Raine
I CAN’T DELAY the inevitable any longer. After two hours in the Laundromat, clothes that were dirty are now clean, folded, and repacked inside the bed of my truck. Dread coils in my stomach as I navigate my pickup toward the other side of Morristown. My father expects me by ten o’clock. Less than fifteen minutes from now.
I promise myself I can be out of there in a month. That should be long enough to scrape together a small security deposit and the first month’s rent for a shared living situation. The thought of being here doesn’t thrill me, but before I know it, tuition for spring semester will be due.
My skin crawls when I spot his house, probably a sign my body is remembering past injuries at a cellular level. Dad is like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. For the most part, when he’s sober he’s manageable. When he’s loaded—coke, alcohol, whatever—all bets are off. I wish I had a weapon.
His random attacks started when I hit puberty and got worse after his sobriety ended the day of my mother’s funeral. Openhanded slaps and “the belt” turned into punches by my mid-teens—all done outside my mother’s line of sight. My father was nothing if not calculating. He always found leverage, something I couldn’t or wouldn’t tell my mom, to keep me quiet and force me to lie and pass off my black eyes and bruises as sports injuries. Once I bulked up and learned to fight, I shut that shit down with a couple of rare exceptions that happened while he was loaded. At least he never lifted a hand to my mom; he worshipped her. Had he touched her, I might’ve had to kill him.
I pull into the driveway, cut the engine, and fill a small overnight bag from the boxes in the back of my truck. Everything of value stays locked in the truck—only toiletries, something to sleep in, and tomorrow’s clothes come in with me.
I ring the bell to his unit and shift awkwardly on my feet. My lungs contract a little, like I’m preparing to step into a small enclosed space without an exit.
An air conditioner hums in the upstairs window. My gaze sweeps across the covered, dilapidated porch of the multifamily Victorian while I wait. It’s a dump, but it comes with a detached garage, giving my father a place to store everything he kept from the Mendham house. The dim glow cast by an outside light reveals the peeling paint on his door. A tricycle sits in the corner along with some dirty plastic lawn furniture and dead potted plants.
The seal on the door cracks open and I face my father. I’ve only seen him once since I moved in with Vanessa. We met for breakfast. It went well enough until he asked me to loan him some money for a debt he had to pay off.
His hair and thick eyebrows are mostly gray, and he looks worn. But I’ve learned never to underestimate him. A couple of inches shorter than me, there’s still power behind his wiry frame. His forearms are roped with veins over muscle. If nothing else, he’s never lost his vanity when it comes to keeping in shape.
“Come in, son,” he says. “Your phone call surprised me.” His voice is amiable, without its usual condescending and resentful tone. True to his word, he’s sober.
I size him up. “Thanks for letting me crash here. It should only take me a few weeks to find a new place.”
He opens the door wider, and I step inside.
The apartment is sparse, but neat enough. The living room is a strange blend between some of the small pieces of nice furniture that were once in our Mendham house and some practical IKEA necessities. My father sold all the best furniture over time. I have no clue what he did with the money, and I don’t want to venture a guess. Despite what he’s told me, even if he’s sober, I suspect his gambling has slowed but not fully stopped.
I reach into my pocket and pull out five twenties. “Here. For the first week,” I say, handing him the amount we agreed upon. It gets me a room and a place to shower, but I’m on my own for food.
He lights up and takes the money without hesitation. The look in his eyes reminds me of a junkie the moment before he sinks a needle into his vein. Even after six years, I still have trouble reconciling the man standing before me with the polished Wall Street investment banker I idolized as a child.
“How’s school?” he asks.
Bile rises in my throat. “Good,” I say trying not to grit my teeth. No thanks to him. I’d be living a whole different life if he hadn’t stolen it from me.
He glances at my hair—drawn back in an elastic—like he’s thinking of making a comment but decides against it. I shift my bag in my hand and tip my head toward the back bedroom where I stayed for a couple weeks three years ago. “I’m going to take a shower, then settle in.”
He nods and gives me one last look. “Make yourself at home.”
“Thanks.” I think about the irony of his words. Home is not a place where he and I would ever coexist. This is merely a pit stop on my way to somewhere else.
I stop halfway down the hall. “Do you still have Mom’s paintings from her studio in the garage?”
“Some of them. Why?” he says from the living room.
“No reason, just asking.” The last thing I need is to have him blackmail me over the piece I want.
I take my stuff into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. Thankfully, the shower looks like it’s been cleaned recently. I sigh, feeling better with a locked door between us.
Fifteen minutes later, clean and dressed in sweats, I take all my things into the bedroom. It looks the same as it did the last time I stayed here and holds the musty smell that comes with lack of use. The queen-size bed takes up most of the space. A dresser, chair, and a TV are the only other things in the room.
“Shit.” The bedroom door doesn’t lock properly, so I wedge the wooden Windsor chair underneath the door knob.
Drained, I collapse on the bed and stare at the ceiling.
A knock sounds at my door and I tense.
“Yeah?”
“I thought you might want a key. I’ll slip it under the door.” My father’s voice is muffled through the heavy wood.
I make no move to get up. “Thanks.”
As his footsteps recede down the hallway, tension eases out of my shoulders. Sweeping a hand over my face, I click on the TV as my cell phone chimes from inside my bag with a new text. I rummage around until I find it.
Welcome back. Declan says you’re back in the saddle on Saturday night. I’m savoring the tips already. Let me know if you want to go for a ride to heal your broken heart. Fi
Fuck. Fiona. I snort and shake my head. If I had any intention of returning to our pre-Vanessa “friends with benefits” arrangement, I’d be sleeping in her bed tonight rather than lying here. I like Fi, but there’s no mistaking that she’s a bit psycho, and I have enough problems right now. Plus, I have a general policy against having to fuck someone in order to keep a roof over my head—hence my issue with Vanessa. We stopped having sex about a month ago when my anger far outpaced my desire. My fingers fly over the touch screen.
Appreciate the offer, but not ready for anything. See you Sat nite.
My eye catches Jillian Grant’s phone number in my list of text messages, and I smile. The thought of being on the cover of a book gives me a little thrill. Then I remember her ass, and smile wider. Now that’s something I could get excited over.