The man who got me into rugby, who shaped and guided me throughout my entire life. The man who’s been to every single game I’ve ever played. The man on an untouchable pedestal stands before me dressed in a gorgeous, expensive tuxedo looking at me like I just killed his beloved family pet instead of liberating myself from a double whammy of betrayal and noxiousness.
I embarrassed him?
Damage control?
What about “We’ll figure things out together, Rhiannon?” or “What support do you need right now, Rhiannon?”
That laugh is still lodged in my chest, threatening to break free like an untied balloon someone has let go of in a crowded space.
“We’ll have to loop in the PR team to mitigate the fall out. I’ve already called the energy drinks company that wanted to sponsor Clíodhna.”
His words fall on my head like icicles, slicing through my self-indulgent haze as the reality of the consequence of my actions fall around me. My breath seizes as I wait for him to tell me I ruined Clí’s chances of getting some extra money about her.
She’s a single mum. Our professional rugby gigs are abhorrently underpaid. If I cost her an opportunity… “Did they…?”
He holds up his hand. “They’re fine to continue their working relationship with your sister.” He pins me with a glare. “But I wouldn’t go knocking on their door with your hat in your hand any time soon.”
The knot of anxiety loosens in my stomach. I didn’t cost anyone anything. This time.
“Did you even think of the potential consequences?” He doesn’t pause for me to tell him I went over everything in my mind with a fine-tooth comb. “Of course you didn’t, you just wanted to get your own back on George.”
He starts pacing, finger tapping his bottom jaw as he does when he’s thinking a problem through. “We’ll talk to him, of course. I bet he’ll want to smooth this over and sort this out between the two of you so we can get the train back on the tracks.”
My heart stops dead in my chest.
I once read that the relationships between oldest daughters and their fathers are the most quietly devastating dynamics, but I never truly understood what that meant until those words came out of my father’s mouth.
Since I was little, he’s never led me wrong. But listening to him prattle on about how we’re going to “fix” this “misunderstanding” with my cheating ex-fiancé is soul destroying. Maybe he doesn’t understand, maybe if I can find the right words to tell him how I’m feeling he’llget it.
My head shakes again.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I won’t go back to him, Daddy.” I’m suddenly seven years old in the living room, my lungs too small for my chest, my rapidly beating heart too big, and my head swimming in the anxiety of being in a confrontation with this behemoth.
He’s quiet for so long that the urge to fill the quiet between us needles me once more, but he holds my stare, studying me like he would a complex play on the field, or a new player he hasn’t gotten a handle on yet. He’s looking at me like I’m a stranger.
Another slash makes its way through my heart. I’m not sure if I’m more angry or devastated, but my body is quietly vibrating with something. Even if I fought back, told him howI’m feeling, all the reasons swirling in my brain, I’m not sure I can make him understand.
My stomach clenches harder, tighter, a wave of what feels dangerously close to grief washing over me as I stand with tears trickling down my face. I swipe at them with frustrated fingers.
“Now, don’t be getting on like that.”
Of course, he’s spied the tears, and of course to him, they’re nothing but an annoyance, a weakness. It couldn’t be that I’m brimming with words, with anger I’ve never allowed to spill out of my mouth in his direction.
The walls are closing in, the air thinning out around me as my father, a man who has undeniably loved his wife for decades, longer than I’ve been alive, wants me to go back to a man who treated me like shit. It’s happening in slo-mo, like a long, drawn-out nightmare where I’m watching myself face him while screaming at myself to say something.
“You want me to marry a cheating piece of shit?” The words tumble out on a ragged breath, tears still coursing down my cheeks. “That’s what you want out of life for me?”
My whole life, I’ve lived on the edge of a cliff, every decision, big or small toeing the right side of the line to make sure I didn’t disappoint him. Every decision leading to this moment.
He starts, eyes flinching wide like I asked him to perform open heart surgery. “If you’re not getting back together with George, I need to figure out what the next steps are. I need to make some calls.”
And just like that, I’m dismissed. He pulls out his mobile and taps on the screen, pausing to make eye contact for just long enough to tell me it’s time to leave.
Any elation and bravado from leaving my wedding have fizzled into a steady drone of doubt.I was justified in what I just did, I know that in my gut. But… maybe he’s right. Maybe I took it too far and really screwed things up.
CHAPTER 3
