A woman—no, she’s a girl—is sitting at Dad’s desk, wearing a white dress shirt that I suspect is his, multiple buttons popped open. Her hair is dark, her lips bright pink. I can’t see if she’s wearing pants or even underwear, but at this point, I’m not sure it matters.
“Raegan,” he orders, grabbing me by the elbow and shoving me back into the hallway with a roughness I’ve never associated with him. I stumble, my shock still working to decipher what I just saw.
“What are you doing?” I demand as I jerk my arm free.
“It’s not what you think.”
Tears burn in my eyes, an army of traitors prepared to expose my sheltered life where things like this weren’t even fathomable. Traitors he trained and assembled by loving my mom and us so wholly and entirely that doubt never even entered the confines of our house. For repeatedly assuring us that we were happy. “You’re having an affair?”
“Your mom and I—”
“No. This is you. This is all you,” I tell him, pointing a finger in the direction of his desk chair.
“It was a mistake,” he rushes to say the words, his eyes heavy with sadness, and what I hope is regret and guilt. “This…” he exhales slowly, his brows bunched with emotions that under any other circumstance I’d be rushing to ease—emotions I want to soothe out of habit and a love I’ve harbored for this man for my entire life. My stomach rolls with the reality of the situation, and I take a step back, so I don’t touch him.
“It was a mistake,” he says.
“A mistake is when you call me Maggie. A mistake is when you forget your coat when you go outside in the rain. That—” I point to the door. “She is way more than a mistake.”
He shakes his head in rapid little bursts. “No. No. Rae, I can fix this.”
“Fix this? How? With what?”
He reaches for me, gripping one of my hands in his. His skin is sticky and slick, making me shudder before I pull free, trying to ignore the scent of cherries that stains my skin where he touched me. “Please. Don’t tell anyone. Let me make this right. I swear, I will.”
I shake my head, hating the look of desperation in his eyes so much I can’t look at him. “That’s not fair. You’re asking me to lie to them.”
“I’m begging you not to break our family up. Don’t hurt them when it’s unnecessary. I’ll fix this. I’ll be better. I’ll stop.”
“More lies aren’t going to fix this.”
His demeanor flips like a switch. Anger flattens his brow and curls his lip as he raises a hand like he’s going to slap me. Self-preservation and fear are what has me taking several steps back, while my pride wants to move closer and dare him to do it.
His hand falls as fast as it had risen, another immediate change as he steps back as well, his eyes wide as he shakes his head. “I wasn’t going to hit you. Rae, I’d never hit you.” The two truths war in my head. He was ready to strike me—wanted to hit me, yet I’ve never feared my dad hitting me, even on the few occasions I probably did justify being spanked, he barely even raised his voice. No, Dad was never an aggressor or a yeller. Instead, his shoulders would drawback, and his whole face would turn several shades of red like an old cartoon character, except steam would pour from their ears, and his steam poured in the form of harsh words that were spoken in a tone that always made me listen.
“Rae,” he says my name softer, gentler, his face still unrecognizable with flashes of guilt and a plea that are nothing like the proud and loving father I know. He takes another step closer to me, and I match it in distance with two backward.
“Please. Talk to me.”
“I can’t. I don’t believe you. Everything you’ve ever said to me feels like a lie.”
A rush of emotions hits him again, requiring my full attention as I work to recognize them: anger, hurt, accusation, sadness, offense, and fear are the descriptions popping into my head.
“You’ll destroy our family if you tell anyone. Let me fix this. It will never happen again, I swear.”
I turn on my heel, unable to give him my word and refusing to grant him the knowledge of how terrified I was. I didn’t want to plead with him to be honest and face his infidelity because, at this point, the last thing he deserved was my own truth. I stop before reaching the kitchen where the tea kettle is whistling. He follows me, saying my name in another angry tone I don’t recognize. I twist to face him with the realization that while he doesn’t deserve it, Mom certainly does. “You can’t lie about this. You can’t pretend it didn’t happen. You had an affair. In our house. What were you thinking?”
“She took advantage of me,” desperation rounds his eyes and rushes his words. “She knows I’ve been lonely.”
“Lonely?” I spit the word.
“You’re too young to understand. Just because two people are married, it doesn’t mean they can’t feel lonely and detached.”
“Then you go to counseling. You talk. You go on a trip together and work on things. You don’t get a girlfriend.”
“Shhhhh!” His brows squeeze together, another flash of irritation marring his features. His graying beard and graying hair that’s thinning on top and along his tall forehead are only details that make him look his age. A few weeks ago, I thought it was unbelievable for a man who was six years my senior to flirt with me. A thirty-year age gap makes my stomach heave.
“You owe Mom the truth.”
He nods. “I will. I’ll tell her the truth. But let me do it. Let me explain it, so she understands.”
I shake my head in tight little jerks. “She doesn’t owe you understanding.”
“Why are you trying to ruin our family? Do you understand the backlash of this situation? I’d lose my job. You’d lose your acceptance to Brighton. Paxton would lose his scholarship. We wouldn’t be able to afford this house or things like your boating lessons and the ability to support you once you graduate with a degree you can’t use. I’m not asking you to save me, I’m asking you to save yourself. Save your mom who everyone will whisper and talk about behind her back, and Paxton who will be in the news because of his parents, and they’ll forget all about his football career. You’ll ruin it. You’ll ruin it all. After everything you caused in the past few weeks, this is the least you owe me. The least you owe them.”
I always knew fear was the ugliest of emotions. I just never expected it would be my dad who confirmed this fact. I turn on my heel, flipping off the burner, and head upstairs. I pace the length of my room, thinking about things that don’t matter. I wonder about who she is and how old she is. If she knows who my dad is and if I’ve met her before. I question her intentions and motivation. Why she’d be interested in someone like my dad who has three kids, a wife, and a growing stomach and shrinking hairline.
And if my dad, the seemingly smart, caring, doting husband isn’t capable of being faithful, is anyone?
Tears blur my vision as my thoughts veer to Lincoln. Of the sentiment he’d shared, assuring me that things always end badly.
My body feels worn and tired, my emotions the aftermath of a tsunami. I trade my clothes for a pair of pajamas and climb into bed, soaking my pillowcase with all the words I can’t say and don’t understand that come out in the form of a million tears.