Watch Over Me (12 page)

"What are you doing here?"

I don't even bother to hide the contempt in my voice. I'm done trying to keep what
I think of him a secret. It obviously hasn't helped him in the past, so maybe if he
knows how much I don't want him or need him here, it will finally get through to him.

"I got out of rehab early. My counselor said I made great progress and she's confident
that I have all of the tools I need to be healthy, so here I am," he tells me with
a smile.

Like it's that simple. Like some stranger who hasn't lived with him and hasn't dealt
with his addiction day in and day out can really make an accurate assessment of him
after only a few weeks. Each time he's been in rehab they've given him a new counselor.
And each time, those idiots think they've cured him. I'm sure this time isn't any
different.

"I've got it this time, Addison, I really do."

I sigh and turn away from him, walking over to the sink to wash my hands. I can't
look at him right now. Even though I've learned in the last year not to trust or believe
anything that comes out of his mouth, he still knows how to make me wonder. He still
knows what to say to make that little voice in the back of my head say, "Maybe he's
right. Maybe this time he really does have it."

I'm disappointed in myself for even allowing that voice to have a say anymore. She's
been wrong so much that I think it's high time she takes a hike.

"I'm going to be here for you. I'm going to take over the responsibilities here at
the shop and everything is going to go back to normal," he tells me earnestly.

Normal? Like he even knows what that is. We haven't been normal since my mom died,
and I find it hard to believe we ever will be again.

I dry my hands on a towel and then take it over to start cleaning up the floor. My
dad rushes over to my side and takes the towel from my hands.

"Here, I've got this. You go ahead and finish getting cleaned up. I'll take care of
things here."

I snatch the towel back out of his hand and squat down to the floor and begin wiping
up the mess. "No,
I've
got it. Just like always."

I hear my dad sigh in defeat as he stands above me and watches. I walk back and forth
between the mess and the sink, rinsing out the towel each time, until all of the cake
batter is finally gone.

"Addison, please. Just let me help you. Give me a chance," he pleads, bringing some
of the dirty bowls and measuring cups over to me at the sink.

I whirl around to face him and cross my arms over my chest. My hands are shaking with
fury, and if I don't keep them glued to my body, I'll probably do something incredibly
stupid like throw the second bowl of cake batter at him.

"I've given you plenty of chances.
Plenty
. And each time you've thrown my trust and my faith in you back in my face like it
didn't even matter," I tell him angrily.

"I know, believe me, I know. I'm well aware of the fact that I have a lot to prove
to you. And I'll do it, Addison. I swear I will prove to you that you can trust me."

The voice in my head is finally silent. She must have finally gotten sick of the bullshit
too.

"I'm going home," I tell him without responding to his empty promises. I turn away
from him and walk toward the door, leaving the dirty dishes piled in the sink. Normally,
I never leave a mess in the kitchen before I leave at night because I don't want to
have to deal with it the next morning. Right now I just want to get out of here and
away from my father. The dishes will have to wait.

"Why don't you just ride home with me? We can come back tomorrow morning and you can
get your car then," he tells me, trying one last time for us to spend some quality
time together.

It occurs to me then that my father has no idea I moved out of my childhood home.
He has no idea that I couldn't take one more day in that house because I saw my mother
everywhere, and yet she was nowhere to be found. He made certain of that the day after
she died. We had come home from making all of the funeral arrangements, and while
family and friends stopped by to bring food and other useless items they thought would
cure our broken hearts, my father began packing every single item of my mother's away.
Clothes, shoes, jewelry, pictures, knickknacks…anything and everything that she ever
touched was packed away into totes and immediately taken to Goodwill. Every trace
of my mother was given away to strangers, and by the end of that day it was like she
never even existed.

After my father went into rehab this last time, I couldn't take being in that house
anymore. I couldn't take walking in the door and feeling like I just didn't belong
there. Without my mom, I didn't belong anywhere.

"I don't live at the house anymore. I have an apartment over by the mall," I told
him as I grabbed my purse from the counter and dug my keys out of the bottom.

"What? What do you mean you don't live at home anymore?" my dad asks in confusion.

I finally find my keys, turn the knob, and open the door.

"I mean, I don't live at home anymore," I tell him with spite. I should just walk
out and end it on that note, but I can't. I've always been the type of person who
needs to make sure my point is hammered home, always making sure I have the last word.
At least one thing has remained constant with my personality. I turn around and face
him one last time before I go. "You erased every trace of her from that house. Why
the hell
would
I want to continue living there?"

