My father is furious. He races toward me with the light of Abe’s house blazing behind him.
“That man is a cop,” he growls, throwing a finger toward Abe’s house. “You think I like cops calling me in the middle of the night? What the hell were you doing?”
Hair blows in my face and he stops at the curb. He takes in my rumpled clothes, my bra-less shirt, my tangled hair.
“Jesus Christ,” he hisses through his teeth, realization forcing him to turn away. Both his hands ball up and all the muscles in his neck tense. I hate that he can’t look at me.
“Give me your keys and get in the car!” He points to the Lexus, and I do as I’m told. My keys jangle too loudly as I put them in his palm and we peel out into the street.
I see my car getting smaller in the rearview mirror and my stomach turns knowing Abe will have to see it in front of his house in the morning. I hear his ragged voice in my head, pissed at me, with his buttons all over my floor. Buttons I scattered.
Cold crawls up my legs. Squishy and mud-water cold.
My father grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white. I lean into the armrest and hold tight, trying to keep steady, to breathe, swallow.
“I’m sorry Mr. Doyle had to call you,” I say, and he scoffs.
“No, I’m sorry he had to call me! I’m sorry my daughter can’t be a respectable young adult.”
“We didn’t do—”
“I don’t want to know!” His lips jam together and his eyes bore into the road. He huffs, nostrils flaring, like there’s water rising inside him. “Jesus,” he growls, almost to himself. “And who was that other one? The other day? Your friend.”
I taste salt and the ocean.
“Kurt.”
“Right.” Saliva flings from his lip. “How many—” He cuts himself off, grinding a palm into the wheel.
“Just the two,” I admit.
“Stop talking.”
“I didn’t sleep wi—”
“Stop talking!”
Silence razors between us. Silence thin as ice. It’s toxic. It lumps with rose hips and worms in my throat. Ramming quiet. Ramming down. Ramming shut. How long can he ignore me? How long can we pretend not to see?
“You’re grounded,” he snaps, but all I hear is the clang of belt buckles and the sizzle of raw meat on the grill.
“Do you remember the barbecue?” I wheeze.
“This discussion is over.”
“Do you remember the barbecue?”
He speeds up and tightens his grip.
“Your company barbecue,” I insist. “The one where I got sick?”
“I said you’re grounded! I suggest you think long and hard about the type of girl you’ve be—”
“What type of girl is that?” I snap, and he stares at me, his eyes scared.
He doesn’t say it. He goes silent, and yellow road signs flash by us in a blur, threatening caution and dark.
“I cut my hair,” I say, my voice sand-caught and harsh.
“What are you talking about?” he whispers, his arms locked on the wheel.
“The Fourth of July barbecue. The day I cut off my hair.” I grab a clump of my blond, wishing I could razor it off. “All of it. Gone! And you barely noticed. You didn’t care!”
“I thought—” He looks at me, and his face goes white. Something naked and afraid floods his expression and his eyes snap back to the road.
“What?”
His Adam’s apple presses against his throat. It moves like a marble pressed hard against the skin, thick and impossible to swallow.
“What did you think?” I press, but he refuses to look at me. “You’re upset I’m out late with a boy my own age, but you didn’t care about that man!” I dig my feet into the floor and it isn’t solid anymore. It squishes like dirty mud in my toes. “Do you remember that man, from your work?”
His hands tighten, and I know he knows.
“He played horseshoes with me?” I cough. “You remember?”
His head shakes slightly and my pants stick to my thighs.
“That man who took me for a walk.”
“Marion, stop.”
“That man—” It catches in me. The water. The current.
“Stop.”
It swells.
“That man who kissed me.”
He frowns and shakes his head.
“That man who put his . . . put his . . .”
Rose hips jam in my throat. Worms and rose hips and—
“He put himself in—”
I choke. I gesture.
“Goddamn it Marion!” Dad pulls the car over, banging his trembling fist into the dash. “What’s wrong with you?”
I gasp for air.
“Why would you say that?” he yells. “Why would you—”
I gasp—
“You were fine after the barbecue.” He’s so loud. Louder than I’ve ever heard him. Ocean loud. “You were sick!”
I gasp and choke, trying to dislodge the rose hips and the water. I gasp and hack and roll down the window and spit out the snot, and suddenly he isn’t yelling anymore. He’s grown so still beside me it’s like he isn’t even there.
But he is.
He stares at me in the dark. In this pitch-black dark, as I cough and wheeze. Spit dribbling down my chin. He stares at me. His little girl: hair tangled, water stung, grown-up. Too grown-up.
He looks at me, for real.
“You were . . .” But he can’t finish that sentence because he’s crying.
My father is crying.
Because I’m not invisible anymore.