Page 64 of Bloom

“I embarrass you?” I question quietly. “That’s the truth?”

When he only releases a jagged breath, I find myself wishing I’d just put up with the girls. At least their barbs were thinly-veiled. At least I only see them once, maybe twice, a year. At least I don’t really care what they think of me. Suffering through another half hour of their jibing would’ve been so much better than this.

I try not to cry as Hunter drives me home. When he gruffly asks, I give him my old address without thinking, only realizing what I’ve done when we pull up outside the red-brick house Icalled home for over two decades, and nausea washes over me. For once, though, something overpowers my reluctance to be in my father's presence, and that's my desperate urge to get the hell out of this truck.

“Thank you.” The words are barely audible as I slide out of the truck. I don't wait for a response, and it's a good thing because he doesn't offer me one. But his gaze does burn into my back the whole way to the front door. And I do make a show out of looking for my keys, digging around in my purse dramatically while praying he'll just drive away so I can sneak off.

But he doesn’t, and salty tears burn my eyes as I reluctantly fish out my keys. It's not until I open the door and step inside that Hunter drives away.

By then it's too late.

In the hallway of my childhood home, the tears finally break free, rushing in hot streams down my cheeks.

How long ago was it that I was here, cleaning up the abysmal mess? A couple of weeks, maybe? Less? It feels like longer. Itlookslike longer. It hurts like hell, the perpetual state of disarray this place seems to be in, compared to the clean, bright space I used to know. And it hurts even more when I think about how much Mom wouldhatethis.

It's mercifully quiet. So much so that I start to get hopeful, start to think I might’ve gotten lucky for once, that I can linger for a moment longer, just until Hunter’s far enough away, before sneaking out without my presence ever being known.

Or maybe not.

“You crying?”

I flinch. My head whips to the living room, finding my Dad standing with a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Quickly swiping at my eyes, I shake my head, but the damage is done.

“What the fuck do you have to cry about, Caroline?”

Despite the circumstances, a laugh bubbles up in my throat.

I don't know. WhatdoI have to cry about? Just a dead mom and an absent, drunk dad and a pitiful, worthless,humiliatingexcuse for a life.

Dad huffs as he slugs his beer and takes a wobbly step towards me. “What're you doing here? Thought you were too good for me now.”

“Just getting some stuff,” I lie, keeping my gaze down as I shuffle towards the stairs.

“Mystuff, you mean.” He moves to block my path. “I paid for all that shit.”

He didn't. Everything in my bedroom is mine and mine alone, scrimped and scrounged from flea markets and thrift stores, bought with money I earned from babysitting or mowing the neighbors’ lawns or, eventually, from working at Bloom. “I just need some clothes.”

My second attempt to escape upstairs is once again thwarted, this time by a hand locking around my bicep. “Don't take that fucking tone with me.”

“I'm—”

Fingers grab my chin, harshly yanking until we’re face-to-face. “You fucking look at me when I talk to you.”

I do, and my body locks with fear, utterly terrified of the wild, furious look in his eyes.

He's never done this before. Manhandled me like this. He's never gripped me with enough intensity to bruise, never purposely left marks.

Forcing air into my lungs, I try to shake him off, but his grip is too tight, pinching my skin. “Dad, you're hurting me.”

I don't know what I expected. Maybe I thought it was unintentional. That he just got angry and grabbed me without thinking. Maybe I thought that my words, practically whimpered, would break through the angry haze and he'd let me go immediately. God, maybe I even thought he'd apologize.

He doesn't.

There isn’t a flicker of worry or concern in his eyes.

If anything, I swear his grip tightens.

A sneer on his face, Dad shoves me backwards so hard, I hit the wall with a thud. “Fucking weak,” he spits before turning around and stumbling back to the sofa . “I didn't raise you to be weak.”

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