8. Cara
eight
Cara
“ D o you have any idea how frustrating it is?” Dad asked me.
I did. He was complaining to me about the very thing he said Mum was doing to him—complaining. “I have an idea,” I muttered, only half listening as I reread the paragraph I’d just written.
“I don’t think you do. Your mother has had it easy. She worked shorter hours when you were young so she could be there to pick you up from school. She now only works part time. I’ve put in the long hours. I’ve busted my ass making this company what it is, and now she’s telling me she doesn’t want to work at all?”
He was genuinely frustrated, but he didn’t even see that he was the one who’d caused the problems. I didn’t even think he could hear himself and the ridiculous things he was saying.
“It’s unbelievable. She’s moved into the guest house, and now she wants to quit her job. I’m so sick of this. She either needs to come home or—”
“Or what, Dad?” I asked, snapping at him. He’d been ranting and raving at me for half an hour, and I was done listening. He was actually upset that Mum had moved her things out, but he was the one bringing his mistress home. Did he expect that Mum was going to put up with it? Did he think she’d forgive him and let things go back to how they were so he could keep cheating?
“I’m not going to fund her lifestyle anymore. I’ve done enough.”
“You know, Dad, all you had to do was not cheat on her. Mum loved you, and you broke her heart.”
Dad huffed as if I was wrong, and it lit a fire under me, making me even more determined to tell him exactly what I thought. I needed to pop that deluded bubble he was living in—the one where he thought he was in the right. I wouldn’t stand by and let him treat Mum like doggy doo-doo.
“Mum was practically still a kid when she met you—she was definitely under eighteen when she fell pregnant. The whole time you were together, she showed her loyalty and love to both of us by sacrificing her career and being at home whenever she could. Mum didn’t want to be an acquisitions manager for a sporting goods store—”
“Warehouses, Cara. Not just one but—”
I rolled my eyes. Hard. Now he was correcting me on what Delaware’s Warehouse was when I was trying to drive home what Mum had given up for him. What the heck was wrong with him?
“I know , Dad. We have seventeen warehouses across the eastern states.” I’d probably get a talking to about my sarcasm, but right at that moment, there were more important things to focus on. “But how many warehouses you have is irrelevant. Mum wanted music to be her life. You knew she’d been accepted into university to study music and had received an offer from the Australian Youth Orchestra. You knew that she wanted to travel with them. But she gave it all up. She walked away from her dreams when she fell pregnant. Now she’s walking away from your dreams.”
“How am I going to find another acquisitions manager in six months?”
His frustrated growl had me doing a double-take. Six months? She’d given him six months , and he was complaining?
“Isn’t that what you have HR for? Promote from within. Heck, poach someone else’s acquisitions manager.”
My phone beeped with another call coming through, and I jumped at the chance to end this ridiculous conversation with my father. “Dad, I need to go. I’ve got someone from the team calling me.” I didn’t give him a chance to respond. I ended the call immediately.
I looked down at the screen and groaned. It was Mum. I loved my parents, but I didn’t have the mental bandwidth to be their punching bag when they were fighting like this.
I let the call go to voicemail, but it started ringing again immediately.
“Hi, Mum,” I answered with a sigh.
“I want to kill that man,” she growled. “Can you believe—”
“I’ve heard the whole story from him already, Mum.”
“Seriously? He’s, what, ringing you to complain about me?”
“Pretty much.”
Mum wasn’t taking the hint.
“Six months, Cara. I gave him six months’ notice even after what he’s done to me. He’s still sleeping with her. He’s still bringing that woman home to our bed while I’m in the bloody pool house. I’m not going to do this. I’m not going to live like this. I deserve to do something that I want to do, don’t I?”
“You do, and he’s being self-centred and unreasonable thinking that you won’t resign.”
“I ought to take him to the bloody cleaners—”
I gritted my teeth and exhaled slowly, trying to let my frustrations go, but my heart was breaking. I wasn’t even sure if it was for them or me. A few short weeks ago, I’d been begging the universe for a relationship like theirs. I’d wanted nothing more than a man or two who would love me like Dad loved Mum. Now I was listening to them fight about how to pull apart their lives that had been intertwined for longer than I’d even been alive.
Logically, I knew it was over, but the little girl in me didn’t want them to fall apart. I wanted them to get past this and go back to being happy together. I wanted the relationship that I’d based my dreams on to stay intact. If they weren’t each other’s forever person, could I ever find mine? Was there really a man or two who was perfect for me? I was a romantic at heart. I wrote romance novels, for goodness’ sake. I wanted to find my guys and live happily ever after. I wanted cuddles and kisses. I wanted laughter and holding hands. I wanted romantic gestures and public “I love yous.” I wanted my men to shout from the rooftops that they were in love with me and each other. But if Mum and Dad couldn’t make their relationship work… what did that mean for me?
But what I wanted—and all my insecurities—were irrelevant, especially when Dad still wasn’t doing the right thing.
I blinked away the sting in my eyes when the hope withered a little more. “I can’t do this, Mum. I hate him for what he’s done to you, but I can’t listen to you tell me how you want to clean him out.”
Mum sighed, her frustration clear, and my head throbbed, a tight band squeezing around my temples.
“I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.” She paused for a moment and asked in a more cheerful voice, “Are you enjoying your trip so far?”
