“Nothing has changed, has it?” I whisper, shivering now.
Trembling under his intense, heavy scrutiny.
“What?”
“Not one thing has changed,” I say, studying the terrain of his features that have turned harsh with hatred, the brown of his gaze that has turned black, again with hatred. “You still hate me as much as you did four years ago, don’t you?”
He clenches his jaw in response.
“I don’t know why I thought that time and distance might change things. I mean…” I swallow thickly, blinking my eyes as I try to keep my tears at bay. “It didn’t change things for me. I hate you just as much. Even more so, after what you did when you found out about Jimmy. But I… I don’t know. I don’t know what I expected. I… You’ll always see me as an extension of Charlie, won’t you? No matter what. And that’s why you won’t let me go, isn’t it? That’s why you’ve been jerking me around these past couple of days. That’s why you’re not willing to listen to any of my ideas. Because you hate me. Because I’m Charlie’s daughter.”
I can’t read him ninety-five percent of the time but this, I can read.
I can read him when I mention my mother.
A shutter snaps down when I mention Charlie. His face takes on a mask, a wooden, feelingless mask, where all his features look like his but they have no animation. They look… dead.
Even his movements are wooden when he goes to take his hand off the wall and steps back, taking away his heat and his scent.
I still burn though. I still smell him.
As he says, “I’d like to see you in my office on Monday. At five. For detention. Bring a notebook and a pen. And I suggest you settle in because you’re not going anywhere for the next eight weeks.”
If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s tuning out the world.
Shutting it off. Pushing it away. Either withdrawing into myself or losing myself in my work so that things can’t touch me.
It’s a technique I developed when I was a kid.
I had to.
Or I wouldn’t have survived.
Back then, I was also good at hiding.
I was good at cramming myself into small spaces, jamming myself in nooks and crannies, curling myself into a ball to protect myself. Since then I’ve learned better ways to do that.
To protect myself, I mean.
Like beating the shit out of a heavy bag for an hour every day.
Works like a charm when you want to intimidate people with your size.
But that’s not the point here.
The point is that I can’t intimidate or tune the world out right now. As much as I’d like to.
“So how are you finding the school?”
We’re in a board meeting and I look at John Thompson who’s asked me this question. He’s my father’s age and used to be good friends with him when he was on the board.
“It’s good,” I reply.
“Are you settling in well?”
There’s no malice in that question and since it’s him, I believe that. John Thompson, even though he’s my father’s friend, isn’t a complete piece of shit. Which is a surprise because almost everyone here, on this board, is my father’s friend and a complete piece of shit.
And were opposed to me joining in my father’s stead.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Because if you’re not we’re always here to help.”
That comes from Robert Bailey.
Now he’s a piece of shit.
Old and arrogant and yes, one of my father’s friends.
“Well, I appreciate the help but I think I can manage,” I tell him as politely as I can.
“Are you sure?” he asks, his bushy eyebrows raised. “We’re happy to help. I mean, you just got back from Italy. You must still be getting over the jet lag.”
People chuckle and I clench my fists under the table.
Because the other option is to take that fist and plant it on his face.
But I’m not going to do that.
Mostly because it would be grounds for getting fired from the board.
Which is exactly what he wants.
“It’s a six-hour time difference. Which I got over last month. Because that’s when I came back from Italy. But thanks for your concern. It’s very touching.”
“Of course,” he continues. “We’re always here for you. You’re our dear friend’s son. We’ve watched you grow up.”
My body tightens for a second. “You have, haven’t you?”
He chuckles. “Yes. And that’s why we’re all concerned. Given your…” He gestures with his hands as if he’s too polite to say it.
“Given my what?”
“Well, I mean, your history and health.”
People shift in their seats, looking all kinds of uncomfortable.
Anger burns in my chest and it’s a wonder that I can say the next words calmly. “Again, I’m fine. Thanks for the offer, but I think I’m capable of handling my family’s responsibilities.”
I am.
And I’ve proven that many times over in the past. But I know that in this town, I’m going to have to keep proving it for a long, long time.