Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
After driving away from Esme’s, I can’t stop crying. The lady in the next lane over is giving me a concerned look. I must look like a hot mess with snot and tears running down my face. Suddenly, my phone rings, and Victor’s name flashes on the touchscreen. I quickly wipe my face and take a deep breath, trying to get my shit together before I answer.
“Hello,” I say, hoping he can’t hear the way my tears clog my throat.
“I was worried. How did everything go?”
“She already knew. And she fucked Ian to get back at me.”
“Baby,” he sighs with tenderness. “Where are you now?”
“Driving.” I try to keep my answer short, not trusting myself to say more without completely falling apart.
“Come home.”
Home. It’s a word that feels so foreign now. The place I used to call home is now a pile of rubble, the foundation of my friendship with Esme destroyed beyond repair. As much as I want to run straight into Victor’s arms and let him make everything better, I can’t. Not tonight. I want my dad.
“Can I see you tomorrow instead? I just need to be alone. Just for tonight.”
“All right,” he says, and I can hear the disappointment in his voice, even though he tries to hide it. “If you change your mind about tonight…”
“I know.” I swipe at the tears that won’t stop falling. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” There’s an awkward silence, and I can feel the weight of everything we’re not saying.
“Just…come back to me. When you’re ready. I’ll be here. And I’m sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry about Esme.”
“Me too,” I whisper, letting the sobs take over. “I’ll talk to you later.”
I end the call and pull over to the side of the road, letting myself fall apart. I cry for Esme, for the friendship we had. I cry until there’s nothing left, until my eyes are red and puffy, and my throat is raw.
As I merge back onto the highway, my mind drifts to the only place I can think of that might offer some solace. It’s been over a year since I’ve spent the night, but right now, I need something familiar.
The miles slip away as I drive, the monotony of the road soothing my frayed nerves. I try not to think about the shitstorm waiting for me back in the real world—the gossip that’s sure to spread like wildfire.
As I pull up to the house, a flood of memories washes over me. The place looks almost the same as it did when I was a kid, back when Grandma Cora and Grandpa George were still alive. The sprawling home still exudes an air of grandeur. The white columns flank the entrance, the immaculate lawn stretches out like a green carpet, and the circular driveway is lined with perfectly trimmed hedges. It’s like stepping into a different world.
Dad’s kept up with the gardening, and the flower beds along the walkway are bursting with color—vibrant red roses, delicate pink peonies, and sunny yellow daffodils. It’s a stark contrast to the darkness I felt when my dad and I first moved in after Mama died.
I sit in the car for a minute, trying to gather my thoughts. Things with Dad have been getting better lately, and I know he’ll be there for me like he’s been trying to be. But part of me is still that lost little girl, navigating a world that doesn’t make sense. The wounds from my childhood, from all the years of feeling neglected and lonely, are still there, simmering beneath the surface.
Taking a deep breath, I step out of the car and make my way up the familiar path to the front door. I know I need to face this, to let myself feel everything I’ve been running from. And maybe, just maybe, coming back to this place, to the father who’s trying his best to be there for me, is the first step toward healing my deepest and oldest wounds.
My key turns smoothly in the lock, and I step into the house, the silence enveloping me like a familiar embrace. All the lights are out, which means Dad is probably asleep. That’s okay with me. We can talk tomorrow. I actually prefer it.
As I turn on a lamp, the soft light floods the space. Looking around, I can’t help but notice how neat and clean everything is. The surfaces gleam, not a speck of dust in sight. It’s clear Dad’s been using a housecleaning service—a luxury we could never have afforded back when we lived in an old small house when Mama was alive.
The heavy curtains that used to cover the windows are gone, replaced by naked glass that lets the moonlight pour in. The old-school furniture has been swapped out for some modern, minimalist pieces. And instead of the wall-to-wall family photos, Dad’s favorite paintings—many of them his own—hang on the walls. The brick fireplace that once dominated the room has given way to a gleaming marble one. Despite all these changes, two constants remain: a picture of Mama on Dad's bedside table in his room, and a photo of me with my grandparents perched on the fireplace mantel.
I pause in front of the mantel photo—taken when I was about seven—my fingers tracing the ornate frame as memories flood my mind.
I’m transported back to that day, watching as Grandma Cora’s Rolls-Royce pulls up to our house. Mama had stayed up all night cleaning in preparation for her visit. That morning, she’d curled my hair into perfect ringlets, which Grandma adored. She didn’t, however, approve of the dress Mama had picked out for me. She’d wanted us in the same color, which Mama had rolled her eyes at. I remember eyeing the garment bag in the car, knowing it was a brand-new dress.
