“Please. I don’t care. What’s he gonna do anyway? Ground me? Take my phone?”
Shit, he can’t take my phone, can he?
Wyn doesn’t answer, but as he puts his car into Park, his eye follows the path up to the front door. Stuart is standing on the porch with both fists resting firmly on his hips.
“Oh, shit,” giggles Wyn. “Your Daddy’s mad.”
“He’s not my Daddy, you dick.”
“Well, he might not be your Daddy, but believe me, that Daddy’s aDaddy. And he’smad.”
I mumble my thanks for the ride and get out of the car. Wyn waves at Stuart as he pulls away. “Sorry, we’re late, Mister, uh, Stuart. It was my fault. I had car trouble.” He must realize his story isn’t especially believable given he’s driving his car because his voice trails off, he winds his window up, and he hits the gas.
Stuart holds the door open for me, one hand still firmly planted on his hip. I sidle past him and head to the kitchen for a glass of water. Even though I only had three drinks, I suddenly feel like I could do with some severe sobering up. He watches me as I drink and waits until I’m done before drilling his gaze so far into the back of my skull that I find myself looking down at my feet to avoid it.
When I dare to look up, his face is dead serious. Set. Fine lines crease around his mouth and dip deep between his drawn brows. It’s horrific how good-looking he is. He's beautiful. Weathered and worn in.
“Your face is like a beautiful leather handbag.”
Oh shit.
Oh Jesus.
Did I just say that out loud?
Please no. No, no, no, no.
“What time do you call this?” he asks, mercifully choosing not to dignify my ridiculous comment with a response. His voice is quiet, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it down to my bones.
My Adam’s apple feels abnormally large, and despite the fact I just had a whole glass of water, I feel a little parched. It’s not that I’m scared. I’m not. I can handle myself.
“S-sorry,” I say.
Fine. Maybe I’m a little scared.
Sue me.
You’d be scared too.
“W-Wyn was late.” Stuart’s face is the picture of a man who is less than impressed. “Sorry,” I say again, and this time, I think I might mean it. “It won’t happen again.”
He glares at me for three beats and then gives me a curt nod.
I’m flooded with a quick burst of relief. This whole evening has been super weird, and I’ve built it up into something really strange in my mind. Of course I feel relieved. Anyone would. It’s entirely the appropriate emotion to feel in the circumstance.
What isn’t appropriate, or explicable in any way, is the fact that relief isn’t all I’m feeling. Right below relief, right under my rib cage below my heart, I feel a complicated knot of rage and disappointment so profound it makes my whole body pulse as I walk past the dining table where Stuart stands.
“What do you think you’re doing?” There’s genuine interest in his voice.
“Uh, I thought I’d watch something. I’m amped from being out. Need to chill so I can fall asleep.”
“Absolutely not. Upstairs now.” His voice is still mild, but both hands are back on his hips. That little gesture takes the rage I’m feeling, pours gasoline on it, and sets it alight.
“You’re like everyone else, d’you know that?” My voice is harsh and drenched in accusation. His lips squeeze together and he eyes me with interest. “You act like you aren’t. You act like you’re different, but you’re not. You say you’re going to do things, and you don’t do them, just like everyone else.”
I’d love it if I had some idea of what I’m doing. I really would. But I don’t. I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m up to. I only know that as I speak, I’m driven by a deep sense of urgency. A resolve. A mad doggedness that’s taken up residency in me and has me in a chokehold.
The lines around his eyes deepen. “I assure you. I amnothinglike that.”
