A/N- I do not own Divergent or the characters, rights go to Veronica Roth.
November 10th
I wake with the sun in my eyes and Four's arm draped across my chest. At first, when I lean up and glance out of the uncovered bedroom window, I see white rooftops and instantly think 'snow'. But then I crawl out of bed properly to discover it's just the morning frost, coating branches and blades of grass with a light sheen of crystal white. My breath fogs up the glass on the window, causing a blurred circle which I wipe away with the sleeve of my pyjama top. The blue sky is clear and pale, the winter sun a weaker yellow, hanging low in the horizon. The birds sing, alerting the promise of a new day, as people like me rise out of their beds and face the cold. "-time is it?" Four mumbles sleepily, his sentence half-hearted and hibernated.
"Seven-thirty," I say, from where I'm sat on my window seat. I've slept next to Four in my bed most nights since I rang him, an unspoken agreement between the two of us. Even though he takes up the majority of my smaller bed, there's something oddly comforting about being bone-crushingly close to him, pressed up against the edge of the bed with only the strength and embrace of his arm to stop me from falling out.
"I need to get ready and go to work," he scrubs his face with the palms of his hands, gingerly pulling the quilt off himself to sit on the edge of the bed. His hair sticks up in all different directions, his facial scruff in need of neatening up. He quickly removes his bed clothes in favour of pulling on the outfit he wore yesterday, so that he can go home and get ready properly. I think idly do myself, how long is this going to go on for? Every morning he sneaks out before my mother either wakes or returns home from work, only to come back later donning a clean set of clothes. I don't know why I have kept what's between me and Four away from my mother. Perhaps it's because our relationship is something personal to me, and I want to keep it that way, or perhaps there's some other reason. "I'll see you soon," he kisses my cheek and I follow him down the stairs, holding the front door open as I watch him drive off. Just as his car is out of sight, my mother pulls up in the driveway. A close call.
"What are you doing?" She asks me quizzically when she steps out of the vehicle, her eyes scanning over my appearance suspiciously.
"I was trying to see if the paper had been delivered yet."
"I never knew you read the paper," her voice is skeptical and so are her actions, she loiters around me after I shut the door behind her. "You smell different."
"Well I took a shower last night," I grumble, making a show of sniffing under my arms and my hair.
"Not in a bad way, just…different," she corrects, "so does your room."
"What point are you trying to make?"
"Nothing," she sighs, scratching the back of her neck and traipsing off into the kitchen. "Anyway, you need to be at Aunt Cecilia's by ten o'clock today, don't be late or she'll start to get worried."
"How long do I have to spend there?" I whine, my shoulders and neck slumped backwards in annoyance. Since the whole charade with the calculators and my poor maths skills at the bakery, I have since quit that job, and now my mother has me doing housework at an elderly family friend's house. She can't do cleaning anymore and prefers to have someone there whom she knows, rather than a stranger from a cleaning company. She pays me in the form of tokens and sweets and shopping cards.
"Not long, only a couple of hours. She told me that she went out and bought you a gift basket of shampoos and makeup and other toiletries." I smile slightly at this. Even though I'll never admit it, there's something nice about receiving gifts rather than being handed cash. It's a true sign of appreciation.
After a few hours spent cleaning Cecilia's, my back aches and my head bangs after her constant chatter. The clouds are beginning to blanket the once clear sky, and the threat of rain is apparent. My mother's car is still parked in the driveway, but the house is silent when I enter. "Mom?" I call out, achieving zero response. "Mom?" I shout again, running into the kitchen and switching off the stove, where the pan of vegetables has boiled over. She's not in the back garden, or anywhere downstairs, so I trudge up the steps, to see the light turned on in my room. "Mom?" I prompt for a final time. My concern vanishes and outrage replaces it, when I see that my bedroom is in tatters. My sheets are ripped from the bed, and now covered with the contents of my bookshelves. The pages of my books are skewed and bent, my money box spilled over the mattress. Every single cupboard and drawer is open, my belongings strewn across the floor. My mother is sat in the midst of it all, on the floor, a crumbled heap of hospital clothing and blonde wiry hair. "Mom, what the hell?!" I exclaim, my eyes darting around the war zone that used to resemble my room. She clutches a piece of paper in her hands, refusing to look up at me. Her head is shaking slightly and she's muttering something completely unintelligible. For a moment, I believe she is crazed. But then, when I walk up to her and see the letter from the police station in her hands, I know that she is just angered and disappointed. She's finally found out.
"Everything I've ever done has only been to help you," her voice is quiet and deflated. "Yet this is how you repay me? Lies and deception and a complete disregard for trust and honesty?" She adds bitterly, shaking one of Four's t-shirts in the air.
"Give me that," I snatch the t-shirt from her grip and clutch it to my chest.