Mama’s smile was tight as she watched me climb into the car, constantly wringing her hands and rubbing her nose. Dad stayed in the bedroom, only poking his head out to say hello to Grandma and a quick goodbye to me before disappearing again. Even at seven years old, I knew the signs. They both needed a hit, something to take the edge off.
As soon as I left, they’d be reaching for their stash, their brief moment of unity.
“Bug?” Dad’s voice makes me jump.
I spin around from the mantel to face him, his man bun all crooked on top of his bedhead. Concern etches his features as he takes in my expression. His faded Wu-Tang Clan T-shirt exposes the scattered tattoos covering most of his arms, a stark contrast to the soft flannel of his pajama pants.
“Hey, Dad.” I try to smile, but it feels fake as hell, the weight of the day’s shit show dragging me down.
“It’s late. You okay?” He takes a step closer, his eyes searching mine in the dim light.
I nod, thanking the universe for the darkness that hides the shiner on my cheek. I’ll tell him about the dumpster fire that is my life, but not tonight. Tonight, I just need the comfort of my old room and the safety of a place that holds some good memories, even if it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows when I first moved in.
“I just thought I’d crash in my old room if that’s cool.”
“Sure.” Dad scratches his head. “I can whip us up some breakfast in the morning.”
“Sounds good.” The idea of a home-cooked meal and chilling with my dad like old times brings a real smile to my face.
He starts to head back to his room, but then he stops, turning to look at me one more time. The concern in his eyes is evident, and I know he’s dying to ask, to make sure I’m really okay.
“You sure you’re all right?” His voice is gentle, almost hesitant.
“Can we talk in the morning?”
He nods, reluctantly, and I can see how hard it is for him to hold back.
“Yeah, tomorrow morning. It’s good to see you, Bug.”
“You too, Dad.” The words stick in my throat, heavy with all the feels.
As he disappears down the hallway, I let out a sigh. Being back here, in this house, is exactly where I need to be. A place to rest, to let the waterworks flow.
Tomorrow, I’ll face the world again. Tomorrow, I’ll tell Dad everything. But tonight, I’ll let myself be that lost little girl, just for a little while longer.
Feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck, I drag myself up the stairs. Stepping into my old bedroom is like stepping into a time warp. The vintage lamp on the white wooden desk calls my name, and as I switch it on, the soft light makes everything feel a little less shitty. When I toss my car keys on the desk, the sound of metal hitting wood is way too loud in the quiet room.
I’m too drained to deal with my usual bedtime routine, like brushing my teeth or washing my face. Stripping down to my underwear, I leave my clothes in a messy heap on the floor. The shag rug welcomes my bare feet as my toes sink into it. Pulling back the fluffy white duvet cover, I crawl under the sheets. With my head on the pillow, I stare up at the ceiling, and it’s strange, but the tears have stopped. I feel…numb even with the day’s events playing on a loop in my head. Exhaustion eventually takes over, and I drift off into a dreamless sleep.
The comforting aroma of banana vegan pancakes, with a hint of vanilla and cinnamon, wafts through the house as I make my way downstairs. Dad’s in the kitchen, stacking golden brown pancakes onto a plate. When he sees me, the plate nearly slips from his grasp as he rushes over, his eyes wide. “What happened?” he asks, zeroing in on the bruise on my cheek, his jaw clenching.
My attempt at playing it cool fails as tears spill down my cheeks, the same tears that refused to come late last night. “I’m okay,” I mumble, but the words sound unconvincing and empty to my own ears.
Dad’s eyes narrow to slits. “Who hit you?”
Fidgeting under his intense stare, I push my glasses up my nose. “There’s a lot that I have to tell you.”
He pauses as if steeling himself for the worst. “What happened?” he asks again, his voice strained this time.
“Can we sit down?” I glance at the spread before me: a heaping pile of scrambled tofu and a vibrant fruit salad bursting with color. It’s a breakfast fit for a special occasion, not a typical Monday morning. I take a seat, and after a beat, he joins me across the table with the pancakes. Taking a deep breath, I gather my courage. Dad waits patiently, even though I can tell it’s killing him not to bombard me with questions.
“Ian and I broke up.” I swallow hard, thinking about all the money my dad has already spent on the wedding preparations. Thousands of dollars, gone just like that.
