my flattest, coldest voice. “Call me back when you’re sober, and we’ll talk.”
Mom was in mid-wail when I hung up.
She tried to call back a few times, but I didn’t answer. Finn came up after the first time and asked me if he should pick up the phone if she called again. The pity in his eyes when he looked at me made me cringe. Had Dad told him my mom was a drunk? Or—ever so much worse—had he been listening to my phone conversation? He was a nice guy and all, but it wouldn’t shock me if Dad had given him other orders that had nothing to do with guarding me.
“Just ignore her, okay?” I asked.
He opened his mouth as if to say something, then changed his mind. “Very well,” he said, then slipped out the door and left me to my misery.
I hid in my room for the rest of the day, trying not to rehash my poignant reunion with my mom. I didn’t do a very good job of it, though.
Right around five, I heard the faint sound of the garage door opening, and I realized my dad was home. I was so not looking forward to whatever drama was about to unfold.
I’d assumed my mom would spend the rest of the day drinking herself into a stupor, which should have meant I wouldn’t have to deal with her again until at least tomorrow. But when I stuck my head out my bedroom door, I immediately heard the sound of arguing voices, and one of them was my mom’s. Groan. The idea of remaining hidden in my room was embarrassingly appealing, but I figured it was a bad idea to let them discuss my future—because what else were they likely to be discussing?—without any input from me.
I crept slowly down the stairs, hoping to eavesdrop and get a feel for where things stood before I made my entrance. Unfortunately, their voices were muffled just enough by the walls that I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I paused at the base of the stairs, listening intently, but both my parents went silent. There was nothing for me to do but go in blind.
I pushed the door open and saw something I’d thought I’d never see: my mother and my father in the same room.
My mom was seated on the sofa, a glass of amber liquid clutched in her hands, and my father stood with his back to the room, staring out the front window with his hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t turn to look at me when my mom shouted my name and sprang to her feet, sloshing a bit of her drink over the rim of the glass. I’m guessing she meant to run to me for a smothering maternal hug, but the look on my face must have stopped her.
“You gave her booze?” I cried at my father’s back, and I was so outraged I felt like I might explode with it.
Dad turned to look at me then, and those piercing eyes of his stopped my voice in my throat. There was no magic involved, just the crushing weight of his disapproval. Objectively, he still looked young enough to be my mother’s son—she had not aged gracefully—but the paternal authority in his gaze destroyed that illusion and made me shrink back.
“You are my daughter, Dana,” he said, his voice frosty. “Your mother is not, and is therefore free to make her own decisions.”
“Dana, honey,” my mom said before I could think of an appropriate retort, “let’s not fight. We have a lot to talk about.”
The fuzz of alcohol still showed in her voice, but at least she wasn’t passed out in the hotel room, and she was close enough to sober to retain her powers of higher reasoning. With her, that kind of limbo state could be the worst of two worlds—drunk enough to be maudlin, sober enough that I couldn’t work around her.
I swallowed my bitterness the best I could, crossing my arms over my chest in what I knew was a defensive posture. “Fine,” I said, then clamped my jaws shut.
Dad was still giving me his laser-beam stare. “If you plan to participate in this conversation, I expect you to treat both me and your mother with the proper respect. Understood?”
I blinked in surprise. I wasn’t sure why Dad was mad at me, but that seemed to be the case. I couldn’t find my voice, so I merely nodded my agreement.