Chapter Twenty Three #3
me, who made it impossible to live in my own hometown. You should
have thought for a second
about what Robin might do with that information.
You had no excuse not to," I tell him, months worth of training my
accent away abandoning me in seconds.
But I'm far from the
little girl desperate for his approval. And he's far from the
father I once knew. But he stands there without an ounce of the
indignation I expect, accepting every word as if he knows he
deserves them.
"Your excuses died the
morning I worked up the nerve to tell you what'd been goin' on," I
say pointedly.
"I told you what he did to
me and you handed me right off to him not minutes later," I remind
him. "Did you ever even look at the pictures?"
I know the answer before
he even shakes his head. No. He didn't. Why would he look at
photos that are evidence of an attack he never believed actually
occurred? I doubt he ever even read my statement. He heard the
Forbeses' side, and backfilled what he needed to in order to make
it work. Of course, if he believed a word of my account, that meant
he could have prevented it, and how could he admit that?
It infuriates me—his
willful denial. His dereliction of his duty not only as a father,
but as the district attorney, a job he'd always taken remarkably
seriously. I don't doubt for a second that this was the first and
last case he ever handled so cavalierly. I can't even imagine
another situation in which he would decide on charges or plea deals
without actually reviewing the evidence. No, this was a privilege
reserved solely for his own daughter.
I lift the hem of my tee
shirt and pull the waistband of my yoga pants just an inch,
revealing my scar. "He almost killed me in that locker room. He
would have killed me in Miami if Sam hadn't gotten there in time.
And both are on you. You know what? You should have known somethin'
was wrong even before I told you. You just completely stopped
payin' me any attention, and I think... I think part of why I
stayed with him, why it took so long for me to speak up, even when
I was suffering like that, was because I wanted to please
you."
I realize how true it is
as the words flow out of me. My father's abandonment made me
vulnerable to Robin. He's more at fault than I even realized. And
though I realize I'm ranting, it's cathartic. I don't care if he
wants to hear the truth or not, I need to speak it.
"But I finally worked up
the courage to tell you the truth... Do you have any idea how hard
it was for me to get those words out?"
My father bows his head
subtly in shame. It's unexpected, but it changes nothing. "I can't
even imagine," he mutters softly—to me or himself, I can't be sure.
But I don't care, I have more to say. Even if he's the one who came
to talk, I'm the one who has finally found her voice.
"Still, I was able to tell
you because I was sure you would finally make it stop... I
needed you to make it
stop." I wait for him to meet my eyes again. "You were my daddy. It
was your job to protect me. Not once did I consider that you
wouldn't believe me. Or worse, that you'd blame me," I admit.
He rubs his face with his
palm. "I'm so sorry, Rory."
Words I never thought I'd
hear, but they aren't enough. No words will ever be
enough.
"But you know what the
worst part is? You made me blame myself. You made me believe that
wearin' a short skirt or kissin' my boyfriend meant I asked to be
assaulted, over and over again."
I glare at him intently.
Part of me is taken aback by the dampness in his eyes. I have never
seen my father cry. Not once. But I've shed more than enough tears
for us all, and the fact that I'm finally reaching him doesn't
negate what he's put me through.
"But it wasn't my fault.
None of it." My voice grows quiet as I realize how fervently I
believe it. "I know that now," I add softly.
One tear slides down my
father's cheek, and it stuns me into silence, which he takes as his
cue to respond.
"Of course it wasn't. It
wasn't your fault. I'm so sorry, sweetheart—"
"Don't call me
that."
He nods. "Okay. I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry, Rory. I was blind. You were my little tomboy and then
suddenly you were a woman and I didn't know what to do with that. I
neglected you, and then... I couldn't let myself believe that I'd
let that happen to my little girl." His voice cracks.
"But you did let it
happen," I remind him. "Denying it didn't change it, it only made
it happen more."
"God, I know that now. I
don't know what I was thinkin'. I let myself forget you were the
same little girl who broke that goddamn vase with a baseball," he
sobs. Sobs.
My father is sobbing on my
doorstep.
I know the vase he's
talking about too, but I don't know what the hell it has to do with
anything.
