Another deluge of grief hits me as I understand he knew about my bullying when he stared at my painting in class. I thought he saw me, understood my art, but reluctantly concede it must have been an informed guess.
He never saw me at all.
“Can I sleep here, tonight? I don’t want to be on my own.”
“Of course.” She presses a kiss to my forehead. “But you’d better take off those fancy shoes before they tear a hole in my duvet.”
ZANE
I’m in the studio when dad returns home. Not doing anything. Not even staring. Just existing in the place I used to love above all other rooms in the house and for the past two years have been too torn apart with grief to enter.
Ironic then, to seek solace here when I’m once again drowning in grief; once again lost. Terrified I’ve driven away the most amazing girl to enter my life. The one whose splintered edges matched perfectly to mine.
And this time, the grief is my fault. I manufactured it, one stupid, selfish action at a time. I deserve this devastation.
No wonder I could barely speak, my mind blanker than my expression as Avon laid every real and imagined transgression at my door.
I don’t know how much time passes before light spills from the back door and I hear footsteps on the path. Dad has avoided this place more than I have, so I know how much it costs him to walk through the door, cross to the workbench, and slide down to sit next to me.
“Do you want to explain what’s going on?”
There’s no reproach in his voice. He’s far calmer than I’ve seen him in a while but that’s no surprise. The part of his job that’s most valuable is dealing effectively with a crisis.
I fill him in, having to backtrack occasionally, sometimes halting as I deal with the crippling sensation of being smothered.
Eventually, I stop, and I’ve only given him the cliff notes version. The horrendous of my words is only overshadowed by the actions themselves.
My stomach feels hollow. My chest empty. I draw in a hitching breath, counting to ten in my head as I slowly exhale.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Sure. I’ll just pop it into a text so you can read it between board meetings.” The aggression in my voice makes me wince, and I try again in a softer tone. “I told the people who were here.”
I cover my face with my arm, so I don’t have to see how those words land. There’s a deep exhaustion inside me, the same as I felt in the weeks after Mum’s death. The desire to just stop.
Then I glance to my side, needing to see his reaction as I ask, “Did she say anything? On the ride home.”
“She didn’t say a word, and I didn’t ask.” He lets out a long sigh. “She was completely distraught.”
“I know.” My voice cracks. “Going through Stevenson was meant to make it safer; the setup, the agreements, the scripts, then it all fell apart because of one stupid coincidence.”
“She wasn’t upset with you tonight because of the party,” my dad says, his voice sharp.
And he’s right. It’s easier to blame fate than blame myself. “The sentencing judge hated me. I thought if it came out, he’d send me to prison, and it got stuck in my head, over and over until I couldn’tthink, I just reacted and made everything so much worse. And I tried to stay away, but this kid picked on her, because of me, and I had to stop him because I couldn’t stand the guilt.”
He puts a hand on my back, rubbing in a circle and I close my eyes, needing to get everything out or it will be stuck in my head forever.
“I told myself to stay away, but she was so perfect and every time we interacted, I found out something more to like about her until all I wanted was to make up for everything I’d done, and it all came out in stupid ways.”
“She forgave you?” His voice is incredulous, and I can’t blame him.
“No.” I give a bitter laugh, wondering how I ever thought Avon and I were okay when the only way we could get close was by pretending the rest of the world didn’t exist. “We just avoided the subject altogether.”
That elicits a small chuckle. “Nice to know you take after me in more than stunning good looks.”
Dad stands and I think he’s about to leave, the gaping emptiness opening inside me again, but he moves across the room, navigating easily in the darkness. Along the wall, he pulls out a painting, finding an empty easel to display it on.
“Your mother painted that when you were two years old,” he says, taking a seat on the floor again beside me. “When she took you and left me.”
