hides behind nice words. His facial expressions, though, give away more than he’ll ever admit.
“Hey, Daddy,” I call out in a small voice like I’m a little girl all over again and not a woman who’s suffering every day. The newspaper falls to the table, and his eyes meet mine. Amber, the exact shade of mine, stares at me. Understanding flickers. Care. For this moment, this tiny morsel of breaths collectively stolen, he shows his love. In his expression, you can see he misses me, that he’s sorry, and he wishes things were different. It’s not enough, though. The simple glances of love and support don’t rectify his actions.
And those speak volumes.
He abandoned me.
Killed my hope.
Didn’t notice when someone stole my innocence.
Lost time is forever gone but memories trickle through the crack of my mind on a continuous loop.
“Hey, Josey-pie,” he greets, his voice warm and happy as he stands to hug me. It’s been so long. His arms are a welcome reprieve. He holds me together at this moment, collecting my pain and borrowing the weight so it’s not unbearable. Then as soon as it’s there, it’s gone.
“Your father and I would like to speak with you,” Marsha interrupts our tiny moment, the little span of time we’ll never get back. Remember time is the biggest liar of all.
Don’t be fooled.
“Sit,” she suggests, waving me to the table. Dad pulls out a chair, and as I lower myself, he tucks me in. My stomach feels all sorts of uncomfortable with the simple fact that Marsha’s leading this family dinner. Whatever comes out of her mouth is usually bad. It holds no merit, but he allows it. Every single time.
Wherever Clayton Moore disappeared to, I’d like to file a missing person’s report.
“Your dad and I were discussing your absence...” she drones on, and I don’t listen, using this time to think of all the restaurants in Hollow Ridge and Hawthorne and wondering if any needs a head chef. Since we’ve met, I’ve learned to block out her talks and gibberish about being a family. She’s not kind, she’s fake, and we have enough plastic in the Hollow Ridge Bay that we don’t need her polluting it further.
“Josephine Ellis Moore.” My dad breaks me from my silence, reprimanding me for my lack of respect.
“Sorry, Dad. I have a lot on my mind.” It’s a lame excuse, but truthful, nonetheless.
“She asked why you’re not working tonight,” he reiterates.
“Ah, you see... I quit.” Taking in a haggard breath, I blink the disappointment away. For a moment, the thought of lying occurred to me, but then I realized Marsha and her goons probably stalk me enough to know I’m falsifying that information. Neither seems surprised, and they both exude an almost vague understanding along with their disappointment.
“Again?” Marsha goads, placing her hand on her hip with judgment in her expression.
“This guy—”
“Enough!” my dad interrupts. Whenever Marsha and I spat, he gets aggravated, usually shutting us down with his booming voice. “Let’s eat, then discuss. I’m famished.”
And at that, we’re no longer speaking.
Just like normal.
Voiceless meals with miserable human beings.
Cheers.
Dinner goes on without a single word passed among us three. I’d say it’s peaceful, but we all know that’s a lie. It’s awkward and stifling, almost like being locked into a room without windows. I’m not a fan.
“Marsha and I were discussing your future,” Dad finally breaks the cloak of invisibility I tried clinging to. He takes a swig of his wine, then pats his mouth like he’s regal and important. He is, being a mayor and all, but he’s not to me. Not anymore. “We want you to move back home. My next campaign—”
“You’re fucking joking,” I spit, my voice louder than I’ve ever allowed it to rise. Never at my dad. Never swear. Never show weakness. Never bend. “You cut me out of your life for her, and now you suddenly want me to pretend I’m okay with that?”
“Lower your voice, Josephine. We don’t raise our voices or curse in this household.”
“Again, until she showed up,” I let out, frustration seeping from my pores.
“I need to show a solidified family front and not a daughter shacked up with some surfer urchin who doesn’t know the difference between a salad fork and a dinner fork.”
A snort escapes me. I can’t help it. It’s an accurate depiction even though that isn’t the issue. The real one is the fact that he still believes he has any control over me. He lost that when he practically