Mac (Mountain Men 2)

I saw Mum this morning, though, and she seemed fine. She didn’t mention anything about my father’s binge-working, though.

“Everything alright?” I ask. Despite the fact that I loathe the man, a part of me can’t help but be concerned. I wish it wasn’t so. I wish I could detach myself mentally from him the way I can with so many other things, but it isn’t possible with him. Ever.

He leans back in his chair and lights a cigarette. I cringe. I hate the smell.

“Everything’s fine, love. And how about with you?”

I smile, pulling out the chair in front of the desk and sitting down as far away from him as I can.

It’s a shame how much I hate him now.

There was a brief time when I was younger that I almost liked him. I’d learned to follow the rules and his expectations, and rarely rocked the boat. I thought maybe I could learn to get along with him, that I’d finally be the daughter he deserved.

That seems so long ago now. I close my eyes, willing myself to forget how things changed, when his rage made me harden my heart against him.

“Oh, I’m good,” I say. I’m not one to beat around the bush. “Why did you call me?”

He shifts in his chair and gives me a long look before he speaks. The feeling of dread intensifies, and I’m suddenly afraid I’m going to be sick. He knows something.

“Tell me again how work was?”

Shit.

“Good. Very good—”

“Don’t lie to me!” He slams his palm on the desk in front of him so hard, I jump, and a little shower of paperclips falls to the floor.

Oh, God. Of all the things my father despises, lying and betrayal are two of the worst. There was no warning this time, though. No warning at all.

“What do you mean?” I say, trying to keep my dignity. “What is it?” I don’t know why I’m putting off the inevitable, though. If he knows about the shop, I may as well own it. “Is this because of my job?”

His lips pinch together, and his eyes narrow. “Job,” he snorts. “You mean the business you lied about. The useless failure of a shop.”

I ignore the wave of sadness he makes me feel and swallow the large lump in my throat. It’s quickly followed by a flash of anger. I’ll keep my temper.

“Is there something I can help you with, then?”

He glares, and I snap. I get to my feet. I’m ready to leave. I don’t care if someone follows me. I don’t care if he does himself. If he’s brought me here just to mock me—

“Sit down.” His voice is a deadly whisper. I’m smart enough to do what he says. I’m fuming inside, but I keep myself calm.

“I’m not as dumb as you think, Bryn,” he says, but his voice is sad, not as angry as he was before. I know him, though. This is how he plays things, how he manipulates people into thinking he’s forgiven them, he’s forgotten, that he doesn’t plan on seeking the revenge he’s absolutely going to get.

“I didn’t think you were—”

“Be quiet.” His words cut like a whip, and I flinch as if struck.

I wind my fingers together around the strap to my bag and for the hundredth time, mentally tally the amount of money I've saved. I'm going to have to do something drastic.

Maybe I could take something. Steal it. Pawn it. I have to leave this place and never look back.

He folds his hands, takes a deep breath, then gives me a sort of half-smile that makes me feel a little queasy.

“I know why you did what you did, Bryn. Why you opened up a business without my consent. I’m just surprised you never came here and asked my permission. I could’ve helped, you know. Instead of that small shop, I could’ve opened up a private studio for you. Given you starter money.”

He isn’t finished, and he’s lying anyway, so I don’t respond.

He shakes his head and pours himself another drink. He swirls the ice in his glass, scowling at it, and for one brief moment in time I realize that he must be a very sad old man. Lonely. For people aren't meant to be hated and unloved. But as soon as I have this thought I shut it away because I won't let myself be weak. I won't let myself feel sympathy for him. He's an evil man, who’s done evil things, and he isn't finished yet.

“But we can move on from this, Bryn. This lie, this betrayal.”

I cringe at his words, because these are the two things he punishes the most harshly. He hasn't raised his hand to me in years, but that definitely doesn't mean that he won't, or can't. I know he still hits my mother from time to time, though she rarely gives him reason to, and I doubt he’s touched her since the stroke.