I don't even need to say her name; he visibly winces like he's in pain when I mention
her.

"I'll lock everything up," he tells me, turning away and walking over to the wall
where the light switch is. He shuts off all of the lights except for the security
light over the back door where I'm still standing. "I want you to take the day off
tomorrow. I'll take care of things here."

Just like every other time I've brought her up, he completely changes the subject.
He doesn't want to talk about her; he doesn't want to acknowledge her. And he wonders
why I am the way I am. He wonders why I'm such a different person, why I'm so closed
off now, and why I shut down.

I take my cues from him. I've learned how to close myself off so I don't have to deal
with the pain.

"No, I'm working tomorrow. You have no idea what needs to be done."

He raises his eyebrow at me and attempts to be humorous. "Sweetie, I own the shop,
and I worked here for enough years to know how things are supposed to go. I'm pretty
sure your old man can handle it while you go have fun and be a teenager."

He smiles at me, but I don't return his joviality. He doesn't have any clue that I
don't remember how to be a teenager or have fun. It's like he doesn't even remember
all of the responsibilities he stuck me with in the last year.

"I'm going to be around a whole lot more, Addison. I'm going to prove to you that
I can do this," he promises me softly as I turn away from him and walk through the
door.

"I'll believe it when I see it," I mumble loud enough for him to hear before the door
slams shut behind me.

After I peel the sticky clothes off of me and take a long, hot shower, I sit down
at my computer and power it up, logging in to Facebook and going right to her page
to type my usual nighttime private message to her.

Dear Mom:

I wish you were here. You're the only one who understands. The only one I can talk
to about anything. I miss you, every single day, every single second.

Love,

Addison

After the message is sent, I power off my computer and curl up in bed on my side,
staring at the napkin notes on my bulletin board. I think about the things my dad
said to me and wonder how long it will be before I'm sniffing his water bottles, checking
for vodka, and looking through his wallet for receipts to the liquor store. I wonder
how much more I have left in me. I wonder when it happens this time, because I'm sure
it will, if I'll be strong enough to just write him out of my life for good, shut
him out and never give him a second thought. My eyes lids start to get heavy, and
before I can close them for the night, my cell phone vibrates on the table next to
my bed.

The number isn't one I recognize or have programmed in my phone, and my heart beats
rapidly in my chest knowing it's Zander and is thrilled that he actually kept his
promise of a phone call. At the same time, though, I'm nervous to talk to him again
after tonight. I broke down, he kissed me, and then my dad showed up and made everything
awkward. I don't know if I'm ready to talk to him about my dad yet. I don't know if
I'm ready to let him into that part of my life that I've kept hidden for so long.

I quickly reach over and answer the phone, bringing it close to my ear as I snuggle
further under the covers.

"I didn't wake you, did I?"

Zander's soft voice brings a smile to my face, and my melancholy thoughts from moments
ago are immediately forgotten.

"Nope, but I am in bed," I tell him with a smile.

He's quiet on the other end for so long that I pull the phone away, wondering if the
call was dropped.

"Zander? Are you still there?" I ask when I see the call is still connected.

"Sorry. I lost all train of thought when you told me you were in bed."

I laugh at his words and feel my face heating up with a blush, thankful that I'm on
the phone with him and not standing right in front of him so he can't see what his
words do to me.

"I swear I won't ask you what you're wearing. Maybe. I think. Okay, I'll give it the
old college try, but I'm sorry, I can't make any promises," he tells me with a laugh.

I bite my lip, and even though I have no idea what I'm doing, I quickly decide to
have a little fun with him. I've never had time for a relationship and even if I did,
I've always purposely avoided them. I've never had any guy in my life like this who
made me feel comfortable enough to flirt with or try my hand at teasing. Covering
my hand over my eyes to try and force my embarrassment level down a few notches, I
give it a shot.

"How about I make it easy on you so you don't go back on your promise? I'm wearing
a pair of pink boy shorts and a matching pink tank top, and I'm under the covers.
Oh, and I'm not wearing a bra," I tell him boldly, my eyes still squeezing closed
as I cringe at my brashness.

"Oh my God," he whispers into the phone. "You're going to be the death of me, Sugar."

My eyes pop open when he calls me Sugar. My mom is the only one who ever used a nickname
with me, and she always called me Sweets.

"Have a good day at school, Sweets!"

"Hey, Sweets, you want to help me make some chocolate chip cookies?"