Diamond Devil by Naomi West
TAYLOR
It hurts more than it should to hear his engine fade into silence.
It’s ridiculous that I should feel so judged by a stranger. Because he is a stranger. He may have a cute yet annoying nickname for me. He may have finished inside me. He may know more about my feelings than my own family does at the moment.
But he’s still a stranger.
And his opinions don’t matter.
I repeat that mantra to myself right up until I reach the house. It used to be that I would see the old bricks and the yellow curtains at the window and feel comforted.
But this is my childhood home. And I’m no longer a child.
It doesn’t help that, despite the late hour, the curtains are still thrown open. Which means Dad is waiting up for me, ready to unleash the rant of a lifetime the moment I walk through the doorstep.
Except that it’s eerily silent when I walk in. I pass the threshold and peer into the living room.
Dad is there, just like I thought he’d be. Sitting in his recliner, shoes still on his feet. But his chin is slumped to his chest and his eyes are closed. There’s a cold mug of tea at his side and a book flopped open in his lap.
He must’ve been waiting all night for me to come home.
I close the curtains and lean against the wall, just gazing over at him for a moment. It’s so much harder to be mad at him like this. When he’s asleep, it’s impossible to avoid the fact that he’s gone so deathly gray. His mouth is a mess of worry lines and his crows’ feet stand out like cracks between tectonic plates. Those age spots on his hands—were those there before? I can’t remember.
I hate what I said to him tonight. I hate how he reacted. But at the end of the day, I still love him., just like I know he loves me.
That’s what they don’t tell you about cancer: the disease spreads to everyone around the one who’s sick. It depletes them of their patience and hope and reduces them to the worst versions of themselves.
My worst version came head to head with Dad’s worst tonight.
And I’m starting to realize that if I stay here…it’ll keep happening again and again. We’ll be caught in a Groundhog Day version of what happened tonight. More cruel words. More vicious slaps.
Which is why I came to the conclusion that’s been waiting for me all night. The obvious choice that I refused to make until I stepped out of that stranger’s car and into the cold and rainy night.
I have to leave.
I felt brave about that choice at first. It’s the right thing to do, I know that. I knew it would be hard.
But now that I’m here, actually doing it, it’s a trillion times harder than I ever could’ve imagined. Tears stud my eyes as I scoop up a yellow blanket from the basket at Dad’s side and drape it over his legs.
Guilt pulls at my heart as I turn my back on him and sneak upstairs. It takes me only a few short minutes to get my stuff together. When I’m packed, I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder and creep back down the corridor towards the staircase.
I’m almost at Celine’s door when it opens. She glances out into the hallway and catches sight of me immediately.
“Tay?”
I sigh and set the bag down on the floor. I want to hem and haw, but there’s no beating around the bush now. “I’m leaving, Celine,” I say. “I can’t stay anymore.”
She rushes over to me, soft blonde hair spilling from her messy bun. “Oh, Tay, it was just a fight! A bad one, yes. He never should’ve hit you. But you were both emotional and tired. And after what the doctor said yesterday… I’m—I’m not trying to justify what he did. But…well…you know that Dad loves you—”
“I know that,” I cut in. “I do. But he’s suffocating me, Cee. I feel like I can’t breathe in this house anymore.”
“He just wants us to be safe.”
“I’d rather be unsafe and happy than safe and sad.”
Celine winces. “I just think you should—”
“Don’t do that,” I interrupt again. “We can’t all be selfless martyrs like you.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, though, I grimace. I’m just walking around spreading happiness wherever I go tonight, it seems. “I’m sorry, Cee. I’m just not like you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that you have this big heart. You’re kind and patient and giving. But me… I don’t think I can do it anymore. It’s too much—living here, taking care of Mom, dealing with Dad and his overprotectiveness. He’s getting worse in his own way, just like she is. And I… I can’t do it anymore.”
“So you’re just gonna skulk out into the night with your things?”
“I wasn’t skulking. I was gonna leave a note.”
“How considerate,” she mutters with uncharacteristic sarcasm. She immediately flushes and backtracks. “Sorry. That was unfair.”
“No, it wasn’t. I’d understand if you hate me for this.”
She shakes her head. “You have the right to do what’s best for yourself. It’s one of the things I’ve always admired about you: you’re not afraid to go after what you want, even if it’s hard. Maybe even especially when it’s hard.”
There’s not an inkling of resentment in her tone when she says that, and it makes me love her even more. It would be so easy to be petty. Celine has more than enough ammunition, given what lies in our past, but she doesn’t use it. She never does.
I throw my arms around her and hug her as tight as I can. “I’ll be back as often as I can. I don’t want you to feel like I’m abandoning you. I don’t expect you to look after Mom or deal with Dad alone.”
“Duh. I know that.”
She’s giving me the benefit of the doubt, because of course she is. She always does. The only exception was years ago, when…
No. I stop the thought in its tracks. We agreed to put that behind us and we did.
Mostly.
She gives me another hug and I pick up my duffel bag. She doesn’t ask me where I’m going. She doesn’t pepper me with questions the way that Dad would have.
But that’s because Celine has always known what Dad refuses to accept: that I can take care of myself.