Chapter 8 #2
up her place. She changed the sheets, picked up the clothes from everywhere she’d flung them and started a load of laundry.
She dusted, then eyed the vacuum, but there was no way she could manage that right now, so she did a quick clean of the main
bathroom before making coffee and retreating to her den.
Printouts of her screenplay were scattered around, but her mind was too jumbled for her to focus. Normally she would go for
a run or hit the gym before trying to write, but neither was an option, so she was going to have to get creative.
She opened a desk drawer and pulled out her set of throwing knives, then went into the dining alcove where she kept a paper silhouette of a man tucked behind the hutch.
She leaned it against the wall and smiled when she saw the head shot of Prescott Jameson—hunky actor, action hero, ex-boyfriend and total asshole—was still taped in place.
“Hello, Prescott,” she said with a grin. “Want to play a game?”
She hop-stepped to the far end of the dining room and steadied her breathing. After closing her eyes, she imagined the knife
flying straight and true toward the target, landing directly in the center of his chest. Then she opened her eyes and released
the blade.
It flew across the room and landed two feet from the target, thunking as it sank into the wall.
“Well, shit.”
She threw all of the knives, getting closer until she managed to hit the target, just below Prescott’s very square jaw.
“And that’s a win for me.”
Feeling refreshed and mentally clear, she returned to her office and settled in front of her laptop. She was going to reread
what she had so far with the idea that tomorrow she would actually write five new pages. Later, she would check in with her
critique group to see when the next meeting was. She would go to that because she needed the social contact as much as she
needed their thoughts on her most current scene. Oh, and if she was planning to drive there, and she was, she needed to take
her car out later today, just to make sure she was physically capable of driving.
She followed through with her plan, and by the time her groceries were delivered at eleven thirty, she was feeling pretty
damned virtuous. But as she started unpacking her order, she found herself regretting all the healthy options. Sure, grilled
chicken breasts, tons of fruit and bagged salad were good for her, but why hadn’t she thought to add some tortilla chips to
the order? Or ice cream?
Should she make a grocery store run by herself? She couldn’t carry much, what with the crutches, but surely she could manage a couple of pints of ice cream and a—
Her doorbell rang. She glanced in that general direction, wondering if it was her mom coming to check on her. Not that Ava
stopped by without calling, but a case could be made that they’d parted on more uneasy terms than usual.
“I’m coming,” she called as she made her way to the door and opened it only to exhale in relief when she saw her father standing
there. Even more exciting, he was holding two big takeout bags from The Cheesecake Factory.
“I brought lunch,” he said, walking into her place and kissing her on the cheek. “I wasn’t sure if you had food or not so
I brought you an order of Bang-Bang Chicken and Shrimp to warm up for dinner tonight.”
The sight of him, the thoughtfulness of the food and the general air of affection for her he always exuded made her throw
herself at him. He set the food on the coffee table and pulled her close.
“How are you, baby girl?”
“Better now.”
When she pulled back, he looked around. “The place looks good. That makes me happy. I was worried you were, you know, hiding
out.”
“You mean staying in bed and not taking care of myself?” she asked, refusing to admit that was how she’d spent the last three
days. “Dad, come on. I’m super tough. I’ve been dealing in my own way.”
“You’re getting around okay?”
“I am. Later I’m going to try driving.”
He frowned. “Should you be doing that?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my right leg. I’m good.”
He carried the food into the kitchen. In addition to the chicken, he’d brought her two different kinds of cheesecake slices. For lunch there was the Chinese chicken salad for her and the Cuban sandwich for him. Also an order of avocado egg rolls for them to share.
She got them each a glass of ice water, then sat across from him and leaned her crutches against a spare chair.
“Does Mom know what you’re having for lunch?” she asked with a grin. “Because there’s no way she’d approve of that sandwich.”
“Or the fries,” he said cheerfully. “I eat right ninety percent of the time. This is a special event.”
“Lunch at my place?”
“Having lunch with my daughter.”
He was teasing, of course, but the words still felt good. She knew that, no matter what, her dad would be there for her. They’d
always had a bond like that. When she’d been little and had nightmares, he’d been the one to sit up with her until she calmed
down enough to go to sleep. Running to her parents’ room and crawling into bed with them had never been an option. They’d
never told her she couldn’t—instead it was something she simply didn’t do.
He’d also been the one to sit with her when she got sick, and he’d always come with her and her mom to the first day of school.
While her relationship with her mother had been fraught, having Milton as her father was easy. No matter what, he was there
for her.
“You look good,” he told her. “The black eyes are nearly gone. How are you doing otherwise?”
“Good. I’ve started exercising as best I can. I see my doctor next week for a quick check-in, then the orthopedist in a couple
of weeks.”
At some point she would get a walking cast, and wouldn’t that be fun. It was easy to take mobility for granted until it was
taken away.
“Can we talk about your stunt work?” her father asked.
“You mean the fact that it’s dangerous and I could get hurt and you’d rather that I didn’t?”
“Only if we change could to did. And it’s not the first time.”
She sighed. “I know. It was a very random accident, but it still happened.” The other times she’d been injured, she’d been
itching to get back to work. Not so much this time. Honestly she hadn’t even thought about having to find a stunt job when
she was healed. Something for her to mull when she was alone.
