Hard Feelings by K.M. Galvin

Five

Ilet myself into the Kings’ monstrous home with the code I’ve been assigned since I was a little kid and hurry into their kitchen to find the list Elizabeth left for me.

It’s much shorter than usual, so she must have heard about what happened yesterday. Grumbling, I notice nothing she asked me to do will have me bending over or exerting myself, and I should be thankful, but I’m just resentful.

The Kings’ home is a mix of the modern and old world. It’s been in the family for generations, so you can see much of the history still in the home, but it’s been updated along the way.

There’s gorgeous wood paneling in the den with a gigantic stone fireplace taking up almost the entire side of one wall. A large TV hangs over the mantel, and a massive cloud sofa, where Killian and I used to camp out during movie marathons, dominates the room, inviting you to come relax.

Every time I’m near this room, nostalgia hits me, and my heart aches because, now, I’m here as the help instead of part of the family. I fluff the pillows instead of relaxing against them. It’s a cruel twist that has me hurrying by and into the kitchen.

A large island that fits eight comfy counter stools glistens spotlessly clean; neither Killian nor Elizabeth is known for their cooking and eat at the diner more often than not. My favorite spot in this room is at the banquet, framed by large windows overlooking the lake. You can see my house from here, and it’s where we ate our pizza every Saturday whenever I slept over.

Sucking in a painful breath, I put my headphones on and cue up the playlist I share with Cassidy. Our music tastes are so different, and I typically find myself laughing at her K-pop songs and female rap, intermingled with my singer-songwriter and alternative music.

“This Is the Last Time” by The National pumps through my headphones, the tempo providing the perfect soundtrack to my chores. Snorting to myself at how appropriate this song is, I sing along loudly while wiping down the already-clean kitchen counters.

I am well aware this job is a charade. Elizabeth is, in addition to being a paragon of society, a meticulously clean person. Something she passed down to her irritating son.

I spend my Sundays wiping down clean counters, vacuuming spotless carpets, and walking the garbage cans down to the end of their driveway. I collect the fifty-dollar bill out of the mailbox and head home in time for Dad to have lunch ready, where I exchange money for a sandwich.

I have a lot of things in abundance, but pride is not one of them. First, it was something my mother and this town stripped away, and then what was left was taken from me when I saw my father struggling to find work and fill our fridge.

It kills him—I know it does—but what option do we have? At least until I graduate, we’re stuck. Dad hasn’t confirmed it, but I’m certain the second I leave for college, there will be a For Sale sign on our front lawn, and we’ll leave this town in our dust.

I opt for walking down their driveway and using the street instead of my normal cut through the woods. I should have done that to begin with, but an angry Glory is a dumb Glory.

At least the walk down their driveway is going down the giant hill their house sits on. I definitely would not have been able to make it up.

I huff and try to breathe slowly through my nose, but, wow … yeah, I think I was a bit too overzealous this morning.

My right arm clutches my ribs protectively as I sweat, causing goose bumps to pimple my skin. Damn, I should have called my dad to pick me up. I’m not even halfway down to the mailbox, and I’m exhausted.

Swallowing against nausea, I stop to try to get my breathing under control.

It’s then I hear the distinct crunch of a car going over gravelly pavement.

“Fuck!” I whisper heatedly, trying to wipe the sweat off my brow and pretend I’m not about to totally keel over.

Elizabeth’s black Audi SUV comes into view and squeals to a stop the second she sees me.

“Glory Purcell, what in the hell are you doing?” Elizabeth slams her door shut as she exits and marches toward me, looking like an L.L. Bean ad.

I did have a small fantasy of parent-trapping her and my dad during those first few weeks after my mom left. I was convinced it would work, except for one thing.

Her demon son.

“I sent Killian down this morning to tell you he’d pick you up and take you home.”

Damn, I really need to unblock that fucker from my phone.

“I kinda ran out of the house this morning without really stopping to speak to him,” I admit sheepishly. Repeating how childish I acted this morning is so cringe.

“Come on, young lady. I’m driving you home.” Elizabeth loops her arm around my back and hustles me toward the passenger side.

I settle into the lush leather seat and let out a slow breath in relief. My anxiety ratchets up with thoughts about what my injury means with my scholarship and if I never get better. Little insidious observations, like how my ribs didn’t hurt this bad yesterday or maybe I’m more hurt than I thought.

I swallow convulsively against the lump that sits in the back of my throat.

“Glory?” Elizabeth’s gentle voice pulls me out of my spiral, and I open my eyes to see her worried expression. “Honey, are you okay? Should I take you to the clinic?”

My eyes sting at her motherly concern, and I try not to let the grief that this is coming from someone other than my own mother overtake me, so I nod and turn my head toward the window, watching the edge of her driveway disappear.

“I’m so sorry, Glory.” Exhaustion heavy in her voice, Elizabeth pats my knee. “I know this has been tougher on you than anyone else. But Killian, he—”

“Elizabeth, I appreciate your position here, but I can’t talk about Kill—” I wince as my voice cracks. “What’s done is done. You’ve done what you can for me; it’s more than we could have imagined, and … we’re so grateful.”

