Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

“I’ll be leaving again tomorrow morning,” he informs me.
I stop at the door and turn my head. “Miami again?”
“Yes.” He nods. “But I’ll be back Monday afternoon.”
Suspicions settle in, and I know just as well as my mother does why he’ll
be gone again. Over the weekend, when almost no one is in the office.
No one says anything about anything, though. We’ve splintered off since
Henry’s death, cultivating our own lives that consist of as many distractions
as possible.
This house is just where we collect our mail.
“Travel safe,” I tell him, his guilty eyes looking at me like he needs to say
something.
But I’m gone before he has a chance.
• • •
A long time ago, I realized that it isn’t my responsibility to fix my parents.
My father can face the fact, at any time, that Henry would hate knowing how
quiet the house is now. No smiles or food fights or watching Mom cry at the
same part during White Christmas during our re-watch every single holiday
season.
He can face the fact that, while one child is gone, he still has another.
That I could be out doing who-knows-what while he’s off in Miami or Austin
or Chicago. I could be getting into drugs. Getting pregnant. Getting arrested.
Does he care? If he did, he’d be here.
I used to think it hurts him too much to be in the house, but we could’ve
moved. Maybe it hurt him to be around my mother. In that case, he could’ve
taken me with him sometimes.
But he just leaves, and it didn’t take long to get the message. Neither of
them want this family anymore.
And honestly, I can’t blame them sometimes. What’s the point? You
work for years—educating yourself, building, planning, working, loving—
and leukemia sweeps through and ravages your ten-year-old son to death.
What’s the point of any of this?
I enter the church, lockers slamming shut in the school hallway behind
me. I stop, scanning the room.
She sits right off the aisle, about halfway down the pew, and something
swims in my stomach, a small smile spreading my lips.