Doll Face(38)

“You were eighteen years old, Ronnie. I understand that you loved Asuka, that you were hurting, but you can hardly blame all the mistakes you've made on that one incident. Travis … he was a good boy, but he wasn't your brother. A good friend, yes. A nice person, I don't doubt that. Ronnie, you need to take responsibility for your own actions. I love you, and you know that, but I can't in good conscious hand this little girl over to you.”

“It's not like you have a choice,” I whisper, and I hate how cold my voice sounds, how empty. “You gonna take me to court?”

“If that's what it takes. I know in your mind, it seems like a clear win, but when I present evidence of your drug use, of our involvement in Lydia's life and your lack thereof, maybe things will take a different turn? If you want to go through that, put Lydia through that, so be it.”

I clench my teeth and put a hand to my face. Really wish I could channel some Turner right now, throw a raging fucking fit. Anyway, what's stopping me from picking Lydia up and walking out of here? My parents wouldn't put up a physical fight, but then again, I don't doubt my father's words. If he thinks he can win in court against me, I should be scared. Fuck, I don't know crap about custody and all that shit. I'm just a fucking drummer. I can slam out a beat that will knock your skull in half, make you beg me to stir up that gray matter between your ears. But court shit? Legal stuff? Uh, fuck that.

“Look, I know I haven't given you guys much reason to trust me, but things are going to be different this time. Sure, my living situation's a little unorthodox, but when are you guys going to figure out that strange doesn't always mean inferior? Sometimes, weird shit's the best.” I can tell from my parents' faces that they're not buying what I'm selling. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, taste the sweet scent of sugar in the air. Knowing my mom, she's probably got something in the oven. I always thought that if she weren't so obsessed with being a mother and a housewife, that she might've enjoyed running a bakery or some shit. My mom can bake an apple pie like nobody's business. “Besides, I'm planning on working out a plan to get Phoebe – ”

My father's snort of disbelief explodes from his lips before he turns away and looks down at the floor with a sigh, planting his hands on his hips and shaking his head. Fuck.

“Dad.” I say the word firmly, looking past my mom and focusing hard on his back. I force my fingers to relax, make myself take long, slow breaths. After a moment, I glance over my shoulder and find Lola seated on the floor with Lydia, her dark hair swinging in her face as she smiles, as she takes a little metal truck from my daughter's hand and runs it up Lydia's arm. Lydia giggles, and I feel my own lips twitch. See. This is the kind of stuff I'm missing out on, the little everyday shit. I know it seems a little hypocritical of me to come bursting in here after three years, but when the clouds clear and you can finally glimpse a bit of sunshine in your life, you don't sit in the fucking dark with the blinds drawn. “Lydia is my daughter. I get that I'm in a transitional period, but as soon as I set up a bedroom for her, as soon as I feel like things have settled down a little, I'm taking her with me. For now, expect me here visiting five times a week or more.” I turn away and don't bring up Phoebe again. Maybe my parents know something I don't, or maybe they just don't trust me with an infant, I don't care.

I know what I want and what I need at this point in my life and nobody – a gun toting psychopath, a needle filled with liquid courage, my parents – is going to stop me from taking it.





Five days and absolutely zero fucks later, I'm so desperate for a naughty that I'm practically salivating, sitting here next to the pool and watching Ronnie as he swims laps. I don't think he's noticed that I'm here yet, but that's fucking fine with me. I'm more than happy to sit 'ere and watch his muscles ripple as he parts the water with strong strokes, propelling that perfect form of his through the water. His ink looks twice as bright submerged beneath the perfect blue surface, and I find myself sucking in a breath that I forget to let out until I get so lightheaded that I start to sway.

“You alright?” Sydney Charell asks, pausing next to me, a cuppa clutched in her hands and a sleepy look on her face that's at odds with the tightness around her eyes. As soon as Ronnie and I got back from that awkward little encounter with his parents, Sydney was standing in the living room having a screaming argument with her younger brother. After an epic fucking row, she stormed up the stairs and hasn't left since. I guess for now, she's living here, too. Just one big happy Goddamn family. Ah, the bloody irony.

I blow a puff of smoke out and do what I've been doing for days – forcing my mind away from the overwhelming wash of pain that comes whenever I think of my sister. It's been so bad that I haven't even gotten up the courage to call my father, to tell him, or to see if he knows. I mean, shit, he must, right? Nobody's asked me about the funeral. My throat gets tight and I take another drag on my durry.