I share the sentiment. Spending my days alone in his house made me feel lonelier than I already was. Here, the space is smaller, no echo from my solitary footsteps in the grand entryway, no deafening silence.
I’m still on my own, but the sounds filtering in from outside keep the loneliness at bay.
Dad met a woman not long ago—something I learned from Brandon. Our fathers do business together, and apparently, Dad introduced his new girlfriend to them three weeks before handing me the key to this place.
It must’ve been increasingly inconvenient, avoiding his mansion to keep me away from her, so I was evicted.
“They’re plants,” I say, crossing my hands over my chest, my tone emotionless. It’s my only line of defense.
His eyes snap to me again, and I shrink in on myself under his belittling stare. “Whyaren’t you ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“Lunch with Mr. Anderson!”
Lunch means it’s starting all over again. My father’s voice booms in my ears, drowning out the melody Cody’s playing. An invisible hand grips my throat, tightening the hold.Thisiswhy I hate seeing him. Because in nine out of ten cases, it means a few weeks of crying myself to sleep.
Lunch is the first meeting. Casual but professional so Dad can test the water. Three hours of polite conversation tinged with weighted questions to figure out Mr. Anderson’s weaknesses and the most effective bait.
And then, if he considers it the best strategy, he uses me to reel in the catch. Bait and hook. Keep Mr. Anderson coming back to discuss business until he’s in my father’s grasp, dancing on his strings like a lifeless puppet.
“Are you listening to me?” Dad barks, and my stomach tightens, coiling around my spine. “I told you yesterday that I’d pick you up at one o’clock sharp.”
He didn’t tell me. I’ve not spoken to him all week but he’d never admit he forgot to mention the meeting or instruct his assistant to do so. It doesn’t matter who’s at fault.
He’s right, I’m wrong, and end of story.
I play along.
It’s easier that way. Less painful.
“I’m sorry. I’ll be ready in five minutes, I promise.”
“Three. Not a minute longer. Red dress, high heels...” He leaves the remaining demands that I know off by heart hanging in the air unspoken.
His hands are clean if he doesn’t voice them. He can pretend it was my initiative to wear a slutty, revealing dress, even though Dad was the one who bought all my red dresses. He can pretend I purposely chose one that doesn’t accommodate a bra.
That it’smyidea to flaunt my body in Mr. Anderson’s face so Dad can gauge his reaction.
He can pretend I’m a slut, happy to tease older men until they sign contracts, making my father richer and richer and richer...
As if the millions he makes aren’t enough.
That’s all we’ve been doing in the Fitzpatrick household for years—pretending everything is fine.Normal.
Nothing about our family has been fine or normal since my mom was diagnosed with schizophrenia when I was five.
She started having random episodes even earlier. My earliest clear memory is from when I was about four. Mom and I were sitting in the living room watching a Disney movie late into the evening. Dad wasn’t home; it was just us two there when she started talking to herself. Her hands shook as she looked at things I couldn’t see, and when I tried to get her attention she yelled at the wall.
I remember how scared I was the louder she screamed. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get her to look at me. I couldn’t understand what she was yelling. Words jumbled together, her face paled, eyes turned bleak and fearful. She sprang to her feet, frantically pacing the room until she collapsed to her knees by the coffee table, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Why did you kill your daddy?! You killed him!”she accused.
She said I stabbed him in the neck. Kept yelling about blood. Kept pointing at the floor as if Dad lay there bleeding out.
I begged her to stop. I cried and promised that I didn’t do anything, that Dad wasn’t home, that she was wrong...
She wasn’t listening.
