Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

Nothing.

I liked to go there—correction: I liked to hide there—whenever Mom put me through the wringer for being anything less than perfect. The old tree was my safe haven. It was a place to cry in peace, a sanctuary where Mom never found me.

Where no one ever would.

Or so I thought.

“Love?” My father’s voice sounded far at first, until I heard the branches crackling on my right and realized my hiding spot wasn’t as infallible as I’d thought. I tried silencing my erratic breathing so that he wouldn’t find me, puffy eyes burning with unshed emotions.

“Love? Chérie, où es-tu?” he called again, this time in his native language. I loved when Dad spoke French. I never understood why Mom insisted he kept it to a minimum in public. Looking back, I realize she was probably scared it would make him stand out. And everybody knows Silver Springs, North Carolina, is a judgmental, cookie-cutter town filled with cookie-cutter people.

I didn’t answer him, nuzzling my head into the crook between my legs to muffle my breakdown. Branches and leaves ruffled next to me. And while I never saw him sit down by my side, I knew he was there.

I felt him.

Felt his warm, loving presence.

One touch and the tightness in my chest exploded. All he did was place a comforting hand on my back, but it blew the water gates wide open and left me sobbing pathetically.

“I’m so sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to stain her dress. You have to believe me,” I barely said through my snot and dared to look in his direction. He was smiling.

Smiling.

It was a real smile, too, but it was sprinkled with distant sadness. I’d seen my dad fake smile before—like when he had to explain to ignorant people why he wanted to spend the rest of his life driving fast cars around a loop. Only his real smiles could cause the wrinkles near his green eyes.

It made no sense to me.

What was there to smile about?

“I believe you’re telling the truth,” was all he said, and an outpour of relief seeped through my bones.

Until he added, “About being sorry, that is.”

“What?” I asked.

“We both know this wasn’t an accident, Love.” His smile didn’t falter one bit. He wasn’t mad, or pointing fingers. He was stating the facts. Saying things as they were. My sadness morphed into anger, rage spreading inside me like a tumor.

“You think I did this on purpose?” I spat. How could he think this low of me? How could he think me so evil I’d want to ruin my sister’s big night?

Daddy was usually on my side.

He was the only one on my side.

“Okay, let’s put it this way,” he rephrased. “Do you think maybe… it’s possible that you tripped without meaning to, but you also didn’t try to hold yourself back as much as you could’ve?” He arched an eyebrow at me, and I blinked at him in what I wish I could say was confusion, but a buried, unassumed part of me read him crystal clear.

“No.” I muttered as I ripped out grass that was still wet from the rain, leaving bald spots at my feet.

“You’re saying there’s not even a minuscule chance that I might be right? Not even this small?” He pinched two fingers together to illustrate his question, and I half-smiled.

But no smile could’ve ever eased my guilt.

Because he was right.

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t like I’d planned to spill my drink on her and operation “wreck the dress” was premeditated, but when my foot had gotten caught in the carpet and the opportunity presented itself…

I’d made the split-second decision to take it.

Maybe, subconsciously, I wanted her dress ruined.