Confusion flickers across his face at my confession. He’s always loved Ian, falling for the perfect facade he put up. It takes but a few seconds for realization to dawn, and his expression morphs into pure rage. “He did this to you?”
I nod. Dad’s fist clenches on the table, his knuckles turning white. A deep breath escapes his lips as if he’s trying to calm himself. “I’ll kill him.” Even though he’s a born-again Christian now, I don’t doubt that he would hurt Ian if given the chance.
“Dad, no.” I reach out, placing my hand over his clenched fist. “He’s already been dealt with.”
“Dealt with? How?” His eyebrows furrow, creating deep lines on his forehead.
“My boyfriend.”
He leans back in his chair, his eyebrows shooting up in shock. “Boyfriend?”
“Yeah.” I draw out the word, my gaze dropping to the table before risking a glance at him.
“So you met someone else, and Ian thought that was a reason to put his hands on you? That son of a b—” He catches himself.
The words pour out of me. I tell him everything, going through the early days of my relationship with Ian to the gradual changes—the manipulation and the gaslighting. My voice wavers as I confront the truth, some of it for the first time.
After I finish recounting my relationship with Ian, I meet his concerned gaze. Leaning forward with slumped shoulders, he runs a hand through his thick hair. “This is my fault,” he says, his voice heavy with guilt.
“No it’s not.”
“It is,” he insists, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I wasn’t there for you, Bug. Not when you were growing up, not when your mother died. I was so lost in my own pain that I left you to fend for yourself. I should’ve been there to protect you, to show you what unconditional love looks like. I should’ve been the one to teach you that you deserve love and respect so you wouldn’t have to search for it in all the wrong places from men who could never give you what you truly needed.”
Tears sting my eyes as his words sink in, the weight of our past and my childhood pressing down on my chest. I didn’t think I needed to hear that, but I did. I so did.
“Daddy…” My voice cracks.
He reaches across the table, his callused hand engulfing mine. “I’m so sorry, baby girl. I failed you in so, so many ways.” His voice trembles with his words. “But I’m here now. You’re not alone, Bug. We’ll get through this together.”
“I love you, Dad,” I say, my voice barely a whisper because of the tears clogging my throat.
“I love you too, Bug. More than anything in this world.” He squeezes my hand, giving me a watery smile in return.
As we sit there, our hands clasped and tears in our eyes, we turn our attention to the food. This breakfast isn’t a magic fix, but it’s another step forward in our journey to heal the wounds of our past and strengthen the bond we’ve been working so hard to rebuild.
Dad leans back in his chair, a gentle smile softening his features. The tension from earlier, when he first saw my bruised cheek, has eased, replaced by a more optimistic curiosity. “So tell me about this new guy,” he says, taking a bite of his scrambled tofu.
A flutter fills my chest at the thought of my man. “His name is Victor. He grew up not too far from here.” I pick at my fruit salad, suddenly nervous about sharing more. He doesn’t need to know about the Esme factor. I’ve managed, so far, to keep her out of the conversation the entire time.
“Is it serious?” Dad asks, his fork poised midair.
I meet his gaze, my heart in my throat. “I’m in love with him.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Since when?”
I’ve asked myself this question a thousand times, but I’ve always been afraid to admit the truth. “Since…forever.”
Dad chuckles, but there’s no judgment in his eyes. “Can you be more specific?”
I think long and hard about my answer, determined to be one hundred percent honest with myself. I used to think it was crazy to love someone I barely knew, but now I know better. Love doesn’t always make sense, but that doesn’t make it any less real.
“Since I was sixteen years old,” I say, the words feeling right as they leave my lips.
Dad doesn’t react the way I expect him to. Instead of making me feel silly, he seems to understand. Maybe it’s because he knows Victor stood up for me, or maybe it’s the sincerity in my voice that convinces him, or maybe it’s because he, too, knows what love at first sight feels like. Whatever the reason, I can tell he’s already forming a positive opinion of Victor. And I’m certain he won’t judge Victor for his tattoos, considering he has his own ink from his younger days.
“When can I meet him?” Dad asks.
A smile spreads across my face, warmth blooming in my chest. “Soon. Very soon.”
“Good.” He nods, digging into his pancakes with renewed gusto. “He and I need to have a talk.”
I tilt my head, my brows furrowing. A talk? I never thought I’d see the day when my dad would be playing the protective father role. It’s a side of him I’ve always longed for, and now that it’s here, I can’t help but feel a rush of affection. “Okay,” I say, my smile growing wider.