Page 95 of These White Lies
“Both, but I don’t have time for either.”
“Beach or mountains?”
“Depends—are we talking about you in a bikini or you curled up in front of a fire on a bearskin rug situation?”
She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitches.
“First girlfriend.”
“Ashley DeMarco. Eighth grade.”
“Middle name.”
“Don’t have one.”
Then she hits me with it, casual as a sucker punch. “Where’s your dad?”
“Today?”
“Brady,” she practically growls.
“My mom had me when she was seventeen.” The words come out calmly, but my grip tightens on the wheel. “We lived with my grandmother for most of my early childhood. She worked two jobs, until my dad started sending money. Took night classes for a while. She did her best.”
Elizabeth’s brows draw together. “It’s not a simple answer,” I hedge. She nods, staying quiet. Not rushing me.
I don’t talk about this. Ever. Don’t even think about it if I can help it. Most people are satisfied with the easy version of my backstory, which is a grin and a self-deprecating joke. I can reel off the practiced story in under three minutes. My own white lies. Truth dipped in deception.
It’s not because I care what other people think, though as a family we always kept my father’s identity a secret. My mother believed his bullshit that it was to keep the press away, but it’s painfully obvious that it’s always been for his benefit alone—allowing him to dodge his responsibilities, and avoid uncomfortable questions.
I have no problem blowing up his life… but not at the expense of my sister’s privacy. And the fewer people who know, the fewerchances they can use it to get to me or her. I’m not so different from Elizabeth—we both keep our guard up, always ready to protect ourselves. Maybe that’s why we understand each other so well.
It makes me want to give her the truth. The whole truth. The parts that even Sera doesn’t truly understand because she was too young to comprehend what she was witnessing.
“My mom always had this… idea of what life was supposed to be. Even when reality told her otherwise. My father—he wasn’t interested in her. Never really was. They were hormone riddled teenagers, but she believed they were star-crossed lovers. She kept thinking he’d change. That someday he would come back to her… Kept hoping he’d decidewewere worth staying for.”
Elizabeth angles toward me, her knees drawing slightly closer, eyes steady on the side of my face. She’s quiet as she listens. Hearing me. Seeing me. I fight the urge to make a joke and deflect from the uncomfortable emotions my words stir.
I take a deep breath. “He’d show up sometimes—no warning. His usual excuse was that he wanted to see me. When he crawled out of my mother’s bed after a day or two, he would spend some time with me. Usually in the garage where he taught me to box.”
Never at a gym. He couldn’t risk someone recognizing him, but when he saw I had promise and inherited his athleticism, he was thrilled to set me up with trainers. My mother thought it was because he was proud of me. That he was finally being a father, but I was old enough at that point to know it was bullshit. I wasn’t a person to him. I was a pet. An extension of himself. Because when I started to win, to make a name for myself… He hadn’t likedthatat all.
“He came around when he wanted attention,” I say out loud. “Proof he mattered… was still relevant even when he was losing.”
Her brow pulls—small, quick—but I catch it. “Losing?”
I should have known she would pick up on that word choice.
I ignore her question. “My mother adored him.” My voice tightens along with my lungs. “Probably more accurate to say she worshipped him. It was embarrassing to watch her fawn all over him after he had ignored her for so long. He ate it up. Filling himself while draining her dry. No matter how many times he ghosted us, she’d light up when he knocked on the door. Even if she was with someone else, she’d drop everything just for a few days with him.”
“What happened?” Elizabeth asks quietly as the GPS directs us off the highway.
“What always happened. He’d stay for a day, maybe a couple of weeks. A few times he even stuck around for a couple of months. Just long enough to make her think this time would be different. Then he was gone again with a lame excuse.”
She exhales a sad sigh, and I glance at her then back at the road, following the directions being spoken from the dash. “It wasn’t all bad. On one of those visits, he stuck around long enough to get her pregnant again. I was twelve when Sera was born. Best gift he ever gave me.”
Her eyes flick toward me.
“Sera never had a father. He didn’t even spend the time with her that he spent with me. She was a girl, and he didn’t know what to do with her. I filled in for him. Or tried to. Took care of her when Mom couldn’t. Tried to protect her from the mess we both inherited.”
