It starts out innocently enough with a flexing of testosterone. That I expected. What I didn’t expect was for my father to scold Derry in the same strictly parental way he’s taken to scolding me. That’s toeing the line.
I’m sorry, I project my apology using our new silent communication method. Derry’s ability to read my mind is on par with my ability to read his emotions. We both wince as my father continues exceeding volumes never before heard in the Tierney house.
Derry handles himself well, but I do notice the tightness in his jaw that comes and goes each time he looks from my father back to me. He doesn’t care for the rise in volume. I’m not a fan, myself. When he tries to snake my shoulder, I shrug him away to deflect the daggers shooting straight from my father’s eyes to his arm.
Part of me is happy he’d stand in the line of fire with me. The other part knows it’s unnecessary. There’s no reason for us both to endure the due tongue-lashing.
“In all fairness, we were here before dawn,” Derry pushes after ten minutes of receiving said tongue-lashing, “and I don’t want her to go through this alone.” Yeah, he’s obviously finished listening.
We beat the curfew or tied it, at least. My robot takes two steps backward to avoid the technicality skirmish. My curiosity takes two steps forward. I can only imagine what my father is subjecting my boyfriend to. The accusations coming from his mouth are descriptive enough. Mind-reading isn’t a favorable gift.
Something medieval, I’d wager, Supermom adds unhelpfully.
She’s picked a lovely moment to present herself—cue sarcasm. I can’t exactly respond in my current location. I expected her to show up, though, being she’s the reason we’re standing in the kitchen navigating this awkward situation. The close call isn’t the real issue at hand. The real issue is the plug-pulling paperwork I found earlier, complete with a signature authorizing the detachment of the life-support systems keeping my mother alive.
“Go through what alone?” Dad grumbles. “How do you know the kind of support my daughter needs? You think I’m some sick monster that’d drain her dry over breaking curfew? What stories are you feeding your friends, Sheyla?”
Bit on the nose with that one, Supermom chirps, albeit in the opposite direction.
Leave it, I warn Derry when his fingers flex on my arm.
He gives a resigned sigh. Point to telepathy.
“I found the papers, Dad. I came home earlier.”
My father swallows down the same lump developing in my throat. I assumed he left them on purpose so he wouldn’t have to be the one to tell me. His guilt squashes that assumption. He’s been so out of whack he forgot them there.
He runs a hand through the scruff shadowing his once-handsome face, pausing while he decides what to say. Will he make up an excuse for what he’s doing? Does he owe me one?
“This is a family matter,” he snipes defensively.
Before meeting the Keanes, I had no clue what family was. How can I explain to my father they’re my family, possibly the only true family I’ve ever had?
The Keanes are innate energy wielders—Solathairs. I’m a Solathair in transition who’s made it my mission to keep from fully transitioning. Each member of the Keane family has an elemental affinity. Ryan is of water, Tally is of earth, and Declan is of air. While my affinity is fire, none of us are sure what transitioning means for me. All we know for certain is the risk isn’t worth destroying an entire continent by letting it happen.
“He’s just as much family as you are.”
And now, there are tears. Dad covers his eyes, laying down the parental hammer in favor of a tissue. His fluctuating emotions are wearing on my patience. Despite appreciating Derry’s support, I need a few moments alone with my father. I don’t want Derry to see him like this.
Can you give us a few? My room is upstairs, the first door on the left.
He gives my arm another squeeze before evacuating to the staircase. Dad is too lost in his grief to bother questioning it.
Dealing with him is tough, but continuing to strip his emotions isn’t fair to us. He won’t find a happy medium in his turbulent highs and lows if I don’t let him sort it himself. Cutting him off is easy. Making him hold his own is much harder…and necessary.
It isn’t his fault. Our disconnect is my own doing. My stoic bravado wreaked havoc on any chance for us to bond early on in a father/daughter way. My emotional constipation was contagious. As such, we’re both a hot mess of withheld sentiment, angst, fear, and any other generally liberated reaction to existing.
I bridge the gap, tentatively patting his arm. He flinches away as if I lit his sleeve on fire. I ensure my flame is contained before trying again. “It’s okay,” I soothe him.
