That One Night (That One Series Book 1) Page 27
“That wasn’t your decision to make. You lied to me. You fucking lied to me.” I don’t recognize my own voice. I’m yelling at her, and I sound hoarse and desperate. I’m waiting for someone to tell me this is all a joke. But there is no one there.
“I’m sorry, Ben. I’m so sorry,” she sobs, trying to take my hand. I yank it back. I can’t stand her touch right now. I don’t know the woman sitting in front of me. Gone is the person I thought would always be there for me, the person I could always turn to. The woman I considered to be the best mother possible. All I see now is someone that lied to me—betrayed me. I get up, grabbing the letter before my legs move of their own accord, leading me out of the kitchen. I take two steps at a time up the stairs until I reach my room and open the door with a bang. I look around for a moment, taking in the place I spent all my life in or as it turns out, most of my life. I need to get out of there. I go over to my wardrobe and yank my duffel bag out of it, before I start throwing the essentials into it. A few pair of jeans, shirts, underwear, and socks, followed by my laptop and a few others bits and pieces. It doesn’t take me longer than five minutes before I walk out of the room, taking one more look back. Yanking the keys out of my pocket, I unhook the house keys and throw them on my bed. I won’t be coming back.
I pound down the stairs, anger, and desperation fuelling my every step. When I arrive downstairs, I can hear my mom talking on the phone. “Ron, you have to come home….”
When she sees me and her eyes fall to the duffle bag, she hangs up, rushing over to me. She takes a hold of the duffle bag straps, pure desperation making her hold on it with more strength than she normally has.
“What’s his name?” My voice is hard and cold.
“What?” Her eyebrows furrow and she seems confused for a moment, taken aback by my question.
“What. Is. My. Father’s. Name?” I grit out between my teeth.
My mom shakes her head, but answers anyway. When she does, her voice is weak, barely audible. “Noah. His name is Noah.”
“Where is he, mom?” I need to know who my father is. I need to go see him, talk to him. I need to find out where I came from.
She hangs her head, then looks up at me and sighs.
“I don’t know, Ben. Last time I’ve heard of him was before I left Arizona.”
I’m not sure I can believe her. She’s had no issues lying to me about who my father was. Lying about where he might be should come easy to her, I suppose.
I turn away towards the door, ready to leave this place behind before it suffocates me.
“Ben, please wait. You need to listen to me…”
I don’t let her finish, tearing out the duffle bag from her grasp with one hard tug.
“You’ve had all my life to talk to me.” With that, I turn around and walk out the door, ignoring her cries. Slamming the truck door closed behind me, I bring the motor to life, turning up the music to drown out her voice as I back out of the driveway. Before I take off down the street, I take a glimpse in the rear-view mirror, and I hate myself for feeling guilty when I see her in the doorway, sagged to the floor and crying. I don’t have anything to feel guilty about. She lied to me. And she never would have told me the truth if not for that damn letter. Yet, I hate myself for hurting her.
I clutch the steering wheel so tightly, I’m afraid it will crumble to dust. I want to stop feeling, want to numb the pain and anger that’s coursing through my veins like poison. I don’t drive far, just a few houses down the road before I’m at my destination, Dave’s house. I know he’ll still be out, and his parents are visiting family in the UP. This should give me a few hours to figure out what I’m going to do next. I hop out of the car and unlock the garage. I’ve had keys to their house for years, since my parents worked so much, and I always hung around here with Dave anyway. This has been just as much my home, as my own used to be, and now it’s the only home I know. I put the car into the garage, closing the door before I enter the house. It’s quiet and deserted, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I make my way to the living room, stopping at the cupboard where Dave’s dad stores the alcohol. We’ve raided it often enough as teenagers when his parents were out. I grab a bottle of whiskey, not bothering with a tumbler and walk over to the sofa, bumping into the side table on the way. I welcome the burst of pain I feel in my shin, letting me forget everything else I’m feeling—if only for a few seconds. Turning on the light on the side table, I skim over the huge LP collection that’s displayed in the wall-sized bookshelf. Taking out a few LPs, I put one on and plop down on the sofa, taking a few sips straight out of the bottle, allowing the burn of the whiskey to take my mind of my fucked-up life.