The moment I open the front door, I see Lawrence coming out of the lounge, and he stops, taking me in, his persona no less hostile than this morning. The atmosphere is spikey, the air tense. “Hi,” I say, closing the door, trying to break the ice.
He nods and continues to the kitchen, looking back over his shoulder. He smiles. It’s small. Nervous. I cock my head in question, and he inhales. “What’s up?” I ask. Perhaps it’s a silly question, given the words we’ve had recently, but that smile? It was apologetic. I pick up my pace and the moment I’m on the threshold of the kitchen, the lingering, crappy atmosphere explodes.
“Dad,” I mumble, seeing my father at the table with Dexter.
“Hello, Beau,” he says, not getting up to greet me. To hug me. To kiss me. He hasn’t seen me in over a year, and all I get is a hello. Not that I want anything more. Not that I expect it. But still, every single time we’re in this place of awkwardness, I wonder why he finds it so fucking hard to embrace me.
“I’ll make tea,” Lawrence sings, starting to clang and clatter around the kitchen, his nerves shot. It only serves to piss me off more. He shouldn’t have invited this man into his home. Not only because of what my father’s done, but because of how he treats Lawrence. It’s nighttime. He should be Zinnea right now, vivacious, bright, and loud. But he’s not. He’s Lawrence, and not even the true version.
All because this man is here.
My teeth grate, and every transgression my father is guilty of steamrolls through my mind. His affair, his abandonment of me and Mom. His absence when she was taken from me. His absence when I hit rock bottom.
“No tea,” I say to Lawrence, my burning eyes on my dad. No. He’s not my dad. He’s a man I’m sorry I used to love. A man I’m sorry I wasted any time on at all, wondering what was wrong with me. Wondering why I wasn’t good enough. Why he struggles so terribly to give me any affection or praise. The more his success and power built over the years, the less loving he became. His gain. My loss. “What do you want?”
He laughs, and it’s nervous. My dad isn’t the nervous kind. He’s bold and unapologetic. He’s thoughtless and insensitive. Then I realize something is missing, and I scan the kitchen, looking for her. For what point, I don’t know. You’d spot Dad’s girlfriend in a crowd of a million, with her masses of fake blonde hair and rubber lips. “Where’s Amber?”
“She’s shopping with friends.”
“I’ll make tea,” Lawrence says again, making more noise. I peek at Dexter. He looks about as comfortable as a cow outside a steak house.
“You didn’t call about dinner,” Dad says, standing from his chair and fastening the jacket of his expensive suit. “I thought you might be free now.”
“I’m not,” I say automatically, cringing the moment the words fall out of my mouth.
“But you just got home.”
“I’m going back out.” I smile awkwardly, thumbing over my shoulder. “I have plans with a friend.”
“Oh.” He looks truly disappointed, and for the first time when dealing with my father, I feel guilty. And I hate myself for that because he feels no guilt at all. “You can’t rearrange?”
Not for you.
His eyes drop to my wrists, and I instinctively pull the sleeves of my shirt down, glancing across to Lawrence, who’s eyes are nailed on my wrists too. He looks up at me, and I know immediately he’s been telling tales on me. My jaw rolls, the anger I was feeling doubling. How could he? My father does not need more ammunition to persecute me. He doesn’t need reasons to label me unstable and have me committed. Not for my own good, but for his. His image. His ego. To get me out of the way.
“I’m afraid not,” I say quietly.
“Who’s your friend?” he asks, his tone accusing.
I can’t believe Lawrence has thrown me under the bus. My father has no right to information on my private life. He surrendered that when he walked out on Mom and abandoned me in my darkest hour. “No one you know.” Good God, someone get me away before my head explodes.
“I heard you missed your session with Dr. Ferguson.”
“How did you hear that?” I ask, knowing Lawrence couldn’t have betrayed me to that extent because I didn’t tell him. “You called her, didn’t you? She’s breaching patient confidentiality telling you that.”
“She didn’t tell me.”
The devious fucker. “I need to go, I’ll be late.”
“I’m here in peace, Beau,” Dad calls. “Why can’t you accept that? I just want my little girl back.”
“I’m not a little girl, Dad.”
“You’ll always be my little girl.”
“So where were you when Mom died? And when I was in the psychiatric hospital?” He was busy making millions and rubbing shoulders with the best of them. His unstable daughter would have tarnished his sparkly reputation. “You had me sent there and just left me. No support. No love. And worse still, you told anyone who asked that I was on vacation.” I had never felt so desperately alone, terrified . . . abandoned.
He has the decency to look ashamed. “I can make up for my wrongs. I should have been there for you.” He takes another step forward, and before I know it, I’m wrapped in his arms, his lips on the back of my head. And I soften. For the first time in years, I soften against my father. “I will make it up to you.”
Tears. Wretched tears pool in my eyes, and I lift my arms, clinging to him. “Okay,” I agree easily. And at the same time, I wonder . . . is this all I needed to help fix me? My dad’s apologies? His comfort?
He breaks away and takes my cheeks in his palms, smiling down at me. His dark eyes, an unmistakable match to mine, shine at me. “Come to dinner with me.”
“Where?”
“A little Italian downtown. Lovely place. I’m meeting a friend, and I’d love you to meet him.”
“Who is he?”
He smiles, but it’s unsure. “Frazer Cartwright.”
I recoil, backing out of his arms. “The journalist?”
Dad shifts a little, uncomfortable. “He’s a friend.”
Is he for fucking real? Journalists aren’t friends. They’re a means to an end for men like my father. My God, what was I thinking? This man is incapable of changing. “Mom might have agreed to put on a show for you so your reputation wasn’t tainted when you left her, but you won’t get the same cooperation from me.” I turn, begging my feet to keep moving. The alternative would be to go back and trash the kitchen, and it’s not the kitchen’s fault.
I slam the door behind me and take in valuable oxygen, gasping, blinking the fog of fury away. The door quickly swings open behind me. “Beau,” Lawrence says, stepping out and pulling it closed.
“Do not try to reason with me, Lawrence,” I warn. “He was only here for his own gain. Let’s tell him to take you to the lovely Italian to meet Frazer Cartwright.”
He looks down, and I immediately feel awful. My father’s approval isn’t something Lawrence should want but somehow needs.
“I’m sorry,” I sigh, pushing my fingertips into my forehead. Once again, darkness and grief eclipse my soul, every shitty emotion returning full-force and putting me back endless steps. But did I ever truly make progress?