Malcolm tossed his cellphone at the same moment she opened their apartment door. It sailed by her, down the stairs, and smashed on the concrete. One eyebrow arched as she glanced at the now busted phone and then at the man vibrating in the middle of the living room.
Anger stained Mal's cheeks and burned in the eyes that met hers. She opened her mouth to ask what was wrong but he fisted his fingers in his hair as he crumbled to his knees with a small, distressed sound. Worried now, Sorcha dropped her book bag and crouched down beside him.
"Mal? What is it? What's wrong?"
He didn't answer. Just rocked back and forth, breathing erratically, and making soft, gasping sounds. Sorcha went to set a hand on his shoulder but he flinched away.
"Mal?" She kept her tone soft, cajoling. "What's wrong?"
It took several more minutes of gentle coaxing and humming before he finally calmed down enough to tell her, "My father called me."
Sorcha's belly clenched. Anytime Martin Whitly had contact with Malcolm resulted in him regressing back to destructive behaviors.
"Okay? What did he want?"
Why does the man even have phone privileges? she demanded silently. How he even got Malcolm's phone number in the first place made no sense to her.
Sorcha swallowed back her acrimonious feelings along with a sigh. Martin Whitly was a subject she and Malcolm didn't discuss because they didn't agree on it.
She understood his reasons for continuing to see his father. For speaking to him.
Much as she wanted to forget, Martin Whitly was still Malcolm's father. His memories of his father conflicted with the man who murdered twenty-three people.
Sorcha didn't need her degree to know the majority of Malcolm's problems all revolved around his father and what he had done.
To his son and to the people whose lives he stole.
She couldn't help but feel he'd be better off if he severed his relationship with his father.
Not that she told Mal that.
Much as she thought it'd be healthier for him to have nothing to do with Martin Whitly, she also recognized that he needed that connection. Malcolm's identity was tied to his father's. The phrase, "We're the same," was so deeply engrained in his brain he couldn't see himself beyond it.
Not yet, anyway.
There was still time, in her mind, for Malcolm to develop his own identity. To detach himself from his father. Only when he's ready, though, she thought as Malcolm sunk against her.
And the one thing he wasn't was ready.
"He's disappointed I didn't see him while on break."
Sorcha bit back the first thing she wanted to say.
"Did you think to mention that you spent most of the summer recovering from the injuries you obtained during that brutal assault?"
"Didn't matter." He let out a sigh as he nuzzled his face into the curve of her neck. "He expects me to see him this weekend."
"No."
The word left her mouth before she could stop it. Dammit all, though, she fumed as Malcolm stiffened against her. Who does Martin Whitly think he is? Snapping his fingers and commanding Malcolm come at his beck and call. As if he's a dog!
"Sorch—"
"You don't come home happy from these visits, Malcolm." She folded her arms around him, held him tight. "Your moods spiral, you quit eating, you don't sleep, when you do sleep the night terrors are worse..." She slid her fingers into his hair, massaged his scalp. "See him at Christmas if you really have to see him but not right now. Not when we just started the semester and can't afford to miss a day of classes. Please?"
She expected Malcolm to balk. To argue. To outright refuse. He surprised her when he curled his arms around her and said, "Okay," against her throat.
A/N: Hello, all! Hope this finds you well!
I just want to send a special thank you to Teran for their lovely review!