"Who does it belong to?" I mutter his name, and she acknowledges the revelation as if she already knew. "I suspected someone was staying over here at night, I just never understood why you didn't tell me," she says. "Why do you keep things from me Beatrice?" I shrug in response, my back leant against the wall, my eyes trained on my untied shoelaces. "Is it because you think I would ruin it? Like how you think I ruined yours and your father's relationship?" I don't answer. I giver her eye contact, and that is enough. She exhales loudly, disbelieving and annoyed. "And what about your arrest? Why wouldn't you tell me something like that?"
"Isn't it obvious?" I shriek, annoyed, "it's what most kids do. They hide things from their parents because they don't want to get in trouble!"
"But you're not a child anymore Beatrice. If you're grown enough to have a man in your bed, then you're grown enough to speak the truth." I stare at her in shock. A part of me has matured, but I still have ways to go. "I'm disappointed in you," she continues, "and I'm sure your father would be too."
"How would you know what my father would think of me?" I snap. She doesn't respond, instead, reaching down into her pocket to retrieve a thick rectangular envelope. She hands it to me, unsteadily, and I cautiously take it from her grip. "What's this?"
"Something I should have given you long ago," she stands up, causing the clothes and papers that were draped across her lap to fall. She exits the room in silence, leaving me standing here with the wadded envelope. I tear it open as I make my way over to sit down on my bed, only for the cash green that signifies money to flutter out. The envelope is filled with it, tonnes of hundred dollar bills. Inside, is a handwritten note folded in half. How did she get this? How long has she had it? A million questions circle around in my mind, to the point where the note with his address on and the words: "Call if you need anything" almost go unnoticed. I pick up the piece of paper, recognising that the address isn't that far from Chicago. It's my dad. And I want to see him. I leap up unsteadily, stuffing the money and the note in my jacket pocket, then pulling my boots on. I race down the stairs, heart thrumming, stomach leaping. "Beatrice! Where are you going?" My mother shouts.
"To find my family!" I call back, voice harsh and unforgiving.
"Don't you do that," she warns frantically, "he's not who you think!"
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"You don't even know him. You haven't seen him since you were six years old, to you, he's just a distant memory. A figment of your imagination. You don't love him. You love the idea of him."
"Is that so bad?"
"Yes. Because I know him. And I know he-"
"Shut up! You can't keep doing this to me. I won't let you," I shake my head defiantly, already opening the front of the door to head out. Before I step into the wind and the rain, I turn my head slightly to utter a few last words to her, "you're just afraid that I'll end up loving him more than you. And your fears aren't wrong."
The ear-rattling noise of the door slamming still rings through my head as I now stand in front of unfamiliar territory, supposedly my father's house. However, what isn't unfamiliar is the black saloon car in the driveway. The same car that I've seen parked up outside my house on numerous occasions. I took an hour-long bus ride in order to get here, and I have no idea what to expect. It's a small house, even smaller than ours, and not something that I would expect. The garden is basic, lawn over-mowed with no interesting plants or flowers. The paint is chipping, and I have to jam the doorbell hard in order for it to work, the plastic making a cracking noise. I hear shuffling and banging from behind the door, until is springs open and a gaunt confused figure stands before me. "Beatrice," he sighs.
"Dad?" I take in his appearance: unkempt and lousy. His bed shirt is a faded white colour, teamed with creased pyjama pants and a striped dingy bathrobe thrown over the top. He looks like he needs a good shower, his hair thin and brittle.
"That's me, I guess," he chuckles weakly, "what do you want?"
The question catches me off guard, because the truth his, I have no idea what I want. "Can I come in?" I ask hesitantly, peering over his shoulder to get a look inside. He purses his lips for a moment, before opening the door wider and standing aside. I walk in, lead straight into the living room due to the open plan of the house. It's basic, letters and paperwork scattered across the coffee table along with used mugs and plates.
"Sorry," he says, rushing in front of me to pick up the mess, "my cleaner Marie was off sick today," he carries them into the kitchen whilst shouting for me to "sit down on the couch!"
I brush the crumbs away from the seat before sitting on the edge, the nervousness in my stomach growing and becoming exceedingly uncomfortable. There's a frame on the coffee table, with a picture of a man who looks uncannily like my mother. "Is this Caleb?" I brush my finger over his face. He's tall, slim and shaggy-haired.
"It is," he nods, sitting down on the other end of the couch.
"He's grown up," I smile, "what's he doing now?"
"He's off doing his own thing, not really interested in the family. He's Mr. Big Shot at college," he says in a teasing tone, seemingly making fun of his own son. "Did you not want to go?"
"No, college wasn't for me."
"Ah, well, it's good to know at least one of my kids isn't a pretentious asshole," he sighs with great relief, and I stare at him in shock, his words unnerving and careless.
