I puff my cheeks and exhale. “He really is a good guy, Annaliese.” At least, that’s what I used to think. “I know you two have your differences, but he’s trying to fix that.”
“He has a really weird way of showing it.”
Maybe tonight isn’t the night to hash out their relationship. Not after the stressful evening, and not when she’s feeling so shitty. I crouch over her, leaning over to tap a finger on the tip of her nose. “You’ll see the truth someday, Princess.”
Her entire demeanor changes. Her playful expression falls flat, and she reaches a petite hand up to shove my arm away. “Nevermind. I don’t expect you to see who my dad really is.” She lies back down on the couch, curling up with the blankets and fidgeting to get comfortable. And just when I think she’s ready to fall asleep, she huffs, rolls over, and sits up to face me head on. “And if you really feel bad about today, if you want to do anything to make it right, you can do me a favor and stop calling me Princess. I fucking hate that nickname.”
Chapter Fourteen
Colter
Herchestisheavingwith each angry breath, and I sit back down on the ottoman, facing the furious bull head-on. We stare at one another in the dim lighting of the living room until her eyes grow heavy and she shakes her head. That nickname always aggravates her, which, obviously, is the only reason I use it from time to time.
I chalked it up to the dislike of a childhood nickname in a professional setting. But this is something else entirely. Something that looks an awful lot like pain.
She lies back down, pretending to take interest in the TV show flickering across the screen and I stay put, perched on the edge of the ottoman. Her eyes briefly glance over at me before flitting back to the screen. She does it once more before letting them settle on me.
“What?”
“Tell me the story about the nickname.”
She sits up a little, the blanket falling down from her shoulders. I instinctively reach out to adjust it at the same time she does and our hands collide.
“It’s not a big deal,” she says quietly, eyes now back to looking at the TV. “I’m just not feeling well and being a baby, that’s all. You can forget it.”
I reach for the remote that was tossed on the ottoman earlier, and mute the TV. Her gaze then lands on me and it stays there. “You’re a bad liar, Keeton, and it’s a blow to my ego that you’re even trying to lie to me.”
She smiles at that, and I lean forward to prop my elbows on my knees. My hands clasp together and dangle in the space between my legs as I wait. “Tell me why you hate it so much,” I ask her again, hoping she can feel the sincerity in my voice.
She swallows, watching me for a minute and I can see the wheels spinning in her mind as she debates on trying another lie or telling me the truth.
“When I was a little kid, gosh, I don’t even know how old I was,” she starts. “Maybe five or so. I was downstairs with my mom, and my dad was on the second floor working in his office. She told me to go tell him dinner was ready.” She pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth, worrying it back and forth for a moment. “So I went upstairs, and I knocked on his office door but he must have not heard me. I could hear him moving around in there, so I opened it and peeked in. His back was to me. I still remember the sport coat he was wearing, of all things. It was brown tweed with these awful plaid elbow patches.” She chuckles. “It was the ugliest thing I had ever seen, and I had a hard time saying my T’s when I was little so when I tried to call it his ‘patchy jacket,’ it came out as ‘pashy jackey.’ Whenever he’d come downstairs in it, he’d look at me and we’d both smile, and he’d call it his favorite pashy jackey.” She chuckles a little and I smile, surprised at how sweet this memory is of her and Richard.
I know exactly which jacket she’s talking about. It is pretty ugly, but Richard still wears it for special occasions. It’s weird to imagine him as a young father. When he came into my life he was already well into his fifties, and Annaliese was a teenager. He never spoke of her as a baby, or of milestones that she went through as a toddler or young kid. Now that I really think of it, any time he mentioned her it was to talk about how something she did affected him, not really mentioning what she was like as a person.
“His back was to me, and so I let myself in, listening partly to his conversation as I played with the trinkets on his bookshelves. I overheard him call whoever was on the phone ‘Princess.’ And in my dumb head I thought he was talking to a real-life princess. He told them ‘whatever my Princess wants, my Princess gets.’” A lone tear falls down her cheek, and she quickly swipes it away. My stomach churns as she continues, sensing where this story is leading.
“I knocked over one of the picture frames on his desk, and he turned at the sound. He quickly said goodbye to whoever he was talking to, and then he came over to me. I was so curious, wondering who he was talking to, so when he picked me up I asked him who the princess was. He swung me around, tickled me and blew raspberries on my neck as he told me that I was his princess. I loved that. I foolishly believed that he was telling whoever was on the phone about me, that he’d buy me whatever I wanted. It wasn’t until years later, when his affairs came to light, that the memory came out of the woodwork and I realized what had truly happened.”
I stare in disbelief with my fists clenched at my sides. The more I get to know Annaliese, the more I peel back those layers and uncover the woman inside, the more my feelings toward Richard change.
What kind of man gives his little girl the same nickname he gives his mistress?
Probably the same kind of man who would ask me to sabotage her career.
“I’m sorry,” I croak out, the words coming out more raw than expected. “That’s … that’s so fucked up.” It’s really the only way to say it. It’s sickening that I went along with all of this without ever truly questioning his reasoning. I think I had convinced myself that he was doing it all because he loved her. Because he was worried about her safety or her education, when really, it has me wondering if Richard really worries about anything besides himself.
She shrugs a shoulder and blows out a shaky breath. “It’s alright. I mean, it’s been over twenty years, shouldn’t I be over it by now?”
With that question, she looks up at me, her chocolate eyes glistening. In many ways, she’s been lied to so much by the people that are supposed to be truthful and loving toward her, and I don’t want to be another one of those liars.
“No, I don’t think you should be,” I tell her honestly. “You have every right to be pissed off. Have you ever told him that you know?”
“No,” she whispers. “Even though we aren’t close, and that it’s so awkward when we are talking in that father-daughter role, there is some weird, innate, stubborn part of me that says because he’s my dad, I’m not allowed to tell him he hurt my feelings.”
I know that all too well. We can be conditioned by our environment when we’re young. My dad would drag me across the floor by my hair and I wouldn’t scream because I knew he didn’t like me screaming. Her dad wasn’t violent, but I’m learning now that he’s used guilt and manipulation to get what he wants from her, and I now wonder if he’s doing the same thing to me.
We grew up in completely different worlds, but both of us live with the guilt and fear that comes with disappointing or hurting someone even when they’ve already hurt us.
