Damage

Chapter 23

LUKE

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

I look at my watch briefly before speeding up the road. It feels like ages since I’ve been back home and back upstate for that matter and I’m starting to remember why. Everything is so damn far away compared to the city. 

My childhood home, my parent’s place, the Hemmings “estate” or “mansion” or whatever the fuck you want to call it has a driveway that’s nearly a mile long, half of it taken up by woods and the other half a long expanse of perfectly manicured lawns. It’s gorgeous, there’s no denying that, but the distance is a bitch when you’re nearly 15 minutes late and have a mother like mine. 

I can practically hear her voice, tight and annoyingly polite, passive-aggresively reprimanding me for my tardiness.

The guards recognize my car and quickly let me through the gate with a “Welcome back.” When I would ride in the car with my dickhead of a father as a little kid I always heard the “Welcome back, Mr. Hemmings” and it’s a little odd hearing it being said to me now. It sounds like the name of a man with a wife and a family, a man who drinks scotch and plays golf on the weekends. The name feels like it belongs to someone else, someone who's not me. 

Once I pass the lawns and drive up the graveled driveway, I park at the front of the house and put my keys in my pocket before walking up to ring the doorbell. 

It’s only a few short moments of peace before the large door opens to the foyer and my mother, dressed in high heels and a cream colored sundress welcomes me in.  She hugs me and kisses me on the cheek before we go inside.

We stand in the foyer for a few awkward moments and she opens her mouth to speak but I stop her before she can begin. 

“I’m late. I know.”

She gives a tight smile and surprises me by saying nothing except for an “It’s fine.” I place my keys on the stand beside the door and look around; nothing’s changed really. A few photos taken down and a few new paintings put up, but it’s the same.

 “You wanted me to come over?” I have to stop myself from rolling my fucking eyes. I feel so weird dressed in a black t-shirt and ripped jeans while I’m talking with my mother, the Queen of Pristine.

“Oh, yes!” she says overly-cordially, like she forgot and like I came here because I fucking wanted to. “Why don’t we talk in the living room?”

 Her cream high heels with the red soles click on the marbled floors and I follow, taking a seat on the couch.

“How are you?” she asks, crossing her legs and resting her hands in her lap.

“Fine.” I eye the bottle of scotch on the other wall and feel my fists clench. Although it's necessary for business, practically, I’ve always fucking hated scotch. My father loves scotch and I hate my father, so it’s no surprise that I hate it.

 Anyway, I saw enough scotch as a kid to last a lifetime.

 “What about Calum, Ashton and Michael? I had lunch with Calum and Ashton’s mothers just last week.” 

My jaw tightens at the mention of Michael’s name but I hide it with indifference. “They’re fine.” I tap my foot and stare down at my black jeans and the cuts on my knuckles that are still bandaged. My mother looks reproachfully at them as well.

“Why am I here?”

“I was hoping we could chat.” My mother smiles and I can hear the sugarcoated lie behind her voice.

Bullshit.

My mother may try to cover all her intentions with old-money politeness but I know her too well.