Page 66 of I Would Beg For You
“Do you have someone in your life?”
I take a long time to answer. What can I say? Valentino and I haven’t put a label on what’s going on between us.
“Maybe,” I say.
He frowns. “Well, I’d think it’s a pretty straightforward situation. Yes or no, right?”
In a way, he’s not wrong. “Yes.”
“Marriage material?”
A laugh does chortle out this time. “Dad, it’s not the Regency era. People don’t get married after a few dates. People don’t court each other, either. And fathers don’t go setting up possible suitors for their daughters.”
He chuckles, too. “I know, darling. I just want the best for you.”
“I know.”
“So, who’s this person?”
Valentino Andretti. Watch me say this and see WWIII erupt right across the table from me.
“It’s early days.”
He nods. “Ah, if your mother were here today.”
My throat closes when I think of her. We wouldn’t be in this situation if she were alive. Or would we? My uncle Declan would still be persona non grata in this house. Nothing would’ve changed there.
I gasp softly upon recalling I still need to get my dad’s side of the story. I can’t condemn a person without letting them defend themselves.
So, I take a deep breath and delve in. “Dad? You and Mom? You were happy?”
His face sobers and darkens a little. “I think so, yes.”
I frown. Not what I was expecting. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “I like to think so. But, your mom, she was…fragile.”
Something in that word rubs me the wrong way. “Enough to kill herself?”
He jumps from the booth so quickly, I’m taken aback.
“Don’t you dare!” he yells. His eyes are thunderous, body rigid with rage. “Go to your room!”
Suddenly, it feels like I’m a little kid who’s done something wrong. I’d forgotten this command was bandied about a lot when I was a teen. I stomp past him and up the stairs, landing face down on my bed.
The tears come, as do the sobs. The anguish pours out of me, and with it goes my sense of misplaced righteousness.
What did I just do? My father didn’t deserve this. I let people who have it in for him turn my head, now look where we are. I hurt him. I threw such a terrible accusation at him, so thinly veiled.
I’m crying and crying and crying. It won’t stop.
When the sobs stop wracking my body, I’m aware there’s a soft knock at my door.
“Yes?” I snarl, still enraged at myself.
The panel opens a little, my dad poking his head in.
“I’m sorry I yelled,” he says. Then he extends his arm in. “I made hot chocolate.”