“I’ve just been double-checking all the bookings and that everything is ready with the Entertainment Centre.” I’d actually done that the moment we’d checked into the hotel. I wanted to get it out of the way so I could write for a couple of hours. My fingers had been itching in reaction to my excitement and anticipation for my date. If I didn’t get the words out, I’d obsess over it, overthinking what I’d say and wear until I was a nervous wreck.
“Who did you get to go with you?”
“Oh, ah…,” I stalled and squeezed the bridge of my nose, trying to stop the pounding behind my forehead.
I was nervous telling her about Monroe, but I wasn’t going to lie about it. “Remember Zali, my friend from uni? Her dad. He’s a mad sports fan, and he offered to take some time off work to come. We’re, um….”
“Cara,” she warned, stretching out my name into two long syllables as if she knew that I was going to tell her we were going on a date.
“Please, Mum,” I begged. “He’s… nice”—u nderstatement of the year— “and he needed something to look forward to as well after everything he’s been through with the podcast.”
“All I’m saying is, be careful. I lost my head with the attention of an older man. He was suave and sophisticated, and look where it landed me. Don’t make my mistakes.”
“I know you’re worried, but I can look after myself. And before you ask, yes, I know what safe sex is, and no, we won’t be doing it.” I didn’t add “even though I really, really want to” to the end of that sentence. There were things that my mum didn’t need to know about me.
“I need to go, Mum,” I explained. It was late afternoon already, and I wanted to get a few more words down before I had to start getting ready. For my date. But now that I’d had it out with both my parents, my head was pounding, and I wouldn’t be doing any of it without first having some painkillers and a nap.
“Okay, honey. Promise me you’ll be safe.”
“Always, Mum.”
I hung up and went rifling through my bag for ibuprofen.
Half an hour after taking them, though, my headache was worse. I felt miserable, and even the hot bath I was sitting in was doing nothing to relieve it.
My phone beeped with an incoming message, and I hesitated, tempted to ignore it. But if I was being called upon, I needed to respond.
Unknown:
Your dad is really upset that you’re taking your mum’s side on this. He’s done so much for you. You should be grateful.
I blinked and reread it. What in heavens was this?
I responded.
Who is this?
Danielle. Your father’s girlfriend.
I sat up so fast that water sloshed out the sides of the bath, soaking the floor mat.
You mean the woman my dad is cheating on my mum with? Who do you think you are, telling me whose side to take? You have no business talking to me. Ever. Don’t call. Don’t message me again. And stop sleeping with my dad.
My hands shook as I hit Send. I’d always been taught never to say anything in anger, especially in writing. Write the message if I had to, but don’t send it. But that wasn’t happening here. I wasn’t going to lie down and take it.
That’s not going to happen. Be nicer to him or I’ll tell him to cut you off. He’ll listen.
My vision went red, and a scream tore out of my throat before I could stop it. I hurled my phone across the room and scowled when it bounced off the bed, falling harmlessly to the floor. I wanted to smash it to pieces. I wanted to smash her to pieces.
I stood up and yanked the towel off the rail before drying myself with rough strokes. I climbed out of the bath and stopped dead, looking at myself in the full-length mirror. My eyes had dark circles underneath them. My hair was a bird’s nest on top of my head, the messy bun full of knots. I needed to shave everywhere if I was going to go out on a date—there was no way I was risking prickly legs if Monroe decided to rest his hand on my thigh—but I didn’t have the energy to even get my razor from my bag.
It was all too much.
My head was spinning, the ache clanging at my temples. My heart hurt too. My chest was so full of swirling emotions that I couldn’t even begin to process them.
I didn’t know what to do with myself. I paced, anger bubbling just under my skin. I hated her for doing this. No, I hated Dad for doing it. He was the one with the responsibility. He was the one who’d made a vow then broken it repeatedly. And I hated Mum for not trusting that I could make my own decisions where Roe was concerned.
But I was powerless to fix any of it. I couldn’t turn back time, I couldn’t force an apology from Dad or give him Mum’s forgiveness. I couldn’t make Dad walk away from Danielle, and I couldn’t, nor would I, force Mum to turn a blind eye.
Frustration ate at me until I was a shaking, achy mess. I wanted to curl up and block out the world. I wanted to be able to turn off and forget about my obligations for just one night. My shoulders sagged, and my back bowed under the weight. I couldn’t do that even if I wanted to. For starters, I’d told Monroe that I’d go out with him. I didn’t want to disappoint him, and if this was my only chance, I needed to take it. I wanted to spend time with him. But I wasn’t the kind of company he deserved tonight, and quite frankly, I wanted more than a single date with him.
I sucked in a wobbly breath and groaned on the exhale. I wanted this thing with Monroe too much to risk it being a total failure. I had to cancel. I snatched up my phone and sent Monroe a text.
I’m sorry, I can’t come tonight. Everything is falling apart and I need to regroup.
I waited for what felt like an hour for his response, but in reality it was only a few seconds.
What can I do to help?
I smiled. He really was a sweetheart.
That’s okay, it’s all family stuff.
Dots appeared, and I waited for his response to come through. They disappeared and reappeared again. I assumed whatever he was writing was long. But I was mistaken.
Okay. Talk to you tomorrow?
I couldn’t help the disappointment even though he’d given me exactly what I’d asked for—space without the pressure. It was ridiculous to think that he’d fight for me.
I sighed, sadder than I was before. I was pathetic.