“You need to go home now, Christine.”
It was Christine’s turn to want to cry, and Ifelt the tiniest bit of triumph at the quivering of her bottom lip. “Patrick?Seriously?”
“NOW!” my father bellowed in a voice I seldomheard, and Christine grabbed the backpack that was too heavy for her weak armsto carry, and skulked away down the sidewalk alone.
Patrick told me that he was glad she was gone,out of our circle. He told me he had been an idiot for not seeing it sooner,for not picking up on the hints. He told me he wouldn’t ever allow her to comebetween us, to make me feel that way again.
He told me this, he told me lots of things, butshe was always there, looming in the shadows of River Canyon. In that small,stupid town.
CHAPTER 8 |
One Night & Negotiations
“Iasked forthe divorce,y’know.”
I was surprised I hadn’t heard about that. I just alwaysassumed she had asked him for one, when she finally admitted she could never touchthe part of him I could control just by walking back into a small town on thesouth shore of Connecticut.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because, Kinsey, you need to know.” He dropped his handsto his sides, looking over at me sideways. He had aged another five years inthose few minutes. “I spent ten years of my lifeholdin’on to something that was doomed for failure the second I …” He wiped a handover his face, scrubbing at the scruff on his cheeks and chin. “I don’t regretit. Sometimes Iwantto regret it, but then, I’d have to regret Meghantoo, and what kind of selfish arsehole would that make me?”
Meghan. His daughter. His eleven-year-oldred-haired, blue-eyed daughter.I didn’t answer his question,because in that moment of bitter hatred toward—what, I don’t know, Iwantedhim to regret his daughter. I wanted nothing more than to hear him regret thelife he helped to create. And what kind of selfish “arsehole” did that makeme?
“You can want me to regret it,” he said, reading my mind.“I won’t hate you for that, but just don’t hold anything against her.”
“You know I don’t.”
He nodded once, and I stared with blank eyes into thebackyard. How many times did I have to be reminded of his daughter, of himbeing a father before it sank in? How many times would it take before Iaccepted that he had procreated with a woman that wasn’t me? That there was apart of him in the world that I had absolutely nothing to do with?
That I was the reason she existed in the first place?
My hands covered my face, hoping to stem the call of myconstant hurt.
“Okay,” he said, standing from the swing. “Come on. We needto go.”
“Why?” I asked, as though I wanted to stay in that sea offireflies and misery.
“Because this isgettin’ heavy,and it can’t go there. Not yet. Wegottamove.”
I dropped my hands from my face. “To where?”
Before he could answer, his hand was enveloping mine again,pulling me to my feet and leading me across the yard, and through the gate.
“Where are we going?” I asked again, approaching the truck.
“Next stop in the plan.”
“Oh my God, fuck your plan, Patrick! Christ, what do youthink is going to happen here? Do you think I’m going to fall in love with you?Do you expect me to forget everything? You think everything is going to bebetter, and just, just …What?”
I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was the recentdiscussion of his fatherhood, or the reminder that he was married for tenyears, or that constant never-ending, nagging anger toward myself. But ragebubbled in my veins, and my voice rang through the quiet neighborhood.
He shook his head, his eyes displaying the visible hurt Ihad caused. “I don’t expect you toforgetanything,Kins.But I suspect you’ll remember the things you’vetriedto forget, all thethings you loved about me, and then, I think—Ihope—you’ll remember thatyoudolove me.”
“So, your plan is tomanipulateme? Wow,” I snickered.
He sniffed a laugh, shaking his head again. “Get in thetruck, Kinsey.”
I all but stomped my foot against the sidewalk. “Don’t tellme what to—”
