Page 2 of Fractured Heart

Taking the hint, I recycle the empty bottle and get him a cold one from the fridge. Father opens it. He takes a long gulp and lets out a contented sigh.

“Sit. Eat,” he orders. “Keep your old man company.”

“Yes, Father.” I grab a bowl of stew and sit down across from him. I’m still tense, waiting for another tirade, but Father stays silent. Maybe this won’t be one of those nights after all.

As I start to eat, I mentally go over the lyrics of the song I wrote this afternoon. In the first verse, Cinderella arrives at the ball. She finds out that Prince Charming never showed and her heart sinks. She thinks her night is ruined until she gets asked to dance. Then, she twirls around and around in her beautiful blue gown, smiling as she switches partners every song.

Surrounded by my princes

The music shall play on

Midnight’s hour shall come and go

But we’ll still dance till dawn…

It’s my best song yet, and I smile when I reach the chorus.

“Stop that,” Father demands, slamming his fist on the table.

“Sorry.” I duck my head and squeeze my lips shut, so no sound can escape. I have to consciously focus on staying quiet—on not singing the song still playing in my head. When it comes to music, I can’t help myself.

“Is there dessert?” Father spits out, more stew peppering the table as he speaks. “I want some goddamn dessert.”

“Apple pie.”

Even though I’ve barely had a chance to eat, I jump to my feet. I bought the pie ready-made this morning so all I have to do now is heat up a slice and add a scoop of ice cream. It’s a lot safer than me actually baking, especially after last time. I’d had the pie in the oven when I came up with an awesome idea for a song about Fairy Godmother. I only got distracted for a second and then…

“Stop humming!” Father shouts, eyes narrowing. “And get me some pie.”

“Right away!” I rush to the fridge.

“This is why you’re not married,” Father grumbles as I take out the bakery box. “No husband would ever put up with you, and I’ll drink to that.”

My heart sinks, because he’s right. What’s the point of daydreaming about handsome princes when I can’t even get one regular guy? Scratch that, any guy…even some pimply college freshman.

I’m not even all that pretty. Father’s always reminding me that I’m too skinny and that my face is plain and freckly. What bothers me most is that my mousy, brown hair and plain brown eyes remind me of him.

Plus—I hate to admit this—but no guy has ever asked me out. If I wasn’t the coach’s precious daughter, and therefore completely off-limits, maybe I could have had some desperate prom date. But no guy was willing to anger Father just to go out with someone like me.

“You’re a screw-up,” Father mutters as I set the slice of apple pie in front of him. “An ugly screw-up.”

His words are like a physical blow and the excuses just bubble out. “But I finished the laundry, Father. I got groceries and made dinner, too. I’m almost done scrubbing the bathroom floor and—”

“Roonie!” He cuts off my babbling. “Did you just talk back to me?”

There’s a note of warning in his tone as he lowers his fork and white-knuckles his spoon. I gulp as his glare burns into me.

“N-no.” I quickly lower my gaze.

“And since when is almost good enough?” He shouts, like he’s on the field addressing his team.

“Sorry, Father.” My body tenses with fear.

“Sorry? Sorry?!” Father slams the beer bottle on the table, dishes rattling together from the force. He jumps to his feet and his chair scrapes across the ceramic floor.

The familiar sound makes me cringe and I instinctively back away. Father may be drunk, and he definitely no longer has the look of a quarterback, but he’s still fast on his feet. He stumbles forward, swings his arm back, and slaps me across the face. The sharp sound echoes through the small kitchen as pain shoots down my jaw. Tiny needles prickle across my skin.

“I’m sorry,” I cry, gripping my stinging cheek.