Jesus Christ, is my life a fucking fairy tale or what?
“It’s fine, Gracie.” I will my lips to curl upward until I can get the hell out of this room. “Life goes on, right? I never planned to go to university, but things change. We have to adapt.” I don’t bother to add the fact that I have no idea what the hell I’ll be doing at the university. I swallow hard and look back at my friends. They have their lives planned, too, the difference being their plans are actually becoming their reality. Gracie is going to Milan for fashion design and Cambria is going to study medicine in Rome.
They’re happy and focused and their futures are bright.
Argh!
I hate them, too.
I take a few steps toward the door and grab the handle, twisting slightly in their direction with a wink. “Don’t be too long. It’s almost time to cut the cake!”
They exchange a look of pity, but I refuse to let the tears pool in my eyes until that door is safely closed behind me. I’ve moved on from the sudden end of my soccer career…kind of.
But Tommy’s rejection just tore open old wounds…and then he dumped a bowl of salt onto them for good measure.
The sadistic bastard that he is.
I press my fingertips to my temples, refusing to think about that game and what happened afterward. When all hope had been lost, Tommy sprinkled some of it back. I clung to it with everything I had in me, praying that things would turn around. I didn’t realize how much I’d clung to that memory…and that delusion…until right now.
With my spine straight and my head held high, I walk back to the reception, plastering a bright smile on my face when I see my parents.
They’ve given me absolutely everything,
Except the one thing I want most.
The one thing I’ve just been assured I will never have.
A chill rushes over me as I cross the room, passing an air conditioning vent. The air pumps through the grates to cool off the partygoers who are bumping, grinding, and swaying on the dance floor. That has to be the reason for the shudder that runs through me. It can’t have anything to do with seeing Tommy huddled with my father at an empty table.
Right?
Yeah, sure it doesn’t.
I keep an eye on them as I approach my beaming mother. She looks radiant in her floor-length black beaded gown, and her blue eyes pop against her raven-colored hair. She opens her arms as I close the distance between us. I rush into her perfumed embrace and squeeze her tight. “Thank you so much for this. Everything is just perfect,” I lie in a choked whisper.
Let her think it’s only happiness turning me into a hot mess before her eyes.
Only I know the real truth.
Well, me and one other person.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can tell there’s a problem. Papa’s eyes flash, and Tommy moves closer, his hands going a mile a minute along with his mouth. His hands normally don’t stop moving when he talks, and they go at light speed when he’s really bothered about something.
Or nervous…
But why would he be nervous?
“You deserve it, mi amore.” Mama kisses my cheek, stroking the side of my face, bringing me back to my reality. She’s has always been my rock, always encouraging me and supporting me and giving me hope when all was lost.
But as much as I adore my mother, I’ve always been my father’s girl. The apple of his eye. The cream to his cannoli. He’s the reason why I got into soccer in the first place. He’d always take me to games and teach me new tricks since he was quite the player when he was younger.
Before the life sucked him in.
We never did the traditional father-daughter bonding activities. Papa was always on a quest to make me tough…the tougher, the better, he always said. I think that’s why he was so hell-bent on me becoming a champion athlete and he drilled me incessantly to get me into the best shape possible for whatever challenges I might encounter on the soccer field.
Because I’ve learned over time that your body needs to be as sharp and as prepared as your mind.
Unfortunately, his training wasn’t enough to prevent the injury that ultimately killed my career.
Papa’s face is a deep shade of red, his face twisted into a sneer as he shoves back the chair and walks over to me and Mama, leaving Tommy staring after him. I try to ignore the tingles deep in my belly when his gaze assaults me right before he leaves the party room, turning toward my father who places a hand on the small of my back. His face pales slightly, his lips curling into a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes like it normally does. It’s tight, tense, and completely forced.
Mama disappears to share a cocktail with a nearby friend, and my skin prickles.
“Papa, what is it?” I say in a low voice.
His face is drawn, jaw tight. “Nothing that you need to worry about, bella. Tonight is your night, and I want you to enjoy every minute of it.”
“I can’t if you flat-out lie to me like that.” I narrow my eyes. “I know something is wrong. It’s written all over your face. Tell me. I saw you talking to Tommy. Is it Gio?” I try to calm my racing heart. It has to be Gio. It’s Gio ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time.
Please let it be Gio!
“No, mi amore.” He forces a chuckle. “For once, it’s not.”
“You have to tell me,” I plead, taking his hands in mine. “I can help, you know I’m ready.”
He shakes his head. “Not for this,” he responds in a defeated voice.
With that, my heart screeches to a halt. My father is the strongest man I know. I’ve never heard him use this tone before, and panic rises in my chest. I look around the room, tiny beads of perspiration popping up along the back of my neck despite the frigid temperature in the room. My eyes lock with Tommy’s, and a rush of anger charges through my insides as my eyes slice through him like a machete. He knows, and he didn’t tell me.
Fury coils in my belly because I realize how truly powerless I am in this second.
Someone else always seems to be holding the cards.
For once, I’d like to play my own damn hand!
A familiar song echoes through the speakers and the deejay croons into the microphone, calling me and my father to the center of the dance floor. Papa’s lips graze my forehead. “May I have this dance?”
My lips quiver, but I will them to lift even though I’m fighting a sob.
Our song.
The only true girly thing he’s ever really done with me is practice this dance for tonight. He guides me to the center of the dance floor, one arm snaked around my waist and one arm in the air. I lace my fingers with his, and together we move to the melodic notes floating into the air around us. Camera flashes snap as the photographers track our every movement. Guests oooh and ahhh as we move in unison around the black-lacquered floor.
We’re both in separate worlds, plagued by our thoughts and fears. And yet, ironically, this is probably the best performance we’ve had since we began taking lessons a few months ago. I fight with everything in me to keep the smile on my face, but some battles are just too intense, too draining.
Papa whisks me around a corner, but not before I am merely centimeters away from Tommy, who has approached the edge of the dance floor. His cologne blankets my senses, once again igniting my pent-up desire.
Did I mention how much I despise myself for that?