I didn't answer, but my silence was confirmation enough.
His eyes softened. "Ivy?—"
“Please, Liam." I was crying now, ugly sobs I couldn't contain, the kind that came from your belly and left you hollow. "Please don't tell him. Not tonight. Give me time to get away. If he comes after me, if he tries to stop me—" I shook my head. "Something terrible will happen. I know it will. Wyatt's got too much good in him to throw it away on someone like me."
"You're not?—"
"You don't know what happens in my house." The words came out bitter, poisoned. "You don't know what I come from. But you know Wyatt. If he finds out, if he tries to protect me, he'll end up in prison or worse. And I won't let that happen."
He sighed and stepped aside, clearing my path to the window. "If you're going to leave, stay gone. And I don’t mean that to hurt your feelings, I’m protecting his. Because if you come back and leave again, it really will destroy him."
I nodded, unable to speak, and climbed back out the window. Behind me, I heard Liam whisper, "I hope that scholarship is worth it."
The bike ride home was a blur of tears and terror. Part of me hoped my father would be asleep. Part of me hoped he'd be awake and angry enough to give me a reason to stay gone forever, to make this leaving feel like escape instead of abandonment.
He was waiting on the porch, bottle of Jim Beam in hand, eyes mean with drink. He'd positioned himself in the old rocking chair that had been his daddy's, the one that creaked with every movement. Cigarette smoke curled around his head like a diseased halo.
"Where you been, girl?"
"Out."
"Out where?" His words slurred but sharp, every one soaked in whiskey and hate. "Whorin’ with that Blackwood boy again?"
The screen door slammed against the wall as I tried to slip past him, but he moved faster than a drunk bastard should. His hand shot out and clamped on my arm, fingers digging right into old bruises.
"I asked you a fuckin’ question!"
"Let go."
He leaned close enough that I could smell the sour booze on his breath. "You think you’re too good for this house now? Too good for me? You think that rich cowboy’s gonna save you?" He laughed, the sound jagged as broken glass. "You ain’t shit, Ivy. You never been shit. White trash daughter of white trash. That’s all you’ll ever be."
"Let. Go."
"Or what?" His eyes went wild. "You gonna run cryin’ to his daddy? You think Owen fuckin’ Blackwood’s gonna give a damn? That man wipes his boots on people like us.” He shook me again, hard enough my teeth clacked. “You really think his boy’s gonna throw his fancy life away for a piece of backwoods ass like you?"
I tore free and stumbled back, grabbing the porch rail. "I’m leaving."
His upper lip curled like a rabid dog. ”The hell you are."
"I’m eighteen. You can’t stop me."
He straightened up, swaying but steady enough to be dangerous. "You walk out that door, you’re dead to me, you hear? You’re no fuckin’ daughter of mine." He jabbed a finger toward the darkness where the Blackwood lights flickered faint and far. "And you tell that pretty-boy cowboy if he comes near my land again, I’ll put a bullet through his fuckin’ skull. I’ll make his daddy watch me do it."
My stomach twisted. "Don’t you dare?—"
"I’ll fuckin’ dare," he snarled, spit flying with every word. "He steps foot here again, I’ll kill him, then I’ll come for you. You don’t get to shame me, you ungrateful little bitch."
“I’m eighteen. I can do whatever I want.” He came a step closer. The smell of whiskey and sweat rolled off him. The slap came fast, the crack echoing in the night. My head snapped sideways, blood flooding my mouth.
I wiped the blood off my lip and met his eyes. "I was never your daughter," I said, steady even through the sting. "Daughters are things you love. And you don’t know how to love anything but that goddamn bottle."
He lunged for me, but I was younger, sober, desperate. I dodged, but he caught my hair, yanking me back with enough force to tear some loose. His fist caught my ribs, driving the air from my lungs. My nails raked his cheek, drawing blood. A lamp shattered—the one my grandmother had given Mama as a wedding gift.
Then suddenly she was there, my mousy mother who'd never stood up to him once in her life, who'd spent twenty years looking at the floor and making excuses for bruises. She was wielding a cast-iron skillet like a weapon, the one she made his eggs in every morning, scrambled soft the way he liked them.
"Run," she hissed, blocking his path with her small body, skillet raised. "Get your things and run, baby."
"Mama—"
