by Anna Cruise
He was making sure I followed through, did what I'd told my dad I was going to do.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” I asked.
My black duffel bag sat on the wooden chair positioned in front of my desk. I threw a change of clothes into it.
He lounged on my bed, texting someone. “Call me when you get back. I'll come get you.”
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Don't know yet.” He kept typing. “A bunch of people are heading to TJ. I might go with them.”
“Oh.” I tried to be nonchalant. I knew what happened in Tijuana. It was depressing to think about. Mostly because he was going to be doing it without me.
I grabbed my own phone from my dresser and shoved it in my pocket. My service had been miraculously restored after making plans with my dad. I zipped my bag closed and slumped next to Aidan on the bed.
“This is going to be unbearable, you know.”
He laughed. “He's your dad, not some serial killer.”
“No, not that. Well, that a little bit, I guess. I mean being away from you.”
It scared me how much I'd come to depend on him. He was the only constant I had. When everything else in my life fell away, crumbling apart or slowly disintegrating, he was the one who kept me together, who kept me from falling apart. It was only one night but I didn't know if I could stand it.
He ran his hands up and down my arms. “I'll miss you more,” he promised. “You're all I think about. Ever. You're the best I've ever had.” His hands moved up my stomach, soft as a feather as he trailed his fingers lightly across my breasts. “In every way.”
I cupped his face and kissed him. I felt like a bottle of champagne, love and desire bubbling inside of me, ready to burst.
“I love you,” he murmured against my mouth.
It was the first time he'd ever said this to me and my breath caught in my throat as I whispered the words back to him. I loved him wholly, completely. Losing him would be akin to losing a limb or an organ, some essential part of me that, without it, I would be hard-pressed to go on.
He kissed me thoroughly, his hands caressing every inch of me. Maybe I could forget my evening plans and he could forget his and we could stay locked in my room instead.
“I need to go,” he said, tearing his mouth away. “And so do you.”
I didn't want to but I let him leave.
Fifteen minutes later, the doorbell rang. My dad. I stood up, tucking away the memory of my afternoon with Aidan as I grabbed my bag and switched off the light in my room. I didn't bother saying goodbye to my mom. It would just serve as a bitter reminder of where I was going. I thought back to Aidan and the words he'd spoken; I intended to replay that scene in my room the entire evening, hoping it would see me through the nightmare I was sure waited beyond my front door.
*
Rush hour traffic was awful any night in San Diego but a drive up Interstate 5 on a Friday evening was pure hell, especially sitting alone in the car with my estranged dad. After a couple of attempts at conversation, he finally gave up and turned the volume up on the radio. I stared out the window as we crawled past the canyons between Pacific Beach and La Jolla, at the houses that perched atop the rough terrain and at the huge cross that was a continual source of contention among Christians and the ACLU. Logan's family was a staunch supporter of Mt. Soledad's massive cross.
The traffic didn't let up, even as we passed UCSD and Torrey Pines, as the 805 and 5 merged together, multiple lanes of traffic shifting abruptly to four. It took us nearly a half an hour to travel five miles. Finally, he pulled off the freeway and headed toward the beach, past the deserted fairgrounds, turning right on a street lined with Mediterranean-style townhouses and condominiums. There were parking spots with numbers painted on the pavement and he pulled into one. He got out and I followed, hoisting the straps of my bag on to my shoulder. I trudged along behind him, down the sidewalk, up the five steps that led to his front door, and into the cool, air-conditioned living room that had Cheri's stamp all over it.
Black leather couches and a marble coffee table filled the room, and huge paintings hung on the wall, the kind that looked like someone had randomly splattered colors on each massive canvas. I hated them. A flat-screen television was mounted above the fireplace—why anyone needed a fireplace in San Diego was beyond me. And plants and flowers everywhere. Red and white roses arranged in wide black vases, spilling out of clear crystal ones; delicate ferns potted in black rattan baskets; tall, leafy miniature trees tucked in to the corners of the living and dining rooms.