He uses his shirt cuff to wipe at his overflowing tears. I don’t blame him for his lack of withholding, but I’m not shouldering all the blame. With time working against me, I can’t afford to waste more precious moments perpetuating a negative cycle of self-loathing. That was the old me.
I care about my father. He’s been a predictable, solid presence. Maybe we don’t have the close-knit bond many families take for granted, but we still look out for each other. I just need to figure out how to deal with the new up and down rollercoaster we’re riding because I’m getting motion sickness.
“Something’s wrong with me lately,” he admits. “One minute, I’m terrified the whole world is closing in, and the next, I want it to.”
“I get it.”
I reach out to pat his arm again. Instead of stopping me, he wraps me in his sweet licorice scent. I can’t remember my father ever hugging me before.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
“I’m sorry, Sheyla. Sorry for so many things.”
“I know, Dad.” I strengthen my hold. “Me too.”
“I’m not sure what the right thing to do is anymore. I can’t keep—”
“Holding on,” I finish for him.
“I need to let go.” He takes a step back, keeping hold of my arms as he looks me in the eye. “We need to let go.”
“I can’t.” I pull myself free. “I’m not ready.”
Fresh tears begin. “What’s changed?”
So much has changed. I’m still processing it all myself. There’s no way he’ll understand. For years, I’ve supported cutting off my mother’s life support, but finding out what she is, what I made her, planted the seed of doubt it’s the right choice. Ending her life, if there’s a way to salvage it, isn’t a choice I can live with.
“Everything,” I answer cryptically. “I need more time. Please, Dad, just give me some more time.”
“She isn’t coming back.” His deeper tone alerts me to his emotional shift. Here comes anger.
“What if she didn’t leave? What if she’s just lost, and we need to find her?”
“I don’t doubt you have the potential for greatness, Sheyla, but not even science has been able to fix this.”
My own temper feeds from his frustration.
“For eighteen years, different doctors have tried different things,” he reminds me. “Nothing works. It’s time to accept that she’s gone.”
“You’re wrong,” I seethe, clenching my fists at my sides as sparks ignite in my cheeks.
He throws up his hands. “Either I can be wrong and move on with my life, or I can be right and wrongly waste the rest of it hoping for something that may not happen. She wouldn’t have wanted that.”
“She’d have wanted us to fight for her.”
“We’ve fought, and it was a good fight, but we can’t always win. Sometimes, you have to throw up the white flag and decide if there’s anything salvageable in the pieces left. Is there anything salvageable here, Sheyla?”
I grind my teeth.
“I think the reason you feel so strongly is that it isn’t hypothetical anymore.” I take a deep breath as he presses on, “I’ve been reflecting on this for a while. It’s time.”
“It’s not time.” The heat spreads out from my cheeks into my neck. “I need more.”
“How long?”
“What’s the rush?”
“This isn’t something rushed.”
I glower at him. “It feels rushed.”
Before I knew about my would-be-Solathair status, his decision wouldn’t have influenced me, but she’s still in there somewhere. I heard her. I hear her. She hasn’t left. She’s consistently been here in her own way.
Only, I can’t tell him that. I can’t disclose anything that’s happened over the last few months. If I can’t get him to change his mind, perhaps I can do the next best thing: buy myself time to resync her consciousness with her body. If he won’t destroy the signed papers, he might be willing to postpone it. I’m exhibiting exceptional restraint in stopping myself from lighting them on fire right in front of him. “After graduation,” I blurt.
“After graduation?”
“Just give me that long.” I wring my hands. “It’s only a month away. I don’t want this special time coinciding with a funeral.”
As he vice-clamps his eyelids, I feel so many emotions coming off him it’s difficult to distinguish them all: anger, fear, relief, and hope.
“Fine, but it won’t change anything.”
“Yes, it will. It already has.” I kiss him on the cheek. “Have some faith in me.”
His knees nearly buckle. “You’re the only thing I still have faith in, Sheyla.”
Still.
I’m at the top of the stairs when it fully registers I’m only postponing the inevitable. A stay of execution. I bought her more time. Me more time. Us more time. Will it be enough?
I enter my bedroom to Derry’s concern almost pushing me back through the open door. “Temperature check?” Crack.
