The front door opened, and Scarlett’s high-pitched voice only got more excited as she welcomed Dad home. He made no moveto come in this direction, staying in the living room to smile at Bradley and Scarlett.
I cleared my throat as I continued stirring the soup and leaned back to peer through the archway separating the kitchen from the living room. “Welcome home, Dad.”
His gray eyes flicked away from his wife to meet mine through the archway. His smile tightened. “Hi, honey.”
No sooner had the words left his lips than he turned back to Scarlett and Bradley. I smothered the rush of rejection and stared down into the spinning yellow broth, willing the pain away. I willed it to stay back, hidden in its crack. I told myself that he just couldn’t see the bruise and cut on my forehead from that far away.
He doesn’t care. No one does. Bradley’s right.
Pulling the bread from the oven, I divided the potato soup into four bowls and plated the bread while the trio moved to the dining room, waiting for me to bring dinner out.
I tried to keep up the internal mantra that I was okay, even as Bradley’s earlier words filtered into my head.
Familydinner.
I glanced at Dad as he listened to Scarlett tell some story about a newly wed couple she’d shown a house to today. Meanwhile, I circled the table, placing everyone’s dinner in front of them. A nod of thanks was all I received from Dad as his entire focus remained on her.
Family.
We hadn’t been afamilysince I’d first learned what the word meant.
“Thanks,” Bradley whispered as I finally placed my own food at my seat to his left. He squeezed my leg softly beneath the table before focusing on his food.
Scarlett sampled the soup before scrunching her nose slightly and meeting my eyes from her place at Dad’s right hand side. “A bit heavy on the salt, sweetie. Careful next time.”
I wanted to tell her thatshecould fix dinner for once if she didn’t like it, but I knew that was what she wanted. She wanted to get a reaction out of me so that I looked like the bad guy in front of everyone here. I’d learned her game a long time ago, and while sometimes, I couldn’t keep my retorts back, it was easy tonight. I was too tired and too far gone to care.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized flatly, trying my own bite—which was fucking perfect.
“Serenity,” Dad said, leaning forward to look at me. “Did you hit your head on something?”
I met his gaze, and sweet pinpricks of hope tingled in my chest. He noticed. He noticed me!
I opened my mouth to respond, but Scarlett jumped in with a light chuckle. “You’re so clumsy, Serenity. You’ve always had such a bad habit of falling or knocking something over, leading to you getting a bruise or two. What was it this time? Slip on some ice?”
I stared at my step-mom, and that hope fizzled away until I couldn’t even remember what it had felt like. Those excuses were ones I’d learned from years with her. Every time she left evidence of her “punishments,” I had a rehearsed response—I’d tripped on the stairs, I’d slipped on some soap, I’d had a clumsy mistake. When I still knew what courage was, I’d tried telling Dad that Scarlett had hit me or thrown something at me. He never believed me, and this time would surely be no different.
I looked down at my soup and watched the spinning current around my spoon. “I’m fine.”
Awkward silence fell over the four of us. Dad cleared his throat. “Um, how was your book signing? I’m sorry I couldn’t come. Work has been busy.”
That signing was a month ago. It took an entire month for him to ask. Sure, we hadn’t had dinner like this in that time, but he had a phone. He could’ve called or even fucking texted to ask me how it went. But radiosilence was all I got. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek until the taste of copper filled my mouth. Only once that burn swept through my body did I finally have the strength to answer.
“It was good. My friend—” I swallowed hard as emotion suddenly clogged my throat with the memory of Dante’s smiling face and constant presence that day. I cleared my throat and finished roughly, “My friend came.”
“And what book number is this? Your second book?” Dad asked.
“It was my third.” I pressed my nail into the corner of my raw, bleeding thumb.
He nodded absently, shifting his attention to his food. “Oh, that’s right.”
“How’s the book thing going these days?” Scarlett asked as she stirred her soup. Her gaze briefly met mine. “Making money from it, yet?”
My nail cut harder into my thumb as I peeled a fresh layer of skin back, but that burn didn’t compare to the one churning in my gut.Book thing. That was what she and Dad liked to call it. Not a job. It was just a “thing” I did.
Scarlett’s other question settled inside of me like a bitter pill. It was a question people loved to ask for some reason. You didn’t go up to other people asking if they were making money from their job, so why did they feel the need to ask me that? If it was their way of seeing how things were going with my author journey, there were other ways to inquire that didn’t involve asking about whether I was making money or not.
“You know,” I started slowly, my foot now tapping along to the pace at which I picked at my thumb. I used my free hand tocontinue stirring my soup in an effort to appear at ease. “It’s … It’s getting there. I made $13 this month off of book sales.”
