Wanting to make it up to her, I say, “What about lunch next week? You can come to BU, and we’ll find a restaurant near campus.”
Her face lights up and slowly falls as her mind immediately goes to what Dad will say. She’s wondering if he’ll allow her to meet me for lunch.
I clench my hands as the urge to punch something careens through me.
Her shoulders droop, and she drops her gaze to the steaks as she salts and peppers them. “Let me check my calendar and get back to you.”
That’s code forI’ll ask your father for permission to leave the premises.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to snap that she’s a grown woman and doesn’t need his consent. But I don’t. Somehow, I manage to rein it in. She’s the last person I want to explode on.
It’s a frustrating situation. I love Mom more than anything, but this behavior and the way Dad’s trained her…it’s difficult to watch.
And even more difficult to stomach.
Once my emotions are locked down tight, I shrug as if it’s no big deal. “Let me know what you decide.”
The corners of her lips lift. “I’ll do that.”
As soon as those words are out of her mouth, the garage door opens. Her body goes on high alert as her breath catches.
“It’s fine, Mom,” I say soothingly through gritted teeth.
She nods, but her eyes dart around the spacious kitchen with its endless sea of white marble counters and stainless-steel appliances, checking to make sure nothing is out of place. Even though she’s in the middle of preparing dinner, everything is perfect and clean. Wiped down and polished. As soon as she uses a spice, it’s put away in the cabinet. As soon as she’s finished with a dish or pan, it’s washed and set back on its shelf.
How the fuck does a person live like this?
It makes me want to smash everything in my path just to tick my father off.
The back door slams and Mom flinches as the sound reverberates through the first floor. A fine tremble racks her hands as she brushes them over the silky material of her dress, making sure it’s in place.
Heavy footfalls land with sharp clicks that echo against the polished marble tile in the hall.
I straighten my shoulders and pull myself up to my full height. It’s ridiculous that I have to remind myself that I’m not the same kid Dad used to push around and bully.
Because that’s exactly what he is. What he’s always been. A fucking bully who needs to be put in his place. Except I can’t do that because he’ll take it out on Mom as soon as I leave. So, I’m stuck constantly biting my tongue and tamping down all my emotions to a place where they’re free to fester.
Dad emerges from the hall. As soon as his gaze locks on mine, his feet grind to a halt. He may act like he’s surprised to find me here, but I know he’s not. He doesn’t say one word in greeting.
Neither do I.
Our relationship evolved past niceties a long time ago. We only act like the perfect family while making public appearances. But here, in the privacy of our own home, he doesn’t bother with pretenses. And I’ve played this game for much too long not to understand the rules. He uses silence like a sledgehammer. He’s all about intimidation.
Ignoring me, Dad saunters into the kitchen, going straight to where Mom stands at the island.
She hasn’t moved a muscle. Her unease is palpable, radiating off her in thick, heavy, suffocating waves. She’s like a trapped bird who’s grown tired of beating her clipped wings against a gilded cage.
Dad surrounds her and invades her personal space. He makes a show of inspecting the steaks. “Did you get these cuts from the butcher?”
“Of course,” she says softly. “They’re T-bones, your favorite.”
He makes a non-committal noise at the back of his throat as if theyaren’t quite up to par, and I want to punch him in the face for being such a dickhead. All three of us know that it’s his favorite cut of meat, but he enjoys toying with her. He relishes the fear emanating off her while she silently waits for his approval like a barely tolerated mutt at his feet.
I ball my hands into fists as anger rushes through me.
It’s beyond me why Mom stays and puts up with this crap. I wish she would pack her bags and leave. But she refuses. She gives me all sorts of bullshit excuses as to why she can’t walk away.
Once I’m drafted to the NFL and start drawing a paycheck, I’m going to get her out of here. There won’t be any excuses left to give. She can’t love this asshole. The possibility makes me shudder. If I never see him again, it would be too soon.