“There's a second bedroom back here,” Dad said, motioning down the hall.
I followed him and my flip flops squeaked on the wood laminate floor. A gilded mirror was mounted at the end of the hallway and I tried to rearrange my features, to wipe the scowl off of my face and replace it with a smile, as my dad stopped in front of an open door.
“Your room.”
I peeked through the bedroom door and grimaced. It was white, pure white. A four-poster canopy bed with a white down comforter, the bed piled high with eyelet pillows adorned with delicate pink ribbons. A white dresser with white knobs decorated with tiny pink flowers—probably hand-painted—and a white vanity table, a pink cushioned stool positioned in front of the oval mirror. Did she think I was ten and imagining myself a goddamn princess? This would never be my room.
“Cheri's down at the pool. I told her we'd come down, maybe go for a swim before dinner.”
I couldn't think of anything worse than seeing her perfect body in some minuscule bikini. Yes, I could, actually. Seeing my dad watching her, looking at her, probably lusting after her in said swim suit.
“I didn't bring a suit,” I told him. At least it was the truth.
He frowned. “I thought I told you to bring one.”
If he had, I'd forgotten.
“Maybe you can borrow one of Cheri's.”
“No.” My voice came out harsher than I'd intended. “I mean, if it's alright, I think I'll just stay here. Get settled.” I thought that sounded good, sincere.
He nodded his head, considering this. “OK. If you're sure...”
I practically pushed him out of the door. “Yes. I'm sure. Go.”
“We'll be up in about an hour. The remote is on the mantle if you want to watch something.”
He left and I heard him in his bedroom, opening drawers, probably hunting for his bathing suit. I put my bag on the floor and paced the room. I didn't want to sit down. I didn't want to touch anything, give any indication that I was here, that I was somehow leaving my mark or claiming this space for my own.
The front door closed and I wandered out of that bedroom and back into the living room. I could sit here, I thought, my hand roving over the smooth black leather. Maybe imagine I was at some friend's house, or a hotel room or something. Maybe.
I cradled my head in my hands and closed my eyes. Coming to my dad's had been a mistake. I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready to see him and Cheri together. Not when my mother lay in ruins in the house he used to share with us and not when I still wasn't sure what kind of condition I was in after the divorce. I felt broken and the only glue that was holding me together was Aidan.
I pulled out my phone and texted him. I needed him, even if he couldn't be with me at that moment. I needed him.
I tried to concentrate on something else while I waited for his response. I lifted my head and surveyed the rest of the condo. It was small. A tiny powder room adjacent to the front door, a kitchen—immaculate and modern with stainless steel appliances and granite counter tops flecked with black and brown—and an attached dining room with four, black upholstered chairs surrounding a round, glass-top table. Behind it, tucked into the corner, was a black hutch. I had a hunch what might be inside.
I glanced at my phone. Nothing.
Slowly, I stood, debating for only a second before I crossed the room and grabbed one of the handles.
I scanned the labels before making my decisio
n. Most of the bottles were open, about ¾ full. I didn't know how much they'd miss, if they kept track of how full each one was. Best to be careful, I thought. I started to my left and unscrewed the cap to a bottle of tequila. I took a swig and grimaced; it tasted awful. I moved slowly, methodically through the front row of bottles. The Captain Morgan's was good and I probably drank more of that that I should have. The despair began to disappear and I relaxed a little bit. For the first time since I'd arrived, I thought I might be able to get through the evening that loomed before me.
I had just turned on the TV when the door opened. Dad stood there, his hair wet and tousled, a white towel looped around his tanned shoulders. My heart fluttered just a little, in that “Wow, you're my dad” sort of way.
And then she walked in.
Her black hair was wet, slicked back. Water droplets glistened on her shoulders and between her breasts.
Her voice was cool. “Hi, Megan.”
