54. Harper
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
HARPER
As soon as Tyler leaves, I pluck up the courage to knock on my father’s office door. He’s sitting behind his desk when I enter, with a bottle of whiskey and a crystal tumbler. His tie is loose, and his collar is undone.
He stares at the tumbler, too disgusted to look at me. “I don’t recognize you, Harper. Pregnant at eighteen. Not married. Your mother would be furious with me for letting this happen.”
My stomach twists, a slow, nauseating churn that makes me feel like I’m about to be sick.
I drop my head, knowing she’d be furious with me too.
Thank God Dad doesn’t know about my relationship with Felix.
Sleeping with Tyler is bad enough in his eyes, but Felix—two brothers —he would have an aneurism.
“This boy needs to marry you.”
My head whips back up. “Dad?—”
“I am not letting my eighteen-year-old daughter have a child outside of marriage.”
I don’t want to have a child outside of marriage either. But I hate the way he’s going about this, making demands and treating me like I’m a reckless child who needs to be disciplined. He’s acting like I can’t be trusted to make my own choices.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I can’t be trusted. The old me wouldn’t have let this happen. The old me was sensible and strict.
“I need to call Tyler’s father.” He mindlessly twists the tumbler back and forth, then scoffs.
“Not that Josh will care about the mess his son has gotten you into. The Blackwood family have caused us nothing but trouble ever since Lenore died. Josh has always offloaded his problems onto me and your mother. This will be no different.”
I shake my head. “It isn’t your place to tell Josh. Tyler and I need to speak with him.”
My father shoots down his whiskey then pours himself another glass. “Go to your room. I need time to think.”
“Dad—”
His fist slams onto the desk so hard that the whiskey sloshes over the rim of the tumbler. “I said go to your room! Do not talk back to me.”
I jolt, never having seen him so furious. The sharp crack of his voice digs under my skin, leaving my legs weak.
Even still, he doesn’t look at me. Shuddering, I follow his orders, wiping the tears from my eyes with each step back to my room.
My father doesn’t recognize me anymore. I don’t recognize him either. Not once has he asked how I’m feeling. If I’m scared. He’s never been the nurturing kind, but he’s shown a gentle side since Mom died.
There’s nothing gentle in him now. Maybe I deserve every ounce of his disappointment.
I sink onto my bed, pressing my hands against my stomach. I fucked up. That’s for sure .
I wish Mom were here.
But the thought of her only makes the tears stream faster.
Would she comfort me? Or would she view me the way my father does—like I’m nothing but a disgrace?