That was not the woman Celia was today. Celia had once been vibrant and just a bit loony in that absolutely perfect sorta way. She had the same naturally wavy, auburn hair that Bailey had, and she was slim and athletic. She was an artist and had spent years teaching pottery classes out of her workshop. After Bailey was arrested, her always waiting-list pool of students seemed to dry up, so now she turned to her own work, selling to small boutique shops around the region. The region grew significantly after word spread that Celia Trent’s own daughter was a killer. She had to travel hours and hours to pimp her artistry to shops who didn’t know who her most-hated daughter was.
Her health wasn’t what it once was, though there was nothing wrong with her. Her spirit was just broken, and she was just a shell of the once quirky and always laughing woman she used to be. She was barely better off than Bailey at this point too. Her parents had cashed out her father’s life insurance policy in a last-ditch effort to extend his life via alternative means. Those alternative means didn’t extend anything except her father’s posthumous debt, and he’d been dead now for over a year and a half. Her mother now rented a little cottage about as small as Bailey’s, and her workshop now consisted of nothing more than a tiny, dingy shed on the property.
When the phone rang only minutes after she hung up with Michelle, she assumed it would be her mother. Michelle and her mom were literally the only people in the world who spoke to her, and her mother’s now incessant worrying meant they spoke often.
“Hi, Mom.”
“So? How was the parade? How’s Michelle?”
“Well, didn’t stay for much of the parade. Darren showed up and scared me away. Of course, then we ran into him again at Palmer’s Pub, so shame on me for being such a scaredy-cat.”
“I’d say you’re on a roll with that boy. Can’t be easy. You and Darren have got one heck of a history.”
“Well, he seems intent on reminding me of just how ugly that history is.”
“You pay that no mind. He’s hurtin’ is all.”
“His hurtin’ translates as out-an’-out hatred.”
“Darren could never hate you. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t think he does. Hell, doesn’t mean he doesn’t wanna hate you.” There was silence then, and it lasted as Bailey stripped out of her T-shirt and jeans and headed toward the bathroom. “You know, Bailey, you didn’t have to come back here. Didn’t you ever think some other place, a new place, a new start might be a good idea? Not like I haven’t had the thought myself plenty.”
Bailey sank down to sit on the toilet seat, pulling her heels up to rest on the front edge. “No, Mom, I never considered it for a moment. You’re here, so until you’re ready to move on, I’m stickin’ too.”
“Oh, Bailey. Always concerning yourself so much with me. I don’t want to be the thing that keeps you anchored to your unhappiness.”
“You’re one to talk, Mom. You’re happy? Tell me you’re happy here now.”
“You know I can’t. But I’m not the one torturing myself with a man who causes me more pain than happiness. He’s not the same Darren anymore, Bailey. Sometimes I think it’s part of the reason you came home, though.” She was silent for a moment. “Is it? Is that why you came home, because of him?”
“Of course not.” She knew she was lying the instant the words came out. It was at least partly because of him. To some degree or another, she knew it was. Even if he hadn’t lived here anymore, he’d be home someday. She wasn’t ready to say good-bye again—even if he hated . . . wanted to hate her. “He drove me home today. Stopped by his home to remove my sutures before he dropped me off.”
“Huh . . . well, that’s something idn’t it. . .” It wasn’t a question. Her mother was riddling it out in her mind. Trying just like Michelle to figure out what the hell it all meant. By the sound of her overlong silence, she was just as stumped as Michelle—just as stumped as Bailey for that matter.
Now, though, she was soaking wet and alone after her shower, still trying to whittle it out in her mind. She was startled out of her reverie as she stood staring in the fogged mirror at her loose, wet curls that cascaded down her back. The knock at her door scared her to the point of causing a yelp to escape her lips. She wrapped the thin robe tight, tying the sash at her waist and plodding out to the front door that opened onto her screened front porch.
She gasped when she opened the door and saw him standing there. It had started sprinkling, and he was wet. His dark hair glistened with droplets of rain water. It wasn’t pouring, and he had to have been standing outside for some time to get so wet, but his T-shirt was soaked through, and he stood, barely looking higher than her mouth. She didn’t have any idea what to say, and so she stood there as still as he was, waiting. She waited until she was certain he intended to say nothing, and then she opened her mouth to speak.
“Dar—”
“Shut up.” His eyes finally flashed to hers, and the expression made her gasp again. “I’ve thought endlessly . . . years. . .” His pauses were overly long, and his voice was hoarse. “I have relived that night so many times. So many mistakes. So many things. . .” He was nearly stuttering over his words. He was emotional, and her own eyes were tearing at nothing more than the choked, husky sound of his voice. “Could I go back . . . God, could I have just gone back and changed it all. All I wanted was you. I wanted to have you, throw everything else out the window for you. Maybe if I had. Maybe if I’d given in sooner, the fight would have been over. There’d have been no girlfriend keeping me from you, chasing me away from you. Maybe if I’d have had backbone enough, I’d have stayed for you.” He started pacing then, speaking in a flurry, but none of that explosive emotion compared to the moment he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her to the wall beside her. He reached for her cheeks, cupped them with his hands as his expression moved from fury to pain over and over again. “You did this! You did it! And I’m the one who feels guilty for it. Fuck!” He pulled his hands from her cheeks just to rake them harshly through his hair as he stepped back from her. “I want . . . I want so much to hate you. Do you know what that’s like? Do you have any idea what it’s like to see you, smell you, be near you again, feel your skin? Can you imagine what it is to hate someone so much, and yet . . . You destroyed everything.” He staggered back farther from her in defeat, his back sinking against the doorframe, bracing himself as she stayed rigidly planted against the wall, afraid to move, afraid to speak but wanting so much to do something.
She held her breath as he stared at her naked feet. She was having a hard time staying on her feet. Her legs felt like putty, and she was afraid if she even attempted to take a breath, her legs would melt and she’d end up on the floor. He wasn’t doing any better. He seemed to be in a stupor—his eyes might have been focused on her feet, but his gaze was blank and dead. She didn’t need to see his mind to know it was anything but blank. He was lost in there at the moment, and she had no idea if he’d come out from the depths hating her more or less than he did going in. She hoped less; she thought likely more.