"I wasn't deemed smart enough to go to college."
"You were smart enough to recognise my address on the note and make your own way over here, so that's good enough for me," he laughs. "So, what do you want?"
"I just wanted to see you."
"And here I am," he gestures to his body, raising his eyebrow. "Do you need money?"
"No," I frown. "You're my dad so I wanted to see you, is there something wrong with that?"
"Technically yes I am your father," he sighs looking annoyed, "but I don't have much else to offer you other than that."
"What about your time? What about your affection?"
"Beatrice-"
"It's Tris," I say sharply.
"Tris, I don't know what delusion you're operating under, but you live with your mother for a reason. That was the agreement, I gave her money and she raised you."
"But I don't understand-"
"Look at me. I mean, really look at me. Do you think I'm stable enough to be there for you, emotionally? Do you think I'd be a good father after the way I treated your mother? After the way I palmed Caleb off to be looked after by a few nannies?" I have no idea. My mother was right, I don't know what he's like. I don't know what his emotional state is or what his parenting abilities are like. I don't know him. "I have money, and I can give you that. But that's all."
"I don't want your money," I say numbly, taking the now creased and crumbled notes out of my pocket and placing them on the cluttered coffee table.
"Just hear me out. I've already proved myself a terrible family man... I had an affair for years behind your mom's back, I worked all the time, I was depressed and hopeless and downright useless."
"It was you?" My voice quavering, "not mom?"
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm sorry. I have to leave." I stand up from the couch, stepping over his outstretched legs in order to head for the door. He grabs onto my wrist but I pull away. "Please don't follow me in your car anymore," I say weakly.
"I was just checking up on you."
"Well clearly, I don't need you to."
I storm out of the house, my feet slapping against the wet puddled pavement. Silent tears streak my face as I keep on walking, walking away from him. My mother was trying to protect me from this man, and I went out there and let him hurt me anyway. I sniffle and shuffle my way through the park gates, venturing to a more secluded area where I sit down on a tattered bench. I pull my hood up and stuff my hands in my pockets, trying to shield myself from the cold. Betrayal and hurt is burned into my flesh, a confused and guilt-riddled feeling overcoming me. No, I'm not betrayed or hurt by my useless father, I'm sick at the fact that I betrayed my mother. I treated her like a villain in my own home, for my own deluded reasons. I never trusted her, I never listened to her, and that hurts. I don't know how long I stay here, mulling over my thoughts, but a dark blanket of night has covered the cloudy sky, and the light rainfall has turned into a pouring wet shower. I soon come to my senses and realise that I shouldn't be in a park on my own at night, lifting myself up from the bench and heading towards the bus stop. The wind blows my hood off, the rain dampening and matting my hair, little droplets running down the curvature of my face and onto my lips.
The bus ride is tedious and uncomfortable. The cold has bitten right down to the bone now that my clothes are soaked, and I sit on the seat shivering like a lunatic. I nearly miss my stop when it comes to it, the windows fogged up so much with condensation that you can barely see out. A storm has arrived, causing thunder and lightening and prompting me to walk in the middle of the empty road to avoid any trees. Over the sound of my thoughts, I can barely hear the deep rumble and bang that echoes through the sky. There are two cars parked in the driveway, the white sports car and the battered family one. It also takes me a while to undo the lock, my hands wet and cold and weak and slippery. Even though warm indoor air hits me instantly, my body still quivers and shakes a ridiculous amount. I struggle to peel off my soaked jacket, practically unable to do it.
"Beatrice? Is that you?" My mother's voice calls out, riddled with concern, as she charges out of the kitchen with Four as a lackey by her side. I look into his midnight eyes, which are consumed with worry.
"Who else," I murmur, pulling myself up the staircase. However I only get halfway up before I sit down, head in hands, back against the spindles.
"Where did you go? We've been looking all over! You were gone for hours so I rang your father and even he didn't know where you were," she babbles, as Four walks up the stairs to sit next to me, a supportive arm slinging across my shoulders.
"You were right about him," I say plainly. "And I'm sorry," my voice cracks. She gives me a look I cannot explain, a mixture of anger and sorrow, her eyes wide and beady. She too climbs up the stairs, sitting a couple of steps below me.
"You don't need to apologise, ever," she whispers, her hand on my knee.
We sit there, the three of us. Four's head resting on top of mine, his arms clamped around me. I bury my face against his chest, trying to hide away and become consumed by him instead. My mothers head rests on my lap, her arms slung around my middle. This is love. I ran away from it, in search of something else, but I was wrong. I am loved, and I have everything I need right here. For that, I am grateful.
Again, thank you for taking the time to write reviews! I have read them all, and as always, I appreciate it :)