All week. All week I've been tiptoeing around him, afraid to say the wrong thing, terrified I'll stop his heart again. And here he is, red-faced and very much alive.
"Have you been eavesdropping the whole time?" I ask.
"Somebody has to talk sense into you. Your mother clearly won't."
"Dad, I want to leave because you don't need my help, and I don't live here anymore. I want to go home."
"Thisishome."
"Of course it is," I start impatiently. "But it's notmyhome. I have a job and a house and a life of my own, and I need to get back to it."
"Andhim."
"And him," I echo, since he needs to hear me say it.
"Of all the men you could choose--" he starts.
"He's the best of all of them. I don't want anyone else."
"You have no business being with a man that old, a man like him."
"You mean we don't look like whatever story you made up about what my life should be? He doesn't look like whatever guy you created in your head that checks all your little boxes? I don't know if you realize this, but that guy doesn't exist. The life you've dreamed up for me isn't the life I will likely end up choosing. So all this--the pushing and control and fighting--is for nothing. All it's doing is pushing me away. I regret coming here," I admit, turning to leave the kitchen. "I should have stayed home."
"That man is too old for you," Dad snaps from my heel. "He's violent. He's not what we want for you--"
"Whatyouwant," I shoot back. "You don't get to decide--"
"I'm your father!"
I whirl around. "But I'm not a child! I'm not a teenager. I'm a grown woman, and you're so angry that I'm making my own choices--"
"Rob, please--" Mom reaches for his arm, but he shakes her off.
"I don't need you to protect me!" I snap. "You've made every choice for me up until now, so I imagine it pisses you off that I don't even ask for your advice, but I don't want it. I don't need it."
"Molly!" Mom gasps.
But Dad talks over her. "You bought a house you can't handle, you're with a man who gets in fights--"
"Are you serious?" I'm shaking. "All week--all week--I've been terrified to say a single word because Mom said it could kill you. And here you are, screaming at me, totally fine."
Something flickers across his face. Guilt maybe. Or just annoyance at being caught.
"That's different--"
"It's not different. It's worse."
"You're too young to know what you want," Dad finishes. "Too naive to see what's right in front of you."
Whatever else he says is drowned under my fury. "That's it." My voice is deadly calm. "I love you, but that's it."
"What do you mean that's it?" Mom asks, following me to my room.
"I'm leaving." I throw my bag on the bed and start shoving things in.
"How? You don't have a car."
"Call an Uber. Rent a car. Because I'm old enough torent a car. I think I can handle choosing who I date without your approval."