I mumbled a hello back and looked away, away from her red bikini top and the matching red sarong tied loosely around her too-tiny waist. God, she was beautiful. And my dad had chosen her over me.
I held the remote between both hands, gripping it as if it were a fifty pound weight that required all of my strength to lift. I did this because I wasn't sure what my hands would do otherwise. Would I claw out her eyes and tear out her hair? Would I rip her clothing to shreds? I tried to swallow the hate back down, to keep it under control.
“Cheri picked up dinner. Caesar salad. French bread from the bakery, too. Right, hon?”
He put his hand on her shoulder and I cringed as I gripped the remote tighter. She had to pick up a salad—she couldn't wash a head of lettuce, tear up the leaves and add some croutons?
“We're going to go change,” he told me. “Then we'll eat.”
With his hand on the small of her back, he guided her down the hallway. The bedroom door closed shut and I didn't want to think about what was happening in their room. I was sure he was on her all the time.
I squeezed my eyes shut. I was wrong, I realized. I wasn't going to make it through.
I crossed back to the dining room and fumbled with one of the bottles, taking another quick swig.
They came out a few minutes later, my dad wearing khaki shorts and a navy blue polo, Cheri in a black tube-top dress. I looked for signs of a quick tryst, of matted hair and red, swollen lips. There were none. She went into the kitchen and Dad sat down next to me on the couch. I was glad I'd thought to pop a piece of gum in my mouth.
Dad smiled. “You smell good. Minty.”
I swallowed a laugh. Better he smelled peppermint than rum. “Thanks.”
He put his arm around me and ruffled my hair, just like old times. I tried not to think about what our lives had been like before. When we'd been the ones to go swimming together, when sitting with him on the couch was a daily occurrence and not some rare, monumental event.
“Dinner's almost ready,” Cheri said from the kitchen. “Greg, would you come in here and slice the bread?”
He stood immediately. My heart deflated and filled back up with anger. I glared at my dad's retreating back. Cupboards opened and dishes and glasses clinked against each other as they finished getting dinner ready.
“Why don't you help with the table?”
He was talking to me. I sighed and stood up. Dad met me at the table with a stack of red plates, gorgeous plates with scalloped edges, and a handful of silverware. I took the dishes from him and slammed them down, smiling at the sound of the pottery crashing into the table.
“Be careful.”
I pretended not to hear him. I finished too quickly and wished there were more than three places to set. I plunked the silverware down but the sound of metal hitting the glass tabletop wasn't quite as satisfying.
Dad brought in a basket of bread, sourdough, by the smell of it, and a dish of butter. Cheri followed with a huge wooden bowl heaped high with salad.
She motioned to the chair closest to me. “Sit.”
I waited just a minute too long before finally sinking into the soft chair. I didn't want to do anything she asked me to do. She sat down on one side of me, my dad on the other.
Dad picked up the wooden serving fork, loading Cheri's plate first. I swear she batted her eyelashes at him as she spooned shredded Parmesan over her salad.
He turned to me. “How much?” he asked, waving the fork toward the bowl.
“I'll just have bread.”
“Why?”
“There's chicken in it. I'm a vegetarian, remember?”
Cheri pursed her lips and looked down at her plate.
My dad frowned at me. “Can't you eat around it?”
“No.”
He put a pile on my plate, anyway. “Well, try.”
I took a piece of bread and buttered it, taking a bite of it instead.
The table was silent.
Cheri cleared her throat. “So, Megan.” She paused. “How is school?”
As if that was going to open me right up. “Fine.”
She tried again. “Do you have a favorite class?”
“No.”
“Stop,” my dad said. I could tell he was pissed.
“What?”
He glowered at me. “You're being an insolent brat. Grow up a little and show your stepmother some respect.”
I bristled at the word. “She is not my mother.”
“Damn right she's not,” he responded and I knew exactly what he meant. That she was a thousand times better than my mother. “And she deserves your respect.”
