39. Kennedy
39
KENNEDY
SEVERAL DAYS LATER
L ong about mid-morning, Dad’s truck rumbles into the driveway, and I bolt out of my room. I catch him just as he lowers the tailgate and retrieves a fishing pole. He looks as if he hasn’t slept in weeks, but his features brighten up as soon as he spots me.
“Well, look who’s back. Hi there, sweetheart!”
“Dad, we need to talk.”
“Missed me that much? Let me get inside first.”
I manage a weak smile. His eyes wander to my stomach, hips, and legs, and a puzzled expression forms on his face. “Did you pack on a few pounds from Mom’s cooking?”
“Dad! Rude .”
“It was a compliment, sweetheart. You looked awfully skinny the last time I saw you.”
I take a deep breath. “Dad, when I was in college, did you force Cade to break up with me?”
The first rule in a cross-examination: Hit them with the unexpected.
Weeks of shadowing Cade, soaking up his tips and strategies, had its perks, no doubt.
I watch as my father’s brows furrow a bit, and his grip tightens around the fishing pole, knuckles whitening with the effort of maintaining composure. It’s a subtle shift, but one I’ve come to recognize all too well.
Dad clears his throat and straightens his posture. “Sweetheart,” he begins, his voice low and measured, “why would you think that?”
My face pales. He resorts to a lawyer tactic of his own, one I immediately identify: dodging a question and launching a counterattack. Two can play that game.
“Did you tell Cade that if he didn’t break up with me, you would ruin his life?” I challenge, observing him closely.
He shakes his head, his expression hardening. “Where’s all this coming from?”
“Did you tell him he wasn’t good enough for me?”
“What?”
“Answer me, Dad. Did you?”
If he were to grip that fishing pole any tighter, it would snap. “Kennedy, I only want what’s best for you.”
My heart pounds out of my chest. “So, you’re not denying it?”
His eyes narrow with the same intensity that I imagine once silenced courtrooms. His gaze holds mine, searching for answers. I catch a glimpse, just a tiny one, of the man behind the judge. The father who faces the challenge of probing and of withstanding his daughter’s mind. He may be a judge in the courtroom, but at home he’s just my dad, and I wish he would remember that.
He’s rooted in place, unflinching, like he’s waiting for me to crack first.
That’s when I know he’ll keep refusing to give me a straight answer as to what happened.
People don’t change .
I know the truth, despite his attempts to dodge a clear answer. What had Cade said when I interrogated him? Keeping quiet beats telling lies any day . Or, to frame it in legal terms: Withholding the truth is always better than making a false statement. This one is another enduring courtroom tactic, old as time and still in play.
The tension between us thickens by the second. But I refuse to back down.
Before he can respond, Mom comes charging out of the house, a bright smile on her face. “Welcome home, dear!” she exclaims, throwing her arms around Dad in a warm hug. “How was the trip?”
“It was good, a nice break.” He returns her embrace, eyes on her. “Caught a few decent-sized ones, but the weather took a turn, so we decided to head back early.”
She steps back, beaming. “I’m glad you had a good time, John, and even happier that you came home a few days earlier than expected. Now, brace yourself for two bombshells. One: Kennedy’s now officially a permanent resident here! Two: She registered to take the LSATs!”
Dad’s eyebrows shoot up, and the hardness in his eyes fades into something else. Pride. “My daughter, the lawyer. I couldn’t be prouder.” He looks at me, surprised and genuinely happy.
“Well, I’m not a lawyer yet,” I say.
“ Yet ,” Dad repeats with a genuine smile. Just a few weeks ago, I’d have given anything to hear him express his pride in me and witness that heartfelt smile. Now, I can barely hold back from telling him that I’m doing this for myself. Not for Cade, and not for him.
“Only a matter of time!” Mom chimes in with her sing-song voice.
I force a smile, for Mom’s sake. “Thanks, Mom!”
She nods and glances back at Dad. “John dear, can you bring your luggage in? I’ll start the laundry in a bit. Lunch will be ready in twenty minutes.” With that, she takes the fishing pole from his hand and swirls back inside, leaving us alone again.
I take a deep breath, turning back to my father.
“Did you, Dad?” I repeat, my voice quieter but no less insistent.
He finally shakes his head, looking weary. He can sense my determination. I won’t give up until I get the answers.
“I need to freshen up after the trip,” he says. He grabs his bags from the truck and heads inside. When he walks passed me, he grumbles, “We’ll eat, then we’ll talk.” His voice has the finality of a judge adjourning a session.
I watch him go, knowing he’ll use this time to mull things over.
It’s not ideal, but it’s all I have.
Right now, I hate him. I feel a deep shame for hating him, and then I hate him even more because he’s the reason I feel so much shame about myself. It’s crazy. Twisted. I don’t want to feel this way, not towards my dad, whom I’ve loved my whole life and thought would never hurt me like this. It’s the kind of feeling that leaves a scar on your soul.
With Cade, it’s different, but also the same. He hurt me, twice (twice! How dumb am I?), but I’ll use those scars to remind myself: I’m not falling for him a third time.
I’ve read so many times that it’s better to have loved and experienced the pain than to never have loved at all. Right now, though, I’d gladly trade all that for a bland, uneventful life. One without love, and definitely without Cade. On top of that, both Cade and my dad make me feel incredibly stupid. It’s not just the way they’ve made decisions for me, though that alone is a massive overreach. They’ve both been lying to me for ten years. My dad, in particular, is infuriating. How could he have looked me in the eye all those years while knowing he was the one who pushed Cade out of my life?
Lunch is a quiet affair. I can barely eat anything, while Dad shovels his food down, mumbles something about washing his hands, and then bolts from the room as if the devil himself were on his heels. I can’t imagine why he’s so worked up. It’s only his daughter who’s waiting to interrogate him.
Then, the sound of the car engine rumbling to life jolts me out of my musings. I rush to the window just in time to see the taillights disappear down the driveway.
Where’s Dad going?
This isn’t fair. We had plans!
Well, he’ll be back eventually. He can’t escape me forever.
Mom is humming in the kitchen, tidying up. I grab a dish towel and help her with the cleanup with a bit of extra gusto. The smell of roast beef still lingers in the house, mixing with the aroma of freshly baked bread. For a moment, I lose myself in the comforting familiarity of the smells.
“Everything okay?” Mom asks without turning around.
I hesitate, then force a smile. “Yeah. I’m just a bit annoy… I’m tired, that’s all.”
She throws a knowing glance over her shoulder. She sees right through me, thanks to her motherly intuition. Normally she’d press me for more, but today, she lets my vague answer slide. “You know, your dad loves you more than anything. Even more than his life, I think. I know it’s not easy to forgive him, but you should at least try.”
If I hadn’t been able to control myself, I would have snapped back with something like, “Sure, people have committed horrific acts in the name of love. Mom, can you not grasp that what Dad did, resulted in something unbearably cruel?” But I pull myself together and don’t say anything.
I know. Maybe I’m going overboard here. In the end, she’s right.
It doesn’t make it any better. Or any easier.
He’s still my dad, and I love him.