Wounded; A Brallie Fan Fiction *EDITING*

Chapter Nineteen: Suspicions

Callie's POV
By the time the sun was edging to nearly a complete disappearance, we were all still panned out along the plastic table, and the evening had gone surprisingly well. Robert had exchanged a few genuine laughs and jokes with my moms, and Sophia was even bonding in slight with Mariana and Jude.

I couldn't help but notice the tense vibe that Brandon was feeding out, his vulnerability and annoyance with everything about the dinner. Cautious, and yet wary, he had leaned back a few times to 'stretch out' and glance at Robert to confirm the smoothness of our sheepish ignorance toward one another.

"So Callie, have you thought at all about which college you'd like to go to?" My dad asked suddenly.

I looked up from my plate in an involuntarily instinct reaction, as I finished swallowing a chunk of watermelon that nearly caught in my tightened throat.

"Um," I licked my lips and sifted through my brain for a plausible answer. "Well I mean . . ."

"How could you even find the time for that?" Mariana imposed. "You've been working so hard on your new Independent Study."

I gave Mariana a thankful glance as I nodded in agreement. "Yeah, it's really time consuming."

And then, being the sister she is, Mariana stole the spotlight for my benefit as beads of sweat subsided from my hot forehead. An overwhelming insertion of relief was injected through my ears an swam through my veins as the conversation shifted to something else; something that didn't tie my stomach in knots or knock against my chest right above the surface of my heart.

If Robert found out I hadn't even begun to look into colleges yet, he would carelessly retaliate, as always, and use it against the Fosters in court. Anything, the littlest of details or insignificance could make something snap inside him and pedal him all the way to Judge Jeffrey Ringer, who was seemingly determined to ban my adoption until it was too late.

"So what happened to the gal who was behind the wheel?" Robert asked suddenly, in the midst of several ongoing conversations he wasn't a part of. Silence crafted down from the sky and rained on us all, our voices slowly fading away as our eyes drifted questionably toward Robert, and the  my siblings' eyes flickered from me to my father, from me to my father.

"Cool it," Brandon snapped, looking at Robert with furrowed eyebrows and a shameful appeal. "Just knock it off with the third degree, it's dinner, not an investigation."

We all eyed Brandon nervously, worried as to what that would do to the sureness of Sophia not mentioning Brandon and I. But admittedly, my stomach became warm and dropped with the weight of a million butterflies as I positioned myself with that fact that Brandon was willing to defend me; no matter what the risk, or the cost.

"Well," Stef cleared her throat nervously and sat up straighter. "We let Callie decide whether or not to press charges, and she has chosen not to take action, so, we're leaving it at that."

Robert's eyes smacked me in the face then, with the same shameful glare Brandon had just projected.

"And not to mention it's extremely inappropriate to bring that up at dinner time." Lena said passive aggressively as she took a long swig of Root Beer as if it were alcohol.

Robert put his hands in the air calmly and nodded. The table was quiet then, and I was violently, unbelievably, incredibly uncomfortable with the situation.

"Help cleaning up Mrs. Adams-Foster?" Sophia asked Stef kindly. At first I thought it was sweet of her, but as the table slowly began to clear with only Robert and I left to converse, I found that I was only caught in her manipulation.

Brandon had left hesitantly, trying to grab every dish, every utensil, every napkin, anything he could get his hands on that would provoke leaving, until Robert gave him a frustrated smile and waved him out of the area with his eyes.

The air was cool and peaceful, and the wind was calm. Crickets hummed in the background, blocked by the sound of a motorcycle engine revving in the distance. Robert scooted himself one chair closer to me, and looked at me with warm, easy eyes, the way he did when we first met not too long ago.

"How are you doing?" He asked apathetically, with a frown.

"I'm okay," I said nervously, brushing off the discomfort with an unsteady laugh. "Why?"

Robert shrugged. "Car accidents can be scarring. The aftershock is difficult."

He wasn't wrong about that. Scarring was a slight understatement. When Stef and I were driving in the car on our way home from the hospital, I had looked at my knees the whole time. I didn't want to see another car at a crosswalk or a pedestrian strolling obliviously; I didn't want to look up and witness anything that could end somebody's life in a second.

"You know . . . You know you can come to me about anything, right?" Robert asked.

"Of coarse," I said with reassurance and a twist of mindly confusion. And again, "Why?"

My father took a deep breath and looked at me with what seemed to be preparation. He was nervous, and something in his mind was causing him some kind of fear, for me. I could tell at least that much by the look in his eyes.

"Your foster brother," he began. I sat up straighter and clenched every single bone in my body with gut-wrenching, heart-pounding terror. "Jesus."

Relief.

"You were in an argument with him before you were hit?" Robert said, searching for conformation. "That's what your moms told me caused you to run out into the street."

"Yes?" I did not like where this is going.

"Well, he's an intimidating kid. He's big and strong, and he's a wrestler. So I understand why you might be afraid of . . . Saying something?"

"What are you saying?" I snapped defensively.

Robert took a deep breath. "If Jesus pushed you in front of that car, I think you need to speak up before-"

My jaw snapped open as all heat, all feeling left my face and was restored in my fast-beating heart. I stared into the eyes of my father, and I became so angry, I almost hit him. I had the mindset, and I was bringing my good arm up, but I knew that would only initiate one thing; another prolonged custody battle.

So I didn't lay my hands on my father, and I knew I'd feel pride in that come tomorrow, but I hated myself for it now.

"No." I snapped at him, and I popped out of my chair, knocking it over behind me with a loud clatter. "My brother did not push me in front of that car, and for you to accuse him of-"

And then the back door was screeching open and out came my angry mother, her blonde hair slung over her shoulder as she approached with a tightened expression and a threatening appeal.

"Robert, please give me a reasonable excuse for why I just heard that come out of my daughter's mouth."