“Greg, it's...” Cheri started to say but I cut her off.
“And if I don't?” I taunted, the anger and resentment building.
“Then you won't be welcome here.”
I laughed. “That's fine with me.”
I should have stood up and walked away. Retreated to the frilly, ridiculous bedroom that they'd provided me. Rode out the visit in there until I could head home the next morning.
But I didn't. I was too angry. Too hurt.
I turned to Cheri.
“You're a home-wrecking whore and I hate you.” I was surprised at the loathing in my voice, at the overwhelming animosity I felt toward her, even more surprised than the look of shock and hurt that crossed her face.
My dad pushed away from the table, his expression livid. “You're done here.”
I picked up my plate and smashed it hard against the table. It shattered into four almost even pieces, a mix of red and green splashed across the table, like one of the paintings from the living room walls spilling across the glass. After staring at it for one horrified moment, I turned and, without a word, opened the front door and stalked down the steps.
And no one stopped me.
My mind was black, a dark, suffocating black as I walked away from the development they lived in and toward Highway 1. The scene in the dining room replayed over and over again, grainy, black and white images of my dad's horrified expression and Cheri's shocked reaction. Like a YouTube video, I replayed the conversation—my hate-filled words and my dad's anger. He'd told me I was done there. I didn't know how he'd meant it but one thing was sure. He'd made his choice and it wasn't me.
A horn honked and I startled away from the street. The traffic had lessened some but cars still raced past. I didn't see them but I heard the engines and the muffled sound of car radios. I imagined where the faceless, nameless people in those cars might be going: out to dinner, to parties, to homes that weren't as broken as mine.
The sky darkened and I walked further, heading south, not really sure what I was doing or where I was heading. My buzz was fading and despair filled me as I realized that my dad would not be coming to look for me. No one would.
I reached into my shorts pocket and pulled out my phone. Still no text from Aidan.
I texted him again and called him twice. He didn't answer.
I kicked at a rock. Who else was I going to call? How the hell was I going to get back hom
e? Not to my dad's but to my house. I couldn't call Jada. She didn't have a license but it was more than that; we just weren't friends anymore. A few months ago, I could have called and she would have told her mom or dad something, come up with some reason to convince them to drive up the coast and pick me up.
But not now.
I crossed the highway and walked the sidewalk along the beach. I found a graffiti-covered bench and sat down. I gazed out at the horizon, at the thin streaks of pink and purple that threaded through the darkness. My eyes lingered on the whitecaps on the water. They glowed and moved in the moonlight, like triangular-shaped ghosts dancing on the water.
I tried Aidan again. Voice mail. I tapped my phone on the side of the bench for a minute before making my decision. I scrolled through my contact list and dialed.
“Hey.” The voice was friendly and I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Case?” I hesitated. “Are you busy?”
“Megan? What's up?” His voice shifted to concerned. “You OK?”
“Yeah. Um, I'm kind of stranded in Del Mar. I was wondering...do you think you could come get me? Take me home?”
“Did you and Aidan get in a fight?” he asked.
“No. No, nothing like that.” I took a deep breath. “I'll explain when you get here. If you can come, I mean.”
“Yeah, I'll come. Where are you?”
I told him.
“Be there in twenty, I hope. Sit tight.”
He hung up.
Thirty minutes later, an ancient truck rumbled to a stop in front of me. I squinted into the headlights and saw the shadowy outline of the driver.
The window rolled down. “Hop in.”
Case reached across and unlocked the passenger door. I grabbed the handle and wrenched the door open, ignoring its groans of protest. I pulled myself into the seat and slammed the door shut.
I clicked my seat belt into place. “Thanks. For coming.”
He shifted the truck into gear and we lurched down the street. “No prob.”
“Did I totally ruin your Friday night?”
He turned left and headed back toward the freeway. “Nope. Just hanging out.”
I wondered who he'd been with. Maybe he'd been at the beach with Jada and the rest of the old gang.