“There are other ways to be in the business,” he said casually.
She stared at him. “Dad, no. I’m not looking to work in the movie industry.”
“You’re writing a screenplay, and you’re a stuntperson. What would you call it?”
“Oh, right,” she said, picking up one of the egg rolls and dunking it in the sauce. “Well, the writing thing was your suggestion.”
She’d been telling her dad about the horrible breakup she’d had with Prescott, and he’d told her that, while sad, the story
was also funny. At least the way she talked about it.
“A lot of people talk about writing a screenplay,” he pointed out. “You’ve actually followed through. You’re also talented.”
She smiled at him. “Thanks, but you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve read a pretty crappy first draft. It’s better
now.”
“Then I can’t wait to read it, because the first draft was excellent.”
“Oh, Dad, it was garbage, and you know it. Now it’s brilliant.”
He chuckled. “I can’t wait to read it again.”
“I’ll send you a new scene in a few days.”
“Thank you. And the stunt thing?”
She stared at him blankly before remembering what they’d been talking about. “Oh, right. I got into that because of the gymnastics
and cheerleading. It seemed like an easy transition.”
“And a way to torture your mother.”
She was less willing to admit to that, although knowing her career choice would annoy her mother had been part of the appeal.
She was also blessed with a trust fund, meaning that as long as she didn’t try to buy something crazy like a racehorse, she could be financially comfortable for the rest of her life.
Unlike most people her age, she wasn’t scrambling to pay bills or worried about finding the right career so she could save for her retirement.
“Are you disappointed I didn’t go to college?” she asked.
“No. I want you to be happy.”
“Not a doctor?” she asked, her voice teasing.
“Well, if you could be happy being a doctor, that would be good.” He finished the first half of his sandwich, then wiped his
hands on a napkin. “Your mother loves you very much.”
She’d just stabbed a piece of chicken from her salad, but when she heard those words, she carefully set down her fork and
stared at her father.
“No.”
“I haven’t asked you anything.”
She rolled her eyes. “I know you. You’re talking about Mom loving me while using your let’s-be-reasonable tone. That never
ends with me being happy.”
He studied her for a few seconds, then repeated, “Your mother loves you very much. So do I,” he added.
“Yet I remain unmoved by said love, so no.”
“We want to invite Cindy and her family over to dinner.”
The gut punch was instant. Victoria tried to get outraged about the fact that there was no we in that sentence. Milton didn’t care one way or the other. This was all on her mom. But there was no way to avoid the swift
cut of pain that diced her heart into even smaller pieces.
What she wanted to do was cry out, asking why her mother couldn’t let the past go. Why wasn’t she enough? But saying that
would expose her hurt, and she’d always done her best to stand strong.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” she said instead, doing her best to speak as if she wasn’t the least bit interested. “Tell me when that’s happening so I can avoid the blonde-girl reunion. At least Mom will get to hang out with the ‘good’ daughter.”
“Her name is Shannon, and this isn’t about hurting you.”
“I’m not hurt,” she lied. “It’s fine. You and Mom should totally do that.”
“Your mother needs closure. What happened back then . . . It was a dark time. We never got to ask the obvious questions. There
was no explanation. Some information would be helpful.”
Because after twenty-four years it still mattered? At what point did her mother move on? Only she didn’t ask either question.
Instead she nodded and tried to smile.
“I get that. Like I said, have fun.”
Her father’s gaze was steady. She didn’t know what he was—
“No!” she said sharply. “Don’t even think about it. There is no way I’m going to be there.”
“It would be better if you were.”
“Better for who? No me. Not anyone else. I have nothing to do with what you all want to discuss. Besides, if I’m around, I’ll
be a distraction. Without me, Mom can focus on the perfect and blonde lost daughter.”
“Her name is Shannon, and this isn’t a contest.”
“Good thing, because I’ve already lost.” The words spilled out before she could stop them. She sighed. “Seriously, Dad, just
have them over, and enjoy the evening. I don’t want to be there.”
“I understand it’s a difficult situation for all of us.”
“There’s an understatement. You could hire a screenwriter to work up a treatment, only no one would accept the premise. It’s
just too far-fetched.”
He covered her hand with his. “I know this is hard for you. I know you’re hurting.
Maybe we should have figured out a way to tell you about the past, but I’m not sure when it would have come up.
Losing Shannon was difficult, and we were in mourning as you said, but know this, sweet girl.
The second you were placed in my arms, I fell in love with you, and that feeling has never gone away.
You’re our miracle. You always have been. ”
Despite everything, she was a little touched by his words. Not that she would share that particular emotion. She was already
too vulnerable.
“I’m no one’s definition of a miracle,” she muttered. “And I’m still not going to the dinner party from hell.”
His gaze was steady. “Victoria, please. It’s two families getting together. You’re part of our family. I’m asking you to do
this for me.”
She tried not to writhe in her seat. “Not everything is about you.”
He continued to watch her, not speaking, just waiting. She pulled her hand away and groaned.
“Fine, I’ll be there, but I won’t like it.”
“Thank you.”
“Whatever.” But she was smiling as she spoke.