Page 30 of Unbound

I pat the bed for her to sit, one of her brushes in my hand. Her wet hair lays in tangles, but I’m careful with each section as I brush through it until every strand is smooth down her back and she’s nearly asleep in my hands.

“I thought you wanted chicken nuggets,” I ask, knowing she won’t stay awake long enough for me to make it to the kitchen and back.

“Goldfish, please,” she mumbles, sinking further into my chest. I laugh a little and reach over into my side table for one of the small bags of them.

She lets me hand-feed her, laying pliantly against me, eyes closed softly as I press the fish-shaped crackers to her lips until she finishes the bag.

“Love you, P,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her forehead and rolling her to sleep on her side where I can keep watch over her until I fall asleep.

• • •

The kitchen is quiet, which years ago might’ve been fine—preferable even. But now it just fills me with a stifling sense of loss.

I’ve lived with Rhys nearly my entire life, at least in some capacity. As a child, my time with my dad was half spent at the Koteskiy house. As teens we attended Berkshire together, living together for over half the year in a dormitory. And now we’re here at Waterfell.

Seven pads gently behind me, slumping against the back of my legs when I freeze by the stove before rousing myself and starting on the food.

When I check the fridge, a bolt of irritation rushes down my spine as I see Rhys and Freddy’s meal-prepped food untouched. Rhys’s has a note atop it that must be from yesterday.

Ended up having dinner with the girls. Sorry we let it go to waste.

Grabbing the containers, I toss the food and clean them until my hands are red from the heat of the water and the harsh chemicals of the soap. I take the time to dry them before putting the dishes away.

As I put a pan back, I get sidetracked for a moment by the one green pan that’s different from my meticulous stainless-steel collection. Freddy’s pan—the only one I allow him to use.

A smile pushes at my face, before another pang of loss replaces it. He hasn’t used it in weeks.

My phone rings and I answer it without checking, too distracted by memories of Rhys and Freddy taking up space in the kitchen to realize who it is.

“Hello?”

“Bennett.” My dad’s half-shocked voice fills the line. He clears his throat. “How are you?”

Most people assume that the breaking of my relationship with my dad is centered around the divorce and his relationship with my mother. But no one knows the real situation, the real reason I’ve built walls between us, lost my respect for him.

“Fine.”

I’m sure he was expecting a voicemail box he could speak to since I haven’t taken his calls in months, but my stupid mistake has us both awkwardly silent, breathing into the phone.

“If you’d just talk to me—”

My head is already swimming, anger and frustration coating my voice. “Stop.”

He does, immediately. “Sorry . . . sorry.” Another unnecessary clearing of his throat, and then, “Max and Anna have invited us to dinner next week. Friday. Rhys is going as well. Will you be there?”

It’s currently one of the last places I’d like to be—but with Rhys in the mix, I’ll never say no.

“All right. I’ll come.”

He blows out a hard breath. I hang up before he can say anything else.

Instead, I spend the night with Seven asleep on my thighs and some Food Network competition on in the background while I check Paloma’s social media like a stalker, frustrated when it reveals nothing.

I scroll through her photos until my chest feels so tight I can’t breathe, then—even though I know it will hurt—I open the untitled folder in my photo album where photos of dirty blond hair in my hands and a beautiful girl asleep on my chest bring me more pain than comfort.

“Don’t you want me? I can make it so good for you. Just like old times—”

“Sometimes I think you’re not real. That I dreamed you up.”