“She’s going to end up getting you killed. Do you not see that?” he yells, standing, causing the chair he was sitting on to slide back and hit the wall behind him with so much force that the window rattles.
“Sven.” I shake my head as my body begins to shake.
“No! Her or me, Maggie, you choose.”
“You can’t ask that of me,” I tell him, lifting my hand toward him as I take a step in his direction around the desk. His eyes drop to my hand and he takes a step back.
“Make your choice.”
“What?” I breathe as nausea and anxiety fill my stomach.
“Make your choice,” he roars, and I stumble back a step while my heart shatters.
“That’s not love, Sven. You asking that of me is not love,” I tell him quietly. Then I turn on my heels, run from his office and down the stairs, passing Lane, who’s eyes lift toward Sven’s office, looking pissed as they come back to me. I’m not crying now, but I feel the tears building in my chest and I know…I know I don’t have long before I break down.
“Maggie!” Eva yells, rushing toward me from behind the bar when she spots me.
“Sorry,” I whisper, running past her.
“Slow down, girl,” Teo says, stopping me with his large hand wrapped around my arm as soon as I pass through the outside door.
“I need to go,” I cry, attempting to wrench my arm from his grasp.
“What’s going on?” He frowns, studying my face.
“Let me go, Teo, please,” I beg, feeling desperate. I want to cry. I want to scream, but more than anything, I want to get away.
“Let’s go inside,” he says gently.
“Let me go,” I repeat, and his hand loosens and I’m able to get free. Running to my car, I get in then lock the doors. I don’t think anyone is following me, but I can’t risk anyone trying to stop me, not again. Putting my car in reverse, I hit the gas then slam on the brakes, causing the car to jerk and my body to slide forward in my seat. Putting the car in drive, I press the gas then swerve to miss Sven, who is standing at the entrance for the parking lot. I don’t even look as I pull out onto the road. I just say a prayer there isn’t a car coming and that I don’t die.
When I reach the mall, Morgan is standing out front with a backpack on the ground at her feet. As she spots my car, she picks up the bag and rushes toward me.
“I didn’t think you were coming,” she whispers, getting in and buckling her belt, reminding me that I need to put mine on as well. I never go without a seatbelt, but I didn’t even think to put it on. “Are you okay?” she asks, and I don’t look at her. I can’t. I just put the car in drive and take off toward the highway without answering.
PULLING INTO OUR parents’ driveway, Morgan asks, “Seriously, Maggie?”
Once again, I ignore her, the same way I ignored her when she asked me where we were going when we got on the road. Then again, when I took the exit for Pullman, the community my parents live in, I honestly would never have planned on coming here, but the longer I drove, the more I thought about it, and the more I realized it’s my mom and dad’s turn to step the hell up.
I have been doing more than my fair share of taking care of people. It’s time someone had my back. And that thought hurt, because Sven should have been the one to do just that. He should have put his personal feelings aside and had my back. Even pissed, he should be here for me, but he wasn’t, proving to me that once again I picked the wrong man, but unlike all the others, he was able to hurt me.
Putting my car in park when I reach the end of the dirt road that stops near the front porch of my parents’ home, I mutter, “You want help, Morgan, then you do things my way this time.” I open the door, getting out without another word.
“MoonPie?” My mom calls in surprise, walking out onto the porch followed by my dad. They haven’t changed much since the last time I saw them. My mom is beautiful for a woman her age, with long white-grey hair, big blue eyes, and a small frame. You can tell she takes care of herself, eats right, drinks water, and exercises—or in her case, does yoga regularly. My dad’s age is starting to show, but he’s still handsome. His hair is still thick, and is now greying around the edges, but blends in with the blond. His skin is dark from the Arizona sun, and his body is firm from working outside daily in his garden or on the house.
“Morgan,” my dad whispers a second later with worry etched in his tone, and I look across the hood to see that Morgan has gotten out of the car and is staring up at the front porch at both of them.
“Oh my,” my mom gasps, stepping down the stairs, only to pause on the last step and cover her mouth with her hand.
“Can we go inside?” I ask, slamming my door, probably a little harder than I need to, but I’m angry. I’m angry they didn’t care when I told them that Morgan was missing. I’m angry they didn’t send out the troops like most parents would and search for their troubled daughter. But I’m pissed they left all of this to fall on my shoulders while they pretended like everything was hunky-dory.
“Come on, we just sat down for dinner,” my dad mutters, his eyes going hard in a way that’s surprising. My parents are passive; they’ve always have been passive, never letting much of anything bother them, so seeing the look of anger and disappointment my dad is directing toward Morgan is more than a little startling. “Do you have any bags?” he asks, turning his eyes to me.
“No,” I tell him, gaining a nod before he takes my mom’s elbow and leads her inside. Following behind them, I take Morgan’s hand and head in, letting her know silently that she’s not alone.
My parents’ house looks the same as it did when I was a kid. Three long steps lead to a large covered porch that has been white-washed every winter since I can remember. On one side of the porch is a hammock big enough to hold two people, a two-seated white wicker couch with brightly colored pillows, a wicker coffee table with a large metal plate full of different sized candles, and a bright red outdoor rug, where my mom always does her yoga.
Walking through the front door is more of the same vibe. The living room is small, but is done in bright floral colors with live plants on almost every flat surface. The kitchen is old but well kept, the wood topping the counters is the type you would find on a cutting board. Instead of cabinets, there are open white shelves holding dishes, and more plants, but these are herbs and things my mom cooks with. Stopping with my dad, I notice the round four-seated table is set for two, with a big covered pot in the middle. One of my mom’s big things has always been family dinners around the table, and even with my sister and me long gone, she has still stuck to that tradition.
“Get two more plates, Maisy,” my dad orders my mom, who hasn’t looked at my sister or me again. Nodding, she goes to one of the shelves in the kitchen and grabs two more plates, along with silverware.
“I’m not hungry,” Morgan tells Dad, and his head turns, his eyes pinning her in place then dropping, taking her in, and I know he sees what I see when I look at her.
When his eyes meet hers again, I can see his unchecked anger as he commands, “You’re gonna eat.”
“Okay,” she whispers, shifting on her feet.