Read Online Things We Didn't Say by Kristina Riggle - Free Book Online
Authors: Kristina Riggle
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resign herself to the bitter reality of managing Mallory. “So, what, she gets to beat me up so we don’t upset her?”
“I’ll talk to her while you look for Dylan’s computer, then we’ll call the police.”
“Fine.” She walks past me without meeting my eyes. I reach out to her, but she doesn’t see me try.
Downstairs, I tell Mallory and Angel that Casey is going to get into the e-mail, adding, “I guess he lost his right to privacy when he pulled this stunt.”
“Assuming he did this himself,” Mallory says, biting her lip and jiggling her knee, perched on the edge of the couch next to Angel.
“For God’s sake. This is not the time for your melodrama. We’ve got quite enough regular drama, thanks.”
“Oh, is it Pile On Mallory Day again? So soon, and I haven’t even put up the decorations.”
“Yeah, Dad,” interjects Angel. “She’s worried. Why aren’t you?”
“I am worried!”
Angel leaps up from the couch. “You’re never worried! You’re always like, ‘It’ll be fine, don’t worry about it.’ It’s like you don’t even care!”
“Someone has to keep it together in this house! Do you want me to start wailing and beating my chest? What good is that going to do?”
Mallory stands up on the other side of the couch. “Stop yelling at her!”
“I’m not yelling! ”
The house rings with the echo of my words. How many times has it been this way? Mallory, me, and a kid in a triangle, shouting, my resolve to stay calm crumbling like a burned-up coal at the slightest touch.
I close my eyes. My heart is still hammering along as I say quietly, “Angel, I’m sorry. Do you believe me now that I’m upset, too? I just don’t show it the same way.”
“Whatever.” Angel flips her hair out of her face.
“Great, now I have a headache,” Mallory growls, rooting around in her purse. “Angel honey, will you get me some water?”
I turn away from them, heading up the stairs two at a time to go check on Casey’s progress in Dylan’s room.
Chapter 7
Casey
R ummaging in Dylan’s room feels wrong, like I’m some kind of shady criminal ransacking his space.
I poke my head under his bed. No old socks, and no laptop, either.
This makes me think of Angel finding my journal in my desk—why was she even in my desk?—and reading it. While trying to focus on Dylan, all I can think is how far back she read, and what she’s going to tell Michael. I thought I’d be gone by now, the fallout happening in my absence.
She probably read about Tony, and though he’s just a friend, it wouldn’t look good from Michael’s view, since he knows nothing about him. Even worse, in my journal I’ve off-loaded so much that I can’t say out loud. Memories of a life that’s years old and yet a bottle of whiskey away. Memories of my brother, whom Michael doesn’t even know ever existed.
I’ve recorded frustrations about my life now, too, including the issues with the children. Hurtful things I would never say out loud, but if I don’t let it out, I will explode. Explode, then drink.
The weak afternoon light already fades as I crawl under his bed. Jewel will be home from Scouts soon, and I’d give my left arm to be able to solve this mystery before she comes in the door. If only I could do it without invading Dylan’s private spaces.
If only he had talked to us. At least his dad. Didn’t fathers and sons have a bond? Billy and our dad did. They didn’t have deep discussions about feelings, or life lessons—not in front of me, anyway—but they were so in sync, right down to their loping gait and their way of sitting in a chair and tipping back, balancing on the rear legs. If they needed to talk, I’m sure they would have. I’m sure they did.
But Michael is so busy all the time. Even at home, half his brain is at work. And now that he can get his work e-mail at home, he’s constantly plugged in, not to mention double-checking his stories, terrified of a blunder. As if the world
“I’ll talk to her while you look for Dylan’s computer, then we’ll call the police.”
“Fine.” She walks past me without meeting my eyes. I reach out to her, but she doesn’t see me try.
Downstairs, I tell Mallory and Angel that Casey is going to get into the e-mail, adding, “I guess he lost his right to privacy when he pulled this stunt.”
“Assuming he did this himself,” Mallory says, biting her lip and jiggling her knee, perched on the edge of the couch next to Angel.
“For God’s sake. This is not the time for your melodrama. We’ve got quite enough regular drama, thanks.”
“Oh, is it Pile On Mallory Day again? So soon, and I haven’t even put up the decorations.”
“Yeah, Dad,” interjects Angel. “She’s worried. Why aren’t you?”
“I am worried!”
Angel leaps up from the couch. “You’re never worried! You’re always like, ‘It’ll be fine, don’t worry about it.’ It’s like you don’t even care!”
“Someone has to keep it together in this house! Do you want me to start wailing and beating my chest? What good is that going to do?”
Mallory stands up on the other side of the couch. “Stop yelling at her!”
“I’m not yelling! ”
The house rings with the echo of my words. How many times has it been this way? Mallory, me, and a kid in a triangle, shouting, my resolve to stay calm crumbling like a burned-up coal at the slightest touch.
I close my eyes. My heart is still hammering along as I say quietly, “Angel, I’m sorry. Do you believe me now that I’m upset, too? I just don’t show it the same way.”
“Whatever.” Angel flips her hair out of her face.
“Great, now I have a headache,” Mallory growls, rooting around in her purse. “Angel honey, will you get me some water?”
I turn away from them, heading up the stairs two at a time to go check on Casey’s progress in Dylan’s room.
Chapter 7
Casey
R ummaging in Dylan’s room feels wrong, like I’m some kind of shady criminal ransacking his space.
I poke my head under his bed. No old socks, and no laptop, either.
This makes me think of Angel finding my journal in my desk—why was she even in my desk?—and reading it. While trying to focus on Dylan, all I can think is how far back she read, and what she’s going to tell Michael. I thought I’d be gone by now, the fallout happening in my absence.
She probably read about Tony, and though he’s just a friend, it wouldn’t look good from Michael’s view, since he knows nothing about him. Even worse, in my journal I’ve off-loaded so much that I can’t say out loud. Memories of a life that’s years old and yet a bottle of whiskey away. Memories of my brother, whom Michael doesn’t even know ever existed.
I’ve recorded frustrations about my life now, too, including the issues with the children. Hurtful things I would never say out loud, but if I don’t let it out, I will explode. Explode, then drink.
The weak afternoon light already fades as I crawl under his bed. Jewel will be home from Scouts soon, and I’d give my left arm to be able to solve this mystery before she comes in the door. If only I could do it without invading Dylan’s private spaces.
If only he had talked to us. At least his dad. Didn’t fathers and sons have a bond? Billy and our dad did. They didn’t have deep discussions about feelings, or life lessons—not in front of me, anyway—but they were so in sync, right down to their loping gait and their way of sitting in a chair and tipping back, balancing on the rear legs. If they needed to talk, I’m sure they would have. I’m sure they did.
But Michael is so busy all the time. Even at home, half his brain is at work. And now that he can get his work e-mail at home, he’s constantly plugged in, not to mention double-checking his stories, terrified of a blunder. As if the world
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