“It is that simple,” she cuts me off. “Your dad's throwinga tantrum because he can't control you anymore. That's his problem, not yours.”
I swallow hard, wiping my tears with the back of my hand. “But what if he never forgives me?”
“Then he's the one missing out.” Naila's voice softens slightly. “Look, I get it. Family is important. But you can't live your life trying to make everyone else happy. What about what makes you happy?”
“Beckham,” I whisper without hesitation.
“Exactly.” She sits back in her seat. “And if your dad can't see how fucking happy hot hockey daddy makes you, then he's being selfish.”
I let out a wet laugh. “Please don't ever call him that to my dad's face.”
“I won't,” she promises with a grin. “But seriously, Henny. You're a badass bitch who deserves to be happy. Stop letting your dad guilt-trip you into thinking you've done something wrong.”
“But what if?—”
“Enough with the what-ifs.” She grabs my hand, squeezing it. “You need to stand up to him. Make him see you're serious about Beckham. Make him understand this isn't some rebellion or phase.”
I take a deep breath, feeling something settle in my chest. “You're right.”
“Of course I'm right. I'm always right.”
“I should talk to him,” I say, my mind already racing. “Like, actually talk to him. Not just yell and storm out.”
“There you go.” Naila nods approvingly. “Show him the woman Beckham sees—strong, determined, knows what she wants.”
“And if he still won't listen?”
“Then you move forward.” She shrugs. “Your dad will either get on board or he won't, but you can't put your life on hold waiting for his permission.”
I turn the key in the ignition, feeling a new resolve. “I'm going to go see him. Today.”
“That's my girl.” Naila buckles her seatbelt. “Just promise me one thing?”
“What?”
“No matter what happens with your dad, you won't let it change things with Beckham.”
The thought makes my stomach clench. “I won't.”
“Good.” She settles back in her seat. “I love you, bitch.”
After dropping Naila off, I drive straight to my parents' house, my heart hammering against my ribs the entire way. My hands are slick with sweat on the steering wheel despite the chill. I don't call ahead. If I do, Dad will make some bullshit excuse about being busy.
I park in the driveway, noticing Mom's car is gone. Good. I need him alone for this.
The spare key feels heavy in my palm as I let myself in. The house smells like coffee and cinnamon—Dad's been baking again, which means he's stressed. He stress-bakes the way other men drink or throw punches.
“Marie?” his voice calls from the kitchen.
I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. “It's me.”
Silence. Then the sound of a chair scraping against tile.
Dad appears in the hallway, flour dusting his forearms. His expressionhardens when he sees me.
“What are you doing here?” The coldness in his voice stings worse than any slap.
“We need to talk.” I don't let my voice waver. “Actually talk, not yell at each other.”
