“Don’t insult both of us by pretending this was ever going to amount to anything. She was a distraction. Your little rebellion before you graduate college.”
I don’t respond. Not because he’s right. Because if I say she it’s real, if I defend her, he’ll twist it. He’ll make it about pride or weakness or some character flaw I inherited from my mother’s side of the family.
There’s a pause, like he’s waiting for me to argue. I don’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, I pace around the main floor, lapping the TV room, the hall, and the dining room on repeat. I end up in the kitchen, staring at the smooth wood grain of the cupboards.
Finally, he sighs. It’s performative and drawn out. “We have meetings lined up next week with two new clients. You’ll need to make yourself available.”
I grip the edge of the counter harder. “I’ve still got playoffs. And finals.” I don’t mention the charity scrimmage. He won’t give a shit about that.
“This is more important.”
No hesitation. No acknowledgment that I’m still a college athlete. That I haven’t graduated yet, and I’m not on his payroll. Not officially, anyway. But maybe I am. Maybe it started the second I let him control the narrative. First with Cece’s tuition, then with my career. Or maybe I’ve been letting him do it my entire life.
“Understood,” I mutter.
“Good. And Beau?”
“What.”
“Clean this up. Quietly.”
The call ends.
I stand there for a long time afterward. Locked in place, with the faint echo of his voice still bouncing around my skull.
She’s beneath me? What kind of bullshit is that? She’s a woman, not an object. Not to mention a far better person than my father and most of his cronies. Because she cares. About other people, animals, her family. The time and effort shespends helping and uplifting others and not asking for anything in return? He couldn’t even fathom putting forth a fraction of that effort. Unless it was for personal gain.
But he’ll never understand that sentiment. His number one priority is himself, his reputation, and his family legacy. Money and power. Luna is quite possibly the best person who ever walked into my life, and I’ve been lucky to have had this time with her.
I don’t realize how long I’ve been sitting on the kitchen floor until the tile numbs through my pants.
My back’s pressed against the lower cabinets, legs stretched out in front of me, phone face-down beside me like it betrayed me, and I can’t look at it again. The only light in the room is from the microwave clock. 4:12.
I haven’t even taken off my coat.
There’s a clink of keys in the door. I don’t move.
Cece steps inside, humming under her breath. She pauses when she sees me, still mid-hum, still holding a drink tray with two green coffee cups in it.
“Okay…” she says slowly, shutting the door behind her. “Sitting on the kitchen floor in the dark. That’s new.”
“Didn’t feel like standing.”
She sets the tray down, kicks off her boots, and joins me without a word. Just lowers herself to the tile like she’s done this a thousand times, which she probably has, in one form or another. We’ve shared more than enough drama together growing up.
“Is this a don’t-talk-to-me sit or a please-say-something-before-I-combust sit?”
I rub my eyes. “Somewhere in between.”
Cece pulls one of the coffees from the tray and hands it to me. She knows how I like it. Extra bold and black.
She sips hers first. Doesn’t push me into talking. She’s letting me marinate in my own head. Even the small sip I take scalds my tongue, but it feels right. Like I deserve the punishment.
“I talked to Dad,” I say eventually.
Cece’s face doesn’t change, but her shoulders tense.
“The sponsorship deal blew up, and of course he already knew all about it. Sounded almost gleeful about it. Said Luna was…” I trail off, unable to put it into words.
