He slams the mug down on the counter, making me jump. “Don’t be fucking smart with me.”
“Alright, Dad,” I say, chewing on my lip, trying to keep it from trembling.
I always feel so small when he raises his voice at me, like I’m three years old again and my dad is so much bigger and tougher than me. Like I’m small and weak and unable to stand up for myself against someone so much bigger. So much smarter. So much more of a person than I am. That smallness is almost always met with soul-piercing grief over the Dad that three-year-old me knew versus the one I know today.
His eyes roll so hard, I think – and hope – they might fall out of his head. “Just get out. And get that stupid fucking chair out of the shower before you leave.”
I don’t know why I bother trying to explain myself to him. It hasn’t worked over the past three years, and it probably never will, but I hate the assumptions and accusations he makes. Some of them really dig in deep, and it’s starting to wear me down, little by little, piece by piece.
I hold in my sigh, knowing it will only set him off more and make the entire situation worse if I make another sound - or god forbid, have a feeling - and I head to the bathroom upstairs.
Macie is at the sink, still scrubbing away at those little teeth. I squeeze past her and slide the shower door open to grab a towel to dry my chair off faster before lifting it out and hauling it back into my bedroom, setting it down on the floor next to my twin bed.
Macie walks into my room, toothpaste all over her mouth, wringing her hands. “Are you and Daddy fighting?”
“No, kiddo,” I say, grabbing a tissue to wipe her face. “Everything’s okay. Let’s get you to school, huh?”
I put a hand on her back and guide her out of the house, dodging our dad while I grab her backpack.
I’ve gotten used to his moods, to the drinking. I’m used to being the target for his anger. As much as I wish I could say it doesn’t bother me, I don’t think a day will ever come that I can honestly say that. It’s settled into a low ache, but it’s always present. I don’t care – he doesn’t direct his rage at Macie, but when she can hear him, it gets her really upset, and that, I do care about.
She’s the only reason I’m still in this godforsaken house.
THREE
Colt
Davis leans over my shoulder, his hands supporting him on my desk, as he reads over my shoulder. The reflection of his sunglasses is visible from my computer’s screen and shake my head with a chuckle. I don’t know what on Earth possessed the man to get that drunk on a Wednesday evening.
“I can smell rum seeping from your pores.”
“God, I know,” he groans. “I showered twice this morning.”
“Just…stay in your office, or at least downwind today,” I laugh.
He gives the screen a couple of taps and tells me, “Tell them to bump that up another twenty, and we’ll consider. I’m takin’ a nap.”
I give him a quick two-finger salute as he walks – hobbles, really – out of my office and into his own, then I return to the onslaught of emails that have come in over the past twenty-four hours, sorting by most to least urgent. This is going to be an incredibly tedious day, and I’m going to need coffee.
“Rowan?” I holler out the door.
Seconds later, she rounds the door to my office, wearing a smile. “Yes, Mr. Fowler?”
“I’m looking at about four million emails that need responses by end of business, and I’m going to need some caffeine if I’m going to manage that.”
“Usual order?” She asks.
“Yes, please. And check around the office if anyone else needs some, will you?”
“Of course. Be back in a jiffy,” she promises before sweeping down the hall, that sandy brown hair flowing behind her. I almost feel bad, giving her such menial work, but I think I might die if I don’t get a couple hundred milligrams of caffeine into my system in the next hour.
I tuck into my work, responding to emails, checking accounts, and otherwise making sure that the company is running smoothly both internally and externally.
We have a new development in the works, set to open in just a few weeks, and with Davis indisposed today, I’m running the whole show and all communications.
One arduous phone call and a handful of emails later, Rowan knocks on the door frame of my office before stepping in, carrying a tray of coffees in her hand.
“I come bearing liquid salvation,” she announces, lifting the tray with a flourish.
