“Of course, Dorothy. It’s just hard not to be reminded that our oldest had been made a partner at his firm by the time he reached Emma’s age.”
“Honestly. Harold—”
My father held up his hand, silencing my mom, who huffed and crossed her arms. “Is it too much to ask that you prioritize obtaining a respectable position within the community, Emma?”
“Unless you’d forgotten, Dad, I had a very well-respected job at one of the finest universities in South Carolina.” I stressed the wordhad, clenching my teeth to keep my temper in check.
“How could I forget? When you consistently bring it up instead of moving on and focusing on what you could accomplish at Cresswell?”
I gripped the edge of the table until my knuckles turned white, willing my father to stop talking before we both said things that couldn’t be taken back.
“Brad Davis was an upstanding member of society and a tenured professor at that university, Emma. You should have been honored to be his teaching assistant.”
I knocked my almost empty bottle to the floor before standing and watching it roll under the table. My pulse roared in my ears, and my vision blurred as I gripped the table’s edge again, closing my eyes and taking two deep, steadying breaths. Perhaps this was my fault for downplaying the entire situation.
No. Nope. I was the victim and will not be shamed for that or anything else that occurred.
When the bright, flashing colors stopped their insistent pulsing behind my eyelids, I opened them, focusing on my father through the tears that threatened to cascade down my cheeks.
“Professor Bradly Davis was nothing more than a predator. A piece of pond scum, too good to be digested by the lowliestof one-celled creatures. He came on to me—without cause or provocation—and insinuated part of my duties was toservicehim.”
“I’m sure his words were misconstrued—”
“Stop it! Stop making light of what happened. He was fired less than six months after I was, and still, you somehow twisted the situation to make it seem like I had it coming.”
“Emma—”
“No. I am finished trying to prove anything to you. Not that it would matter. Nothing I do matters to you. Not even when that real estate mogul helped the paper break the story of his behavior, and five other girls came forward with similar stories to mine. That didn’t make a difference. It was still my fault I was let go from the university. You still had to come to my rescue, even though I got the interview and provisional contract without your help.”
I wasn’t sure when the tears started, but I wiped furiously at my face, shaking off my mother’s arm. She gripped me more firmly, running soothing circles along my back. I took comfort in her touch, knowingshewasn’t the issue. The entire fiasco with the disgraced professor wasn’t truly the issue, either.
It was him—my father—refusing to accept me as I was. He needed to tear me down and build me to fit into this pretty little box of his design. The perfect daughter with her straight blonde hair and size four waist who only needed a husband and her daddy to take care of her.
Not me—with my frizzy hair and pouchy stomach. My loud mouth and high alcohol tolerance. The eldest and middle child played the game—but not the youngest—not me.
“I’m done, Dad. Done with you belittling me. Done thinking my life is wrong because it isn’t what you want. Done spending time with you when your sole purpose of our time together seems to be how to make me feel the worst.”
“Oh. Sweetheart. How had I not seen how unhappy you were?”
“No. Don’t do that, Mom. I’m well aware of my issues, and they are my own. I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty.”
I leaned into her touch as she tilted her head like she was seeing me for the first time. I almost buckled under her gaze but made myself stare as the tears continued to fall. This wasn’t her problem to fix, but I hoped she’d see the determination in my eyes and be a better advocate than half-hearted comments toward my dad, whose face resembled an overcooked lobster.
Some part of me hoped that standing up to him would inch me higher on his respect-o-meter, but the logical portion knew this conversation had been years in the making. Perhaps I should have carried notecards to ensure my top ten concerns were addressed.
“But I am finished feeling guilty for my choices. I love my life, my friends, and my job—even though the conditions can be a little out there. Conditions, I know, Dad, that you helped instigate.”
I sighed, pinching my nose and closing my eyes to stop the flow of tears. “I’m going to get going, I have an early morning.”
I didn’t bother picking the beer bottle off the floor but was tempted to grab a biscuit from the basket in the center. Times of high stress like this required vigorous exercise—or carbs.
Maybe a mixture of both.
I shook my head, grabbing my purse from where it hung on the back of my chair and turning toward the front door. There were no words of apology or calls to stay. That made it better—almost. Not having to justify how I feel or sit through an awkward, stilted conversation.
Things would be back to normal after a week—or they wouldn’t. This entire three-minute conversation could irrefutably change the relationship for the better or worse.Regardless of what happened in the future, I needed this—for me.
“Wha—” I said aloud, turning the radio down in my car and looking around. I didn’t remember getting into the vehicle or driving—too engrossed with replaying the argument to focus on anything but my thoughts. What did it say about me that, on instinct, I found myself outside of Miller’s house?
