Chapter 13 #2
Not that he deserved an explanation. Still, some part of me—the stupid girl who used to wait for his approval—kept trying to explain, anyway. If I could get him off my back, I’d give him something to hold on to. A half-truth. It worked when I was fifteen. Maybe not so much now.
“Rowan . . .” Dad shook his head, frustration etched into every line of his face.
“He’s not the boy you used to know. He’s changed.
He walks in the same shadows his old man did.
And you think he won’t drag you down with him?
” He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s done things, Sadie. Bad things.”
It didn’t matter how pissed I was at him for what he’d done earlier, I knew Rowan was nothing like his father, and that spoke for something.
Plus, I didn’t care what he’d done. Rowan’s sins weren’t for me to judge.
Not when I had my own to carry. Not when I knew what it felt like to bleed for something you couldn’t explain.
My chest tightened. My hands itched to break something as all the anger from earlier rushed back in like it was on a mission to destroy me.
“Jesus Christ, Dad,” I said, throwing my arms up. “We’ve all done things. I stabbed someone, for Christ’s sake. And you? You think I don’t know you’re in bed with the Riders? I’m not an idiot. So, you, of all people, shouldn’t throw stones.”
His jaw ticked. “It’s not safe for you with him. Some of those men . . .” He blinked once. I didn’t.
“What? Some of those men, what?” I cut him off, my voice rising. “Let’s just be honest here. Let’s not pretend this is about my safety. This is about you not being able to control me like you always wanted to.”
“That’s not true,” he said, his voice low and defensive. “I’ve only ever wanted what’s best for you. I’ve always tried to protect you.”
A hollow laugh ripped from my throat. “Yeah?” I took a step toward him. “And look how well that turned out. Mum’s dead. Logan’s dead. And I’m standing here covered in the fallout while you sit on your throne of silence, pretending you’re the goddamn hero of this story.”
He flinched, just barely, but I saw it. And for once, I didn’t feel bad about aiming for the soft spot.
“Christ, Sadie.” Dad’s voice cut through the small living room, and he slammed his hands against the arm of the chair, beer bubbling up out of the bottle.
“Why can’t you just listen to me for once.
You’re always so goddamn stubborn. Just like your mother.
I warned her not to get involved—” He clamped his mouth shut, the words stifled.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead.
“You knew Mum was investigating the club, didn’t you?” I glared at him, heat rising up my chest. “Why, Dad? Why was she investigating them?”
Dad stared straight ahead. He wouldn’t look at me. Like if he did, I’d see what was left of his soul. Or worse. I’d see the part of him that already knew the truth and did nothing.
“Just leave it, Sadie.” He took a sip of beer, then swiped a hand over his mouth. “Some things are better buried where the dirt’s thick enough not to spit them back up.” He was stone cold, as usual.
I pinched the bridge of my nose to ease the headache pounding through my skull.
“Nice.” I shook my head. “Typical. When things get tough, it’s easier just to shut down, right Dad?
You never gave a shit before. When Mum died, you just ignored me, pretended like I didn’t exist. You didn’t even look at me at her funeral.
Just held your beer and told people she was stubborn. ”
But it was his stubbornness that was a fortress, and I was the fool who thought I could break it down.
“I’m not going to argue with you about this,” he said, the slightest crack in his voice betraying him. “I’m your father. I’ve had my fair share of grief, too. But I know when it’s time to move on. You need to let this go before it tears you apart.”
He was scolding me for still feeling, for not getting over my mother’s, my best friend’s death, the way he had. Or the way he pretended he had.
“You know what? Forget I even brought it up.” The words rushed out, carried on a tide of everything I’d bottled up for so many years.
Why did I even bother trying to get anything out of him?
It was like talking to a brick wall. It was obvious Dad didn’t want to admit that something had seriously gone wrong all those years ago.
He was happy to shove his head into the red dirt this town suffocated in and pretended that the deaths of our loved ones in the span of three months were nothing but a coincidence.
Every thought, every feeling, every unresolved hurt threatened to bury me alive. Like the night I found Mum’s coat crumpled by the porch, stained with dust and blood.
My hand twitched at my side. I was unsure whether to throw something or grab hold of him and demand the truth. I did neither. I just walked.
For the first time in a long time, I wished my mum was still alive. I bet she would have known what to say. Or maybe she would’ve just held me. Either way, it would’ve been more than the silence my father preferred I drowned in.