"I'm so sorry, Rory. You
have to believe that. I won't ever forgive myself. But I need you
to know that I believe you. That I know it wasn't your fault. That
I was so goddamn wrong." Another sob.
I don't know what to say.
I do believe him. That he's sorry, that he believes me...
now. But what does any
of that really matter now? It may be exactly what I desperately
needed to hear from him a year ago, but now, his words are almost
pointless. I don't need his support. I have support. From people
who mean a hell of a lot more to me than he does.
"Okay," I
murmur.
He takes a deep breath. "I
don't expect you to just forgive me. I know I can't ever make it up
to you, Rory."
I glare at him. Damn
straight I don't forgive him.
"But I was hopin' you
might give me a chance to try."
"I—" I blink at him. I
really don't have a response to that. I don't even know what it
means. "I don't understand what you want from me," I
admit.
"I just want a chance to
be better. To show you that I mean it when I say I'm
sorry."
I shrug. "I don't get the
point. You're goin' back to Linton, and I'm stayin' in New York.
Nothing could ever be the same anyway. Does... does mom even know
you're here?"
His expression tells me
she doesn't. "She wouldn't have let me talk to you."
He's probably
right.
"But look, I know things
will never be the same. And I know that's my fault. But I resigned
from my position. I have nothin' keepin' me in Linton, and if I
have a reason to relocate, I'd do it."
"What?" I practically
gasp. I don't want him moving here. I don't think. I don't know
what I want. I don't know how to react to this complete about-face.
I need time to process.
"I was hopin' we might get
a chance to get to know each other again," he says
contritely.
"I don't know," I tell him
honestly. The little girl in me wants that more than anything, but
the woman who's been to hell and back knows it's all a facade—the
father figure he once was, the one he's saying he'd like to try to
be again.
"You don't have to decide
anything now. Maybe I could just take you to breakfast? We could
talk some more," he offers.
"I already have plans," I
murmur.
If I ever doubted Sam was
listening, him emerging from the front door right on cue tells me
he's heard every word.
His fingers find mine and
I turn to him, his expression unreadable. "Ror."
"I'll be right in," I tell
him.
Sam licks his lips. "It's
okay, Ror. If you want to go have breakfast with him, I understand.
I'll wait for you right here," he says meaningfully.
I stare at him. I know how
he feels about my father. I know the last thing he wants is to
watch me drive off with him right now. But he will. With Sam,
there's never any judgment, there's only selfless
support.
"I don't want to."
The last time I stood on a
porch with a man who betrayed me and another who loved me, I chose
wrong. It's a mistake I won't make again.
"I told you I wanted to
have breakfast with you," I remind him. "That there was nothing I'd
rather do. I meant it."
Sam stares at me, his
expression still unreadable.
I turn back to my father.
"I appreciate what you're trying to do. And I don't know, maybe we
could do that sometime. Get somethin' to eat and talk, I mean. But
right now, like I said, I have plans," I tell him, and then I turn
back to my front door, and pull Sam through it after me. I close it
behind me and lean back against it.
Neither of us speaks for
several minutes, until we hear my father's car start and drive off
to God only knows where.
"You heard all that?" I
finally ask Sam, even though I already know the answer.
Sam nods. "I heard all
that," he confirms, wrapping his arms around me. "How do you feel?"
he asks.
I think about his
question. How do I feel?
"Strong," I tell
him.
Sam nods. "I'm so fucking
proud of you, baby girl."
The truth is, I'm proud of
myself too. Never in a million years did I think I would have the
nerve—the strength—to say those words to my father. And now that I have, I feel
even more unburdened. Freer. The door to my future—our future—seems
wide open, and I'm finally ready to walk through it. Not just
ready, but hopeful. Excited even.
I know I can't predict
what will happen. No one knows better than I do the kind of curve
balls life can throw at you. But I'm finally realizing that I can
handle anything, and that while I know I still have a lot to work
through, I am lucky. I have the love and support of an incredible
man. One who wants to marry me someday. And that's not only a
future I can look forward to with all my heart, but a present I
can't help but be eternally grateful for.
It turns out Sam was right
all along. I am strong.