There’s no point lying to him, so I seesaw my hand. Accepting the invitation of his open arms, I cross the floor to station myself in his lap.
“It’s been a long day.” I press my face into his neck. His Morning Glories and Sunshine soothe me.
“Technically, it’s a whole new day. You should rest. All our days from now on will be long ones.”
“I’m not tired,” I lie, my eyelids already growing heavy.
“Of course not,” he humors me, effortlessly laying us down.
“Could Mel try to see something about my mom?” My sleepy voice slurs the words.
He hugs me tighter. “We’ll ask her once you’ve rested.”
As comfortable as I am, his worry keeps me from totally relaxing, causing sparks to enflame my cheeks.
“You have to let yourself rest.” His gentle graze is a cooling balm. “We’ll figure it out, together, once you’ve slept.”
“Together,” I murmur before jolting straight up. “Dad shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“He’s not alone.”
He’s not alone, Supermom echoes.
“Right,” I concede, allowing him to wrestle me down.
I shoot up again, and Derry groans. “We shouldn’t have left them. I’m not there to help. What if something happens?”
We left the Keanes and Connells alone too soon. The Connells are Sumairs. Instead of drawing energy from human essence, which a Solathair does to refuel, a Sumair draws from a Solathair. With my help, presumably, a Sumair can refuel without killing them. What if I’m not there to supervise?
“They’re fine,” he assures me. “They won’t try anything without you there.”
“They might not mean to.”
“You’re not leaving me a choice here.”
I glower.
“I’ll have to persuade you to do what your body needs.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to argue, pressing tempting lips to mine. The distraction is effective. The only thing my brain can focus on is his proximity. Fire fuel trickles through my limbs, pooling in the pit of my stomach. Does he realize how very much I need him in a completely new and exciting way? I’m tired of fighting. I want to throw up the white flag and surrender to Derry. The fire inside me roars in response, circling before burning my limbs again. I curse my lack of foresight to shut the door on the way in.
He chuckles. “Easy does it, Sweetheart. If you can’t learn to control yourself, we’ll be the ones needing supervision.”
My whine is full of disapproval. I don’t miss the hitch in his breath or the arrhythmic fluttering of his heart against my chest. His reaction spurs me on. I skim under the hem of his shirt, the muscles tremoring under my fingertips. He sucks in a breath, and some of my strengthening fire releases where our lips meet. Content he’s expended the sparks enough to venture elsewhere, he places searing kisses across my cheek before nibbling his way along my neck. A new heat erupts inside me, a disorienting burn aching where it travels. I can’t get close enough. My fire wants to consume him. It’s no longer sparking through me. It’s a full-on flame.
He hears the footsteps before I do, flipping me with disorienting speed so I’m on his chest again. The pounding is deafening. “Pretend to be asleep,” My sledgehammer orders, working to steady his breath. There’s no way my father won’t hear his heart racing. I try doing as I’m told, but my own heart feels like I’ve just finished a marathon.
“You won’t be making a habit of this,” Dad barks from the doorway.
“No, Sir,” Derry replies respectfully.
“She needs something I can’t give her. Seems she’s looking for it from you.”
Derry bobs his head.
“If you screw this up, I probably won’t forgive you.”
“I won’t forgive myself.” The truth of Derry’s claim is a devastating flood of dread.
“I’m going to the hospital.”
Derry draws slow circles on my back to steady me.
Dad’s voice softens. “You’ll stay with her?”
“Absolutely.”
I hold my breath until the front door shuts. “He won’t...”
“No, he needs to go see her,” Derry explains. “He’s feeling guilty over his decision.”
“He shouldn’t feel guilty. I don’t blame him. Neither would she.”
“He knows that. He’s just like you when it comes to shouldering blame.”
I sigh. “Genetics are a funny thing.”
He surveys me. “Are you really cool?”
“No, but since we’re alone, maybe you can work on proving how hot you are.”
He smirks. “Refusing you is difficult when you give yourself so willingly.”
“Don’t refuse,” I suggest, pressing my lips to his.
I wonder how much persuading it’ll take for his mind to listen to his body. I look forward to the task ahead of me.