Shea

Picking Brenna up will be the hardest part of tonight.

That's what I tell myself as I work up the courage to knock on her door. I'm aware of the drama between Brenna and her mom. Drama aside, I know her mom will question me. It scares me. I want her approval. Even if they're not getting along. I want Brenna's mom to trust me. Taking care of her daughter isn't difficult. Brenna scares me enough. I'd never cross her path. She'd kill me if I did.

Honestly, it's a miracle I'm still alive.

Deciding to rip the Band-Aid off, I rap my knuckles against the door.

I step back, tapping my foot against the cement. The jacket of my suit feels scratchy. My tie is too tight. I wipe my clammy palms on my pants.

Brenna's mom is short. Her hair is brown with flecks of silver near her roots. Her facial structure is like Brenna's, but a little sharper in some areas. Brenna has her mom's eye colour. The shape is distinct. Where her moms are down-turned, Brenna's are round and big.

"Shea Smith."

Already, I can tell her mom hates me. Her attitude puts a damper on my mood. Great. She's judging me before I get a chance. I know my reputation isn't great. The least she can do is give me a fucking chance, though.

Clearing my throat, I paste on a polite smile. "Ms. Harrison. It's nice to meet you. Again. It's been a while. Since elementary school."

Man, thank god Brenna isn't here to experience this. I'm blabbing like a fool.

She cocks an eyebrow. "Indeed. Please, call me Ava."

"Ava," I repeat. My nerves are fraying. Now I understand why Brenna is so intimidating. She gets it from her mom. I wipe my clammy palms on my dress pants again, glancing down at my polished shoes.

I feel like a fool. Dressing up for some cheap-ass dance. This suit is meant for pre-game style. Being in a suit without having an upcoming hockey game feels strange. I don't feel like myself, which doesn't surprise me. Feeling like myself hasn't been a well-known emotion lately.

Ava sighs. "I suppose I have to let you in."

"That would, uh, be nice," I nod.

She steps aside, keeping her arms crossed. The stern look doesn't fade from her face. Nor does her posture falter.

Stepping into Brenna's house is familiar. It looks the same. Smells the same. What's different is the atmosphere. It feels combustible. Even when Brenna and I hated each other, it was never this bad.

Ava grabs my bicep halfway through the door. "Hurt my daughter, and you'll never see her again. You'll never play hockey again. Don't underestimate my warnings."

Her comment pisses me off. I did this to myself, though. My past actions have crossed lines and made people view me as the villain. But I'm trying to remedy that.

I need to.

Consciousness aside, my temper gets the best of me. I wrench my bicep from Ava's grip. "Says the one who broke her daughter. Good job telling Brenna about Randy. That helped her. And, for the record, Tucker and I are trying to support her. What have you done?"

Brenna's mom steps back as if she's been smacked. I'll admit, that was a low comment to toss in her face. As mad as I am at Ava for hurting Brenna, I can understand why she'd want to keep Randy a secret. Randy hurt Ava, much like my parents have hurt each other. She wanted out. But the past will always haunt you. You can never outrun it. You have to accept the old versions of yourself in order to love who you are now.

That's one lesson I'm still learning.

Whenever I look back, I'm ashamed of myself. But that prick-ish, sexist Shea made me who I am now. Or who I'm trying to be. Who I want to be. Why I'm learning. I'll credit him for giving me a push. I'll credit Brenna for furthering that push. Chelsea for being my rock.

One day, I hope I can credit myself.

"You have no right," she seethes. "Brenna is my daughter. You know nothing about parenting."

"I don't," I shrug. "But I know secrets aren't healthy. When they're affecting someone you love."

Ava blinks in surprise.

Yeah, I'm surprised by my words, too.

Before either of us can continue this argument, someone clears their throat.

Ava and I glance at the stairs.

My breath lodges itself in my throat.

Brenna is standing on the first landing. Her arms are crossed. She doesn't look impressed, but her expression doesn't subtract from her beauty.

A diamond choker is around her neck. Her hair is tied up into a tidy bun with a few loose, curled strands bracketing her face. The dress she's wearing is plum-coloured, and the bodice sparkles with every movement she makes. Her flats are silver, matching the sparkles. My eyes graze her body, noting the shadowed dip between her breasts. Where the dress ends, just above her knees. How the dress hugs her curves. How toned her arms are.

I run a hand through my hair. Although I'm dressed in a suit, I feel underdressed. Like I'm not worthy of being her date to the dance.

Well, fuck.

An indignant expression sits on her lips. She adjusts the small purse slung across her body. "Are we leaving?"

I clear my throat. "Yeah. We can go. We're meeting everyone for dinner before the dance."

Brenna saunters down the stairs. She walks past her mom. It's like Ava's a ghost. Brenna doesn't look at her. Doesn't acknowledge her presence.

It feels like a volcano is about to erupt.

Ava is staring at her daughter, demanding to be seen through silence.

Brenna is doing everything in her power to ignore her.

I'm caught in the middle. Not knowing what to say or do. Ava hates me. Brenna hates her mom, and she's pissed at me for forcing her to be my date. If we don't leave soon, we won't make it out alive.

"Ready?" I ask.

Brenna's blue-violet gaze flicks to mine. "You're dead, Smith. Dead." 

Reaching out, I adjust the strap of her dress. It was sliding from her shoulder. "Well, we'll see what happens when the night's over. I'll either be buried six feet under or you'll be eating your words. Whichever comes first." I hold my arm out. "Ready?"

I shoot her a cocky grin.

She looks her arm through mine. I can't help but admire how right this feels. What I do wonder is if she feels the same way. There's a lot of effort being contributed to denial. Maybe... maybe there's a chance here. Denial means she's trying to prevent emotions from showing.

Turning around, we exit the front door.

On the top step I ask, "Are you really gonna kill me?"

Her grip tightens on my bicep.

My stomach muscles clench.

"We'll see," she murmurs.