Lilly
It was rather sobering to realize that my father would do whatever it took to get me back to his house. “Whatever it took” was thrown around too often, but in this case, it was literal.
It was rather sobering to realize that my father, unlike perhaps Cole’s father or any other father, would do whatever it took not because he loved me or because he wanted what was best for me, but…
But why, exactly? If he thought he was doing it out of love, he had a woefully misguided notion of love, the kind of notion that a twelve-year-old had who tried to control everything around him. If he was doing it out of appearances... for what? He seemed to be losing control by the day. What appearances did he have to keep?
Maybe it was just as simple as my father did not like to lose, and if I left his side, that was a loss.
So what was going to stop him then?
Death?
Fucking death?
Did I really have to take the side of the Black Reapers here? Was I really suggesting I wanted my father dead? What was I, that same fucking angry twelve-year-old?
“This is so fucking stupid,” I said.
But swearing out loud was not calming me; it was not releasing my anger. Instead, it was like throwing a boomerang; the release was only temporary, and because I wasn’t prepared for it to come back and hit me in the face, it pissed me off even more.
“This is so fucking stupid!”
Send two guys after me, really? That’s what Dad was reduced to? To lying with some fake emotional voice mail, only to then demand where I was?
Why couldn’t I just have had a normal father? Hell, why couldn’t I have had a father that had anger issues but actually loved his daughter? Why couldn’t Mom still be around so that she could care for me?
“It’s not fair!”
I did something then that came out of an anger and sadness so great, words alone could not express it.
I kicked the table.
It was so fucking petty. It was so bratty. It was so unbecoming of someone in their twenties.
But you know what? Maybe I was still emotionally like that preteen girl who had never gotten the chance to grow up. Maybe my father’s actions, ostensibly taken to protect me, had only stunted me. Maybe this wasn’t so bad for what a spot I’d found myself in.
No, that was a lie. I might get away with making that argument to myself at eighteen, but not now. I was responsible for myself.
And I was a fucking terrible mess right now. How the fuck could I expect to make it in New York City when I couldn’t even keep myself under control in the apartment of an actual nice guy?
“Fuck!” I shouted, kicking the table in front of me again.
The door to Cole’s bedroom opened. Cole, wearing a tank-top and athletic shorts, came in.
“Hey, hey, hey!” he shouted, though his voice softened with each word. “What’s going on? You all right?”
What the fuck did he think? He’d heard me trying to break shit in here. Did he fucking think I did that to practice martial arts?
“Leave me alone,” I said.
God, I really am a bratty preteen.
“I’d like to, but if you’re going to destroy my coffee table, I can’t just let you do that,” he said. “And besides, it’s going to be tough for you to buy me a new one.”
He said it with a smile. I looked away, not wanting to feel his empathy, not wanting to feel his humor. I didn’t deserve it. No one had ever given it to me in a spot like this.
“Sorry,” I said, but it was not exactly in an apologetic tone. “This whole situation is fucking stupid.”
