Page 64 of The Keeper and I

He rolled his eyes. “Laci, let it go.”

“She must really miss you if she’s still trying,” she went on. “Can’t you ring her back? Or text. Just to let her know you’re alright.”

He frowned and snatched his phone from her, stuffing it into his pocket. Anger nipped at his heart like a mad dog. That was easy for her to say.

“She doesn’t deserve it,” he said stiffly.

“She’s yourmother.”

“So what?”

“So you’re family. It can’t have been so bad that—”

“Dammit, Laci, you don’t understand!” he snapped. “We’re not like your family, alright? It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows and hugs. It wasfucked!”

She drew back. His breathing came heavily, and not from the run. He meant what he said, but he couldn’t bear to look at her shocked face, so he dropped his gaze to the ground. An apology bubbled up in his throat, regretting that he shouted at her, but he swallowed it.

“You’re right, I don’t understand,” she said, so softly that he looked up at her again. She took his hand. “But I’d like to.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” He tugged his hand free.

He wasn’t sure what was making this so annoying. She was pressing on a bruise that would never heal. Normally he could endure that kind of strain.

Maybe it was the dream still lingering. Maybe it was the sexual frustration. Maybe it was that by staying with Laci, he hadn’t gotten to paint in weeks, and besides exercise, art was his only outlet.

He felt like a shaken-up soda can, and she was tugging on the tab. He was afraid of what might come out if she kept pressing. He started toward the house.

“Jordan, look, I know this isn’t what either of us expected it to be, but we could at least be friends,” she said. “I would like to understand whether you believe that or not. But the only way to find out is for you to trust me.”

“Trust you with what, exactly, Laci?” He whirled around, tension claiming his every muscle. “You wanna know how my dad lost his business and wasted away drinking?”

She blinked, and he almost laughed. Now that he’d been cracked open, it all came spilling out.

“You wanna know how his neglect drove my mother into the arms of another man? How, for two years, they were so caught up in hurting each other that they forgot they had children at all?”

“I didn’t kn—”

“How their fights were more important than recognizing their fifteen-year-old daughter was dating a piece of shit twenty-something guy who beat her up?”

Her eyes welled up with tears. She opened her mouth to say something else, but Jordan barreled on.

“They weren’t even around to answer the phone when the police called, and I—their seventeen-year-old son—had to go peel my sister off the floor of some dingy flat! Mymotherhad already moved to Newcastle to be with the man she was spite-fucking while Dad left us to fend for ourselves because he was too busy rotting in his own piss!”

He had to catch his breath after that. Laci blinked, and a tear rolled down her cheek. He was still too angry to feel guilty.

He swallowed. “So, no, I won’t be calling her back. She’s got no right even calling herself a mother.”

She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. Unable to bear it, Jordan turned on his heel and stormed back down the stairs, prepared to sprint across the grounds. He was tempted to run all the way back to London and put this mess behind him. His legs refused to go any faster than a slow walk, so he came around to the side of the house and paced. For how long, he couldn’t say. All he knew was that the rage and guilt stewed inside him.

He hated that he’d yelled at Laci, but he couldn’t take any more of her insisting that he speak to his mother. How could she understand with a family as perfect as hers? He never wished his circumstances on anyone, but he resented her ignorance.

A disruption of the stone pattern along the wall caught his eye, and he slowed to a stop. He thought the whole thing was the same tan stone, but he was wrong. There, beside the trash and recycling bins, was a wooden door, not nearly as grand as the one out front. It was much simpler and worn from the sun. However, the main difference was the rust-covered padlock holding it shut.

Without thinking, Jordan stepped toward it. The moment he did, the wind picked up around him. Dried leaves swept over the dead grass, making a hissing sound that grew louder and louder. The two voices he heard at dinner, and in his dream, swirled around him like a waltz—Samuel, Caroline, Samuel, Caroline—as clear as if the speakers stood beside him. Finally, he heard a desperate “Caroline, no!”

“Leave me the fuck alone!” Jordan covered his ears and turned his back to the door.

To his alarm, Gene stood there, holding two full bin bags in one hand and flattened boxes in the other. Everything stopped.