I keep my eyes pinned on the tree line as we head toward my house.

“I’m just going to say this because I believe you need to hear it. I love you, Glory Purcell, and I’m sorry for my part in your pain. I didn’t think it was as bad as this. I’m ashamed of this town, of my son’s part in it, and the people we used to call friends. You’re innocent in all of this, and I hope, when you leave, you never think of this place ever again.”

Blinking back tears, I look at her and see the resolution on her face.

“Thank you,” I say finally and clear my throat, suddenly exhausted. I just want to curl up in bed and binge-watch The Office.

Dad’s gone by the time I get home, the note on the island saying he drove into Clayton to get my pain meds filled at the pharmacy.

Ready to relax and empty my brain of everything that’s happened in the last forty-eight hours, I kick off my shoes and grab some water and a bag of chips before crashing on our couch in the living room.

I barely make it through one episode before I pass out.

Of course, anxiety loves to show up in my dreams, so they’re filled with me not going to California and having to work for the Kings for the rest of my life, like some modern-day Cinderella, except there’s no prince.

I dream of my mother starting a new family with her new husband, and they’re so happy. I go to visit her and meet my new sibling, but the doors are locked, and I can’t get in.

But it’s not either of these nightmares that wakes me up; it’s the sudden silence of the TV shutting off.

Wincing, I sit up and open my eyes, only to find Killian staring at me less than an inch away. I don’t scream, which isn’t surprising. He used to wake me up like this all the time when we were kids, determined to scare me but he never did. Somehow, I always knew he was there, and it used to piss him off that he could never get the jump on me.

We stay like this for a handful of minutes, just staring at each other, neither of us blinking until, finally, I can’t take the silent staredown any longer.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, surprising myself at how casual I sound.

Killian sits back next to me and kicks up his sock-covered feet on the large ottoman in front of the couch with a familiarity he shouldn’t have after these last few years.

“Mom said she caught you on your way home and you looked like you were in a lot of pain.”

Grabbing the remote, I click the TV back on. “Don’t know why that concerns you.”

“Glory.”

“Killian,” I mimic.

“Glowy—”

My head whips toward him. “Don’t call me that.”

Hearing his nickname for me—something from when we were children and he had a hard time with his r’s—shatters me.

Our staredown resumes, and I let him see everything this time—all the hurt, disappointment, guilt, shame. The rage.

Seeing it reflected back to me has me breaking first again … dammit.

“I fucked up,” he admits softly, and I can hear the sincerity.

For what seems like the millionth time today, I find myself blinking back tears.

“I fucked up, Glory, and I broke the most precious thing in the world to me.”

“I don’t care, Killian,” I whisper fiercely.

“Well, I do!” he growls, clearly frustrated with me.

Fuckhim. He doesn’t get to be frustrated with me.

“And why is that all of a sudden, hmm?” I turn toward him, practically spitting fire. “Because you finally see what your indifference has done to me? The lengths people will go to, to do something in your favor? For your attention? I don’t care if you didn’t do anything to me yourself. That’s not an excuse, Killian! And I don’t want to hear your apologies.”

A sharp pain stabs behind my eye—one of the warning signs of an impending migraine. I wince and close that eye reflexively. I figured with everything that’d happened, one would come, but I wish it weren’t in front of someone who I didn’t trust with my vulnerability.

“What’s wrong?”

“Just leave, Killian.” I sink back into the pillows, exhausted, and close my eyes.

Any arguments he was about to make are interrupted by the sound of my dad’s car driving up our gravel driveway.

“I’m going to fix this,” he whispers to me and gives my hair a gentle tug.

“Don’t bother.” My protest comes too late as the sound of the back door shutting announces his departure.

My dad comes in a second later. “Hey, honey. How’re you feeling?”

Dad comes around to sit on the ottoman in front of me and frowns at the clear pain on my face.

“My head,” I whisper as the migraine starts to come on like a freight train, drowning me in enough pain that I don’t even feel my ribs anymore.

“Okay, kiddo, let me get your meds. I have your painkillers, or you can take your shot. Which would you like?”

The shot for my migraines knocks me out, and oblivion sounds perfect right now.

“Shot,” I croak and give him my hand so he can help me stand.

I feel a hundred years old as he helps me up the stairs and into my room. I crawl into bed as Dad pulls my blackout shades shut and turns on my white noise machine, the volume so low that I can barely hear it. My senses get unbelievably sharp when I have migraines, so what seems low is actually perfectly loud to me.

“I’ll go grab your ice eye mask and your shot. Drink this.” He points to a glass of Gatorade. Dehydration is the enemy when I’m having an episode.

I’m barely awake when he comes back and administers the shot. I feel him kiss the sensitive skin of my forehead as he places the mask over my eyes.

I don’t even think of Killian as I slip into sleep; all I can focus on is praying that when I wake up, I’m no longer in pain.