CHAPTER SEVEN
Lyric
I don’t want to be a boring girl!
I don’t want to have everything together in some neat, organized little world as though I were just some kind of silly nobody like every other woman. When I was a child and people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always said I just wanted to be Lyrica. It actually took me until I was ten or eleven to understand they weren’t asking me if I wanted to be a different person.
I never lost that idea, though.
I don’t want to fit into a nice package. I don’t want to be molded into something. I just want to be me!
Except I don’t think Lyrica is enough for Phillip, and I want Phillip more than I want anything else at all. In fact, I can’t think of anything I want more than I want Phillip.
I want Phillip enough to be anyone he wants, whether or not that means I leave Lyric behind. That realization is terrifying for me because I’ve spent my entire life trying to keep that sort of thought from entering my mind. I’ve spent forever refusing to be pigeonholed into anything.
Seven months.
I’ve spent seven months with Phillip and he’s everything I can even imagine any girl could want. He takes being a Daddy seriously, and that makes me want to be a perfect little girl for him. He’s wonderful in every way.
But no matter how much I want it, how can I give up being me?
I’ve always been what my grandmother called spirited. I’m pretty sure what she meant was that I was a fucking handful to raise, and she and Gramps were the ones who raised me. But I looked it up, and whether or not she intended it, I liked the definitions. There was one that said it meant I was full of energy, enthusiasm, and determination. There was one that said I was resistant to conformity, like a spirited horse that needs a skilled rider. There was one that said it meant I was unbending to whatever pressure was around me to be like everyone else.
Although I think my grandmother was just finding a soft way to say I made life difficult for my parents, her words meant a great deal to me. She said them when I was twelve, in junior high, and they got me through my teen years. I didn’t have to bow to peer pressure. I was me, not anyone else. I was spirited. The words helped me with music. I didn’t have to sing songs like everyone else did. I could be creative. I was spirited, after all.
My whole life, that description has given me freedom and joy to really be who I want to be and what I want to be, and not to let anyone else dictate that.
I think I love Phillip.
I love him but I can’t let him dictate who I’m going to be. I’m Lyrica, Lyric. I’m me. I’m spirited.
Philip walks into the living room and smiles at me before heading into the kitchen to grab his wallet and keys from the counter. “We’re leaving in ten minutes, little girl,” he calls. “Don’t forget to grab your sweater.”
It’s a pretty simple thing of him to ask. It isn’t even a command, really. He’s just reminding me to bring a sweater because it’s cold out and he doesn’t want me to feel chilly. Still, the fact that it’s an instruction from him and not an independent thought I had causes me to boil over with rage.
“Fuck you!” I scream. “I’ll leave my sweater here if I want to! I don’t have to do what you tell me!”
He doesn’t respond right away. I hear his footsteps and see his shadow as he walks back to the living room from the kitchen. When he rounds the corner I see he’s frowning and I feel a rush of fear.
“What are you talking about, littler girl?” he asks.
“Shut up!” I shout, stamping my foot. “I’m not your little girl! I’m Lyric! I’m Lyrica! I do what I want, not what someone else tells me to!”
His brow furrows and I can tell I’ve hurt him. It crushes me knowing I’ve hurt him. I want nothing more than to rush into his arms, cover him with kisses and apologize over and over. But I can’t. I love him but I can’t give up who I am.
“Little girl,” Philip says, his voice stern and commanding. “Stop shouting and talk to me like an adult. What is going on? Why are you saying these things?”
I open my mouth to shout but instead I burst into tears. I don’t rush into his arms but a moment later, his arms are wrapped around me and I melt against him, sobbing into his chest.
He doesn’t say anything for a while. Eventually, my tears subside to a sniffle and he gently pushes me away and holds me at arm’s length.
“Look at me, little girl,” he says, gently but just as commanding as before.
I look at him with what I hope is a defiant expression but is probably just pathetic. He stares back at me and though he is still hurt, I can tell that more than anything else, he’s concerned for me and wants to help me. “Talk to me,” he says. “Tell me what’s going on. Why are you saying these things?”
I take a deep breath and force back my tears. “I love you, Daddy,” I say. “But I don’t want to just be Philip’s little girl. I want to be Lyric. I want to be me.”
“But you are you,” he says. “You’ve always been you. You’re my little girl because you’re Lyric, not because I want you to stop being Lyric.”