Page 38 of Make You Beg

“Ouch.” She winces. “RIP privacy.”

“I haven’t known privacy in a long time, Madelyn.”

“Dads suck.”

“Yeah, they do.” I say it before I realize what she said. “Wait. Does your dad suck too?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you see him?”

“No.” She pauses. “He isn’t part of my life anymore.”

“Shit. Did he die, too?”

She purses her lips. “Actually…I didn’t want to say anything. But my mom told me your mom died.”

Ouch. All the time we’ve known each other, the topic has never come up.

It’s not something I bring up. My father doesn’t allow me to, and I would rather not anyway.

But he told Miranda that? What else did he tell her? Did he speak about my brother?

“Yes,” I say, careful of what I let out.

I’m sure my father used my mother’s death as an excuse for me acting out, and that’s how Miranda found out.

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. I don’t really talk about her,” I admit, being the most vulnerable I’ve been with anyone in forever.

Fuck, if my father saw me now, doing face masks with my stepsister and talking about my dead mom, he wouldn’t be happy. He’d call me a pussy.

Madelyn inspects my features, tilting her head as if she’s trying to read me. The thing is, I’m the king of poker faces. My facial expressions can’t give you anything.

“It was a long time ago,” I say. “Sometimes I come out here and think of her, too.” I pause and deflect any further talk about her. “But you didn’t answer my question, Little Demon. Did your father die?”

“No,” Madelyn mutters. “He didn’t die. But he’s dead to me.” Her expression turns bitter. She holds her chin up. “Isn’t that the same?”

It’s a damn lie.

She’s hurt. She just doesn’t want to tell me.

Just like I don’t tell her I’m the reason my mom is dead.

That I couldn’t save her. That I ruin everything that’s ever been part of my life.

That my mom isn’t the only one I’ve lost.

We move on and pretend we’re fine even when our scars are spread all over our bodies, covered up by our clothing.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” I say. “Unless you want to.”

She hesitates. “Thanks. Actually…” She licks her lips, letting a few moments pass by in silence. “He left me. Mom and I.” Her voice is soft-spoken, fragile. “He grabbed me when I was nine, held me by the arms, and told me it was all too much for him. That he needed to live his own life and left.” Her tone is light, almost a whimper. “He chose himself over us, that bastard. Even though he had a daughter and a wife.” She stops, her tone changing. “So, yeah, let’s talk about something else, maybe.”

She’s irritated, her words coming out sloppy and angry.

She hugs herself, and it makes me want to crawl out of my skin, reach out, and embrace her.