“I’m sorry.”
He frowns. “It’s not your fault.”
That’s debatable.
“If you need anything, just—”
“Come sit,” he says, his tone stern. “Like old times. You used to love to watch me work.”
Used to.
Back when I was naïve and thought my dad hung the moon. Before I saw he was a man of shadows hidden behind a sunbeam smile.
“I don’t want to disturb you,” I utter, fidgeting in the doorway.
“Never.” He pats the bed beside him. “Come cuddle, sweetheart.”
My hands tremble, but fisting them helps keep the shaking at bay. I make my way over to the bed and climb on. He lifts the sheet, inviting me to get under them with him.
Della was right.
I shouldn’t have checked on him.
But I need to feel him out. To see what he knows, if anything. If he suspects I had anything to do with it, I’ll need a strategy to talk my way out of it.
His smile is warm, but he’s guarded. It puts me on edge too. Maybe he can sense the whirl of emotions inside me. Usually, I’m much better at hiding the fear and hatred I have toward him. Ford, though, distracts me and makes things difficult for me.
Last night, before I went to sleep, I deleted any trace of conversations between me and Ford. I even went as far as to change the contact to “Study Partner Girl Whose Name I Can’t Remember” in case he asks about the number. I’m hoping he’s been too busy with the attack to dig that far into what I’m doing. Still, I can’t be too careful.
I settle into bed next to Dad. His computer is open to a spreadsheet and he has a chat window up where he’s talking to Gareth about one of their game acquisitions. I’m thankful that it’s nothing about me or Ford or Della.
“Did you sleep well last night?” Dad asks, taking hold of my hand. He runs his thumb over my pulse point.
Knowing him, he can probably tell if I’m lying just by seeing if my blood pumps faster. I keep my breathing even and nod. He squeezes my hand.
“Good.” He brings my hand up and kisses the back of it. “I know school has been a lot for you.”
“It’s fun,” I assure him. “Thank you for getting me in. I didn’t know how much I wanted to go to college until I got there.”
“I know you better than yourself. You know that.”
The room fills with silence. I don’t like his insinuation, but I could totally be reading into it, too. I’m on edge, so everything that comes out of his mouth feels like foreshadowing of what’s to come.
He doesn’t let go of my hand, keeping it locked tight in his grip. I feign tiredness and lean my head against his shoulder. The quiet may as well be an entire drumline banging in my ears. It’s deafening and maddening. Every word on the tip of my tongue feels like a trap. The silence, though, feels like I’m being exposed.
A sound from the doorway draws my attention. There, standing like an angry and powerful little god, my sister glowers at my father.
Not now, Della.
Read me a story, Landry. Her signed movements are sharp and demanding.
I lock eyes with my sister and give her a slight shake of my head. What is she doing? We both know it’s best if she avoids Dad at all costs.
“Della, come here,” Dad barks at her, making me jump in response.
Della flinches, not because she can hear his words, but more like she can feel the impact of them. The swat before the painful blow.
I start to get up, my heart in my throat, but Dad squeezes my hand until the bones feel like they’ll snap. A pained cry leaps from my throat. Della can’t hear it, but she must see the agony on my face because she obeys our father immediately, rushing to his side.
“Dad,” I plead, my voice more of a sob than anything.
He grabs Della by the front of her shirt the second she gets close and yanks her forward. Her green eyes are wide with terror.
I have to stop this.
“Daddy, please,” I croak. “She just needs a nap.”
He ignores me to lean into Della’s face. His laptop sits on his legs undisturbed like grabbing both his daughters is barely an interruption of his precious work.
“You will not be a disrespectful shit in my home,” Dad snarls at her. “Do you hear me?”
Her eyes have left his and are locked on mine, filled with tears and fear. Of course she doesn’t hear him since she’s not even looking at him. He releases my hand to grab hold of her chin, forcibly making her look at him and not me.
“I’m sick of your attitude problem,” he snaps. “Blatant disrespect and ignoring me when the situation suits you.”
She squirms in his hold, clearly hurting at the way he’s gripping her face. I tug at his arm, muttering pleading words, but to no avail.
“Dad, stop—”
He swings his elbow back. It hits me right in the mouth. The sharp, sudden pain has me falling back onto the bed. Dad curses and then little footsteps thud away.
She’s gone.
She got away.
I bring my throbbing hand up to touch my bottom lip that stings. Bright red crimson stains my fingertips. I’m bleeding.
Dad grunts in pain and then he’s positioned on his side. I can tell it hurts his ribs, but the concern in his stare is winning the battle. He fixates on my bloody mouth and his expression twists into one of horror.
“My God, sweetheart. What happened?”
You. You happened, Dad. You always happen.
He moves away briefly and then returns with a tissue. Gently and with the care of a loving father, he dabs at my lip, attempting to clean away the blood. I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to let the tears come. He’s stolen enough of those.
I can’t look at him.
Right now, all I can think about is hearing Ford’s voice. If he knew Dad hit me—albeit accidentally—he’d be pissed.
This is the problem with friends or liking a guy…you start to rely on them when times are tough. Someone to lean on or confide in. An escape.
“I’m so sorry,” Dad chokes out. “I keep screwing up with you. Ever since your Mom…”
Mom dying was the catalyst for my life turning upside down and turning into…this. Hell. Literal hell.
I can feel Dad’s fingers on my face, stroking and caressing, as he croons sweet, apologetic words. I hate this. I hate him. He kisses my bruised cheek.
Yeah, Dad, you did that too.
All the hurts, both inside and out, are from you.
Always you.
He’s too close—too heavy—too much. His soft kisses are just as abusive as his cruel backhanded smacks. I don’t want them. I don’t like the breathiness of them or the quantity. Anytime it gets to this point, I want to crawl into a hole and die. Horrible flashes of other times, worse than this, steal my breath and have bile creeping up my throat.
It never gets easier.
I can’t do this.
Everything feels worse right now. Maybe because I’ve had a sample of normalcy recently with Ford, every harsh reminder of my reality is a brutal stab to the chest.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
Go away. Go see her.
Thoughts of Mom are always an escape. My memories of her are such happy ones and easy to snatch up when I can’t take this stupid life a second longer. Since I’m too overwhelmed by this moment, I slip to a happier time. Me and Mom sipping hot cocoa while we fuss over poinsettias to decorate the house with for a family Christmas party. It smells like cinnamon and apples, the pies in the oven a delicious aroma that makes my mouth water. Oh, it’s snowing outside. How beautiful—