Jude
I didn't like beingthe person ugly-crying on public transit, but here I was, tears streaming down my face while I loudly sniffled. Mortifying. Yet I couldn't bring myself to tighten the laces on these emotions.
I tried to rehearse what I'd say, but nothing came to me. As much as I wanted to—neededto—I couldn't call up the words. I was terrified I'd walk in there and have…nothing. That I'd cower from the confrontation like usual. That, once again, I'd make the worst choices when it meant the most.
It turned out that I didn't need to worry about any of that.
As I stepped inside my parents' home, I noticed an ornate ship in a bottle displayed on a hall table. It was made to look old, an antique, but like everything else here, it was fake and soulless.
I knocked it off the table.
A housekeeper came running at the sound of shattering glass. When she skidded to a halt, I said, "Make sure they know it was me."
With a nod, she motioned toward the backyard. I let myself believe that tip came from a place of solidarity even though it probably had more to do with the fact I walked in here and started breaking shit, and she didn't want any part of that.
I pushed a large vase to the edge of a table and grinned when it crashed as I strolled out toward the flagstone patio. My mother was seated near the pool under a massive umbrella, a tablet in her lap and several newspapers fanned out on the table. A tray with half a grapefruit and an empty glass streaked with swampy green debris was parked off to the side. My father stood at the edge of the yard, a golf club in hand as he surveyed the balls scattered in the grass.
Neither noticed me and I decided that was a good thing. I was the one in control this time. Calm clarity settled over me like I'd finally found the eye of my hurricane.
"I know what you did," I said. "When you sent me to California. I know everything."
My mother startled in her seat, a hand fluttering to her chest. "What in the world? Audrey? What are you doing here?"
No, there was nothing orderly about this conversation and I wanted it that way. If I'd thought it would help, I would've built a slide deck and clicked through a bullet-pointed presentation. But I couldn't rely on reason with people who hacked email accounts and filed bullshit restraining orders. People who believed quite earnestly that marrying me off to Chris had been a good idea. It wasn't like they'd hear my concerns and acknowledge the harm done.
Breaking shit and yelling was the only option.
"I'm not going to bother asking why you did it," I said. "But believe me when I say this is the end."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, turning back to her tablet, "but I won't tolerate you storming in here like this and creating a scene."
I gestured to the space, empty save for my father. "You're the one making the scene."
"Cassidy is here for the week and she's on the beach with the children," she said. "They don't need to come up here and find you in the middle of a breakdown."
"All I'm doing is asking you to explain the shit you pulled when you shipped me off to Pepperdine."
"Would you listen to yourself? You're hysterical. You sound like you've lost your mind," she said. "Go inside and get a drink. I'll talk to you when you're thinking clearly again."
The shrill cut of her words must've gained my father's attention because he ambled across the yard, the putter loose in his grip. "When did you get here?"
That was his version of a warm greeting.
"She's having one of her tantrums again," my mother said to him. "She's speaking in riddles and nonsense. She's going to make herself sick if she doesn't calm down."
"I'm perfectly calm," I said, "but I'm not leaving here without some answers."
"If this is about Wilhamsen, I've already looked over the documents. You'll sign them," he said. "No arguments."
He eyed me with resentment so thick and profound that I could taste it in the back of my throat. Now that I saw it from this distance, I knew it'd always been this way. I'd put everything into being right, being good enough—and for what? Because this wasn't family. It wasn't love. And I'd let myself linger in this sodden place too long.
"Please don't tell me that lowlife is back," my mother said. "After everything we did to protect you from him? What could he possibly want from you now?"
"Can you hear yourself? Do you hear what you're saying tome?" When she only turned an impatient glare in my direction, I clapped my hands together and barreled ahead. "I'll simplify it for you. I know about the emails you blocked, about the forged note you sent with the ring you hid from me, and I know about the restraining order. Explain."
My mother went back to aggressively swiping her tablet. "I don't know which ring you're talking about."
"But the emails and the restraining order? That rings some bells?" I asked.
