Four Walls (Book One) ✔️

Chapter Thirty-Two

I stand in front of Starkton High, my eyes glued to the parking lot as I seek out Margo's Honda. My foot taps the sidewalk, and I can't tell if it's a nervous tick or a sign of impatience. Perhaps it's both.

"Hey, Layla."

I don't need to use my eyes to know who's behind me. It's been months since we last spoke, but even after all this time, I still recognize his voice like it's my favorite song.

Jose Valdez. My first boyfriend and first love.

"Jose. Hi." It feels odd speaking his name aloud after not saying it for so long, yet it still flows naturally off my tongue.

He looks down at his feet, one of which is also tapping the sidewalk. "How are you?" he inquires.

"I'm okay. How are you?"

"Okay, I guess. Heard you fainted the other day. You, uh... you alright?"

"I was just overtired. All better now."

"That's good. I'm glad to hear it." He looks up from his shoes but still doesn't meet my gaze. "Listen, uh, I was hoping you and I could, like, get together and talk at some point. If you don't want to, that's fine, but—"

"I want to!" I say too quickly, because I instantly blush red with embarrassment. "I mean, yeah, I would like that."

"Okay, cool." He exposes a megawatt smile—a smile that used to make me swoon—and starts walking away, mumbling something about calling me within the next few days.

As soon as Jose is out of sight, Margo's sedan pulls up. Still grinning from ear to ear, I climb into the passenger seat.

Jose wants to talk to me. After everything that happened, after all the drama I put him through, he wants to meet up and have a conversation.

"God, what are you so happy about?" my grandmother asks, turning left out of the parking lot. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone smile this much. It's weird."

"I had a good day," I answer. I won't tell her about Jose, at least not until after he and I talk. I don't want to get anyone's hopes up, especially mine. "Where are we going, by the way?"

"Monroe's," she replies, using her Zippo to light a cigarette.

"Um, that's a bar."

"Thanks for remindin' me."

"I can't drink. I'm sixteen."

"If I'm gonna tell you all about our fucked up little family, I'm gonna need a drink. I'll buy you a root beer or something."

I nod my head, unwilling to argue with her. I've never been to a bar, and I have no desire to go, but if that's where she feels the most comfortable, who am I to object?

She parks her car outside of Monroe's, Starkton's dingiest yet somehow most popular pub, and we walk inside. A football game plays in the background from a flat-screen TV. The day-drinkers are already slurring their words and laughing too loudly. I'm a nervous wreck, but Margo is all confidence. She struts her hips as she walks up to the counter, takes a seat, and orders a double shot of tequila.

"Anything else?" the bartender asks. His eyes linger on me lustfully. He looks like he's in his late forties, maybe early fifties.

"A coca cola for my granddaughter," Margo answers for me. "She's underage."

The bartender takes the hint and pours our drinks. He slides them toward us and grumbles that he'll start a tab.

Margo brings the shot glass to her lips and gulps it down. Already, I know where Hank got his appetite for liquor from.

"God, where do I begin?" Margo wonders aloud.

"Tell me about Hank's father," I suggest. "My grandfather."

"Ah, that piece of shit? There's not much to say. He bolted before the kids were out of diapers."

My eyes widen. "Kids? Hank has siblings?"

She nods her head. "Three of them. Used to be four until Cynthia blew her brains out."

I swallow the lump in my throat. "She killed herself?"

"It was twenty years ago. Old news," Margo replies with a nonchalant shrug. "Anyway, Cynthia was the youngest. Hank's the oldest, followed by Richard, Bryan, and Saul."

"I can't believe Hank has brothers," I murmur.

"Oh, they don't keep in touch," she informs me. "Richie's a big-shot lawyer in New York. Bryan lives in the woods like a god damn hermit. The only normal one is Saul, who's got a house and a wife and some kids."

"Kids?" My face lights up at the idea of having cousins.

"Three of 'em. Can't keep track of their names. They're all a bit younger than you. His wife, Ophelia, is a nasty little bitch," Margo sneers.

"Are you close with any of your kids?" I ask. "I mean, you don't know the names of your other grandchildren. Until a few weeks ago, I thought you were dead. That isn't normal."

"Well, that's the Dodds family for ya," she replies.

"Why? What happened?" I question her. I'm desperate for answers, for some sort of explanation as to why my father is so screwed up.

Margo lets out a deep exhale. She waves down the bartender, orders another double shot of tequila, and then says to me, "After your grandfather left, I was a god damn mess, okay? I had five kids under the age of seven. I was stressed out and really fucking lonely. You can't fault me for doing what I did."

I raise my eyebrows. "What did you do?"

"I met a man, as single women often do. His name was Anson. He had a lot of money and a nice face, and at the time, that was all I cared about. He took care of me and my kids, and I... well, I guess I loved him."

I watch as Margo gulps down her second drink. All the while, her hand is trembling.

"Did Anson do something?" I ask. My voice doesn't creep above a whisper. I already know how this story ends.

She nods her head. "He was... he was beating on the kids. Hank tried to tell me, but I didn't believe him. I thought he was makin' it all up for attention. It wasn't until I caught him with Cynthia that I finally learned the truth."

My stomach flips. "Margo, how did he hurt Cynthia?"

"It was one of those point-to-the-spot-on-the-doll-where-he-touched-you situations," she responds. "Apparently, it was going on for years. I just was too dumb to listen."

"And that's why Cynthia killed herself, because—"

"You don't know anything, little girl," Margo cuts me off, but her expression quickly softens. "God, you look just like her. You're the spitting image of my Cynthia, you know that?"

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"Don't apologize. Just do better, okay? Do better than me or your father or anyone else in this god damn hick town."

Silently, I nod my head in agreement. I don't know how she expects me to "do better," but I'll be damned if I don't try.

A/N:
Lots of family secrets being revealed. In the battle of nature vs. nurture, I think nurture always wins. But then again, I like to believe we control our own fate!
Thanks so much for reading and please don't forget to vote! ⭐️