Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
EARL
https:// www. youtube. com/ watch? v= bqIxCtEveG8
-beneath your beautiful-
“I’m the drunk, but sometimes you’re the one who acts like you’re not in your right mind,” my father grumbles.
The sharp citrus scent of mandarins fills the air as I peel another one, the sticky juice coating my fingers. My father’s eyes track every movement, his gaze heavy, and I can feel the weight of his unspoken thoughts pressing down on me.
“You know you caused a scandal, right?” my father asks, his voice carrying that undercurrent of sardonic humor he never seems to lose.
I glance at him, my expression unreadable. “For someone in seclusion, you seem remarkably informed.”
His lips twitch into a bitter smile. “It’s a small town, Earl. People talk. Especially when you do something this asinine.”
I place the peeled mandarin in front of him and sit back, leaning against the faded armrest of the chair. The room smells faintly of stale whiskey and the faint antiseptic tang that clings to places like this. His hands hover over the fruit for a moment before he picks it up and bites it like one would an apple, his eyes never leaving mine. Juices run down his chin. I’ll never understand why he can’t eat oranges like the rest of humanity.
“What’s really going on in that head of yours?” he asks, his tone turning sharper. “What are your actual intentions? Why did you marry the girl you once told me you hated?”
My chest tightens, but I keep my expression unreadable. When I don’t respond, he leans forward, his voice lowering, weighted with something between curiosity and accusation. “She came to see me, you know. After you left. Tried to find out where you were, why you disappeared.”
My fingers dig into the armrest, but I keep my face blank. The memories of those days when I left this god-forsaken town feel distant, like something from another life, but the edge of it is still sharp enough to cut.
“I chased her off,” he admits, a nasty chuckle escaping his throat. “Told her I didn’t know where you were, and I didn’t. Hell, I still don’t know why you ran off like that or where you went. Supposedly, you loved her so much back then. So why’d you suddenly leave?”
The room feels stifling, the air thick with the unspoken tension hanging between us. I stare at the far wall, willing myself not to react, not to let him know how I really feel inside—just how hurt I’d been, just how much I’d loved her. Back then, I would have cut off my right arm and handed it to her on a platter if she’d asked. And to this day, it stuns me how naive I was, how completely smitten I was over someone who didn’t deserve it.
“You always do this,” he mutters bitterly, more to himself than to me. “Keep everything locked up tight. Like you think no one can see what’s going on in that damn head of yours. But I see it, Earl. I know a thing or two about ghosts, and seeing how impulsive you’ve been, I can tell they’re eating you alive. Don’t let them.”
I finally look at him, meeting his gaze head-on. His eyes are bloodshot, but there’s a clarity there that surprises me. For a moment, I wonder if he’s right. Have I spent so long holding onto the hurt she caused that I’ve lost the ability to think rationally?
But I don’t say any of that. I don’t trust him. He is my father, but he’s not a good man. Anything I say will be used against me one day. I stand. “I’m leaving.”
He doesn’t say goodbye, but I don’t care. I’ve had a lifetime of practice. I don’t look back either. I step outside into the cool night air, the quiet pressing against my ears like a living thing.
The rain has cleared the sky and made the stars shine bright. Immediately, thoughts of Raven come unbidden, so many sweet memories under the stars. I frown with frustration. I swore I wouldn’t let her get to me again and keep this arrangement purely in revenge mode. But already the clear crisp edges are blurring, and I can’t tell if it’s her fault or mine.
I get into my car and sit quietly for a moment. My father’s words settle into the silence with me. More memories flood into my head. Time passes and the chill of the night begins to creep around me. I hadn’t planned on being away this long, but here I am. Unable to leave the past and go out to meet the future.
She’s in the house now. I know because Ryan called to tell me he’d dropped her off. I don’t have to see her to know she’s probably unpacked her things, probably exploring, probably seen the portrait hanging in the music room.
I smirk as I think about that painting that she must have seen by now.
It was a spur-of-the-moment idea. I was walking past an art shop downtown and saw a caricature portrait in a similar style—gaudy, exaggerated. A mockery, and yet it was riveting. The image formed in my head before I could stop it: her, sitting on a throne like some haughty whore. Her hard, cold eyes looking down at me for the fool I had been.
But she is not a whore. She never has been. It was unfair. There is a flicker of something unwelcome—regret, maybe. It’s faint, but it’s there, crawling under my skin. I clench my jaw and squash it down. I’m not going to start feeling sorry for her. That way madness lies. I press harder on the gas pedal, and focus on the road ahead.
The drive back is short, the streets of town giving way to the expansive estate. The house emerges ahead, its grandeur lit softly by the glow of strategically placed lights along the driveway. It still feels foreign to me, this place. Too big, too polished, too much for me.
I park and step out into the cold air. Nora greets me at the door, her cheerful demeanor tempered with something more tentative tonight.
“Welcome back, Mr. Jackson. Dinner is ready to be served whenever you please,” she says, her tone cautious.
I grunt a response and hand her my coat, my eyes scanning the polished floors and the new chandelier. It was a good decision. It looks almost magical in this setting.
I’m not hungry, but I stride toward the dining room.
The long table is set for two. Crystal chandeliers overhead cast soft light on the polished wood and velvet-lined chairs. The blood-red walls are checkered with a darker shade of rectangles and squares left by the paintings that have been removed.
“Dinner is ready,” Nora says, her voice hesitant. “Should I invite Mrs. Jackson to join you? She hasn’t eaten yet. Perhaps she was waiting for you.”
I don’t even look at her. “No,” I say flatly, taking a seat at the head of the table.
With a quiet nod, she retreats, leaving me alone in the vast room. I stare out into the garden, my mind blank until the food arrives.
The silence stretches as I pick at the food, the clink of silverware against fine China the only sound. It is a feast by anyone’s standards—roast shank of lamb, buttery vegetables, fresh-baked rolls, some sort of lime and chocolate dessert, fruit, cheese—but I barely taste any of it. My mind is elsewhere, circling back to her, to the painting, to the way this house feels more like a stage than a home.
Somewhere upstairs, she’s probably unpacking, settling in, trying to figure out what the hell I’m playing at. Let her wonder. This is what she wanted, isn’t it? To be the mistress of a grand estate, to live the life of luxury she’d always dreamed of?
I stab a piece of lamb with my fork, the force of it scraping against the plate. Let her have it. I’ll make sure she enjoys every second of it.
When Nora is gone, I sit back alone with a glass of brandy and the echoes of my own thoughts. I’ve won. This is what winning feels like. This is how I get even.
And yet, for the briefest moment, I wonder if anyone would really call this winning.