to me, a heartbreaking combination of hurt and anguish filling his face. “Why didn’t you call me?” he whispers.

I blink, having no idea how to explain the events of the last few days. Or why I never called him, the most loyal person in my life. I’m sorry, I mouth back to him.

“Well, isn’t this a lovely guest room,” Cynthia says, turning in a circle as she takes in the details, no doubt internally devouring them with the criticisms that flow through her veins. She points her perfectly manicured finger at the wall. Her French-manicured finger, because flashing color would be tacky. “Do you think we could turn on the light to enjoy the atmosphere a little better?”

“Please don’t.” My barking answer surprises me, but if someone turns on the overhead light, I will lose all ability to handle this situation. And I have to figure out how to handle this situation.

“This room rocks, Penny Lady,” Tanya blurts out with a wide grin. “Did you decorate it yourself?”

Since I won’t admit that in public, I dart my gaze to Luke.