Page 54 of Riot Reunion
I narrow my eyes at him. “Liar.”
His mouth hangs open. “Why would I lie about that? Those fries were super popular. People went crazy when they took them off the men—”
“You didnothave a burger for lunch,” I say, cutting him off. “You haven’t left the house all day.”
“How would you know? You’ve been sleeping.”
“A slight breeze will wake me up, Dad. I would have heard if you’d gone somewhere. Now when was the last time you ate real food?”
He scowls at me, huffing as he gets to his feet. “You’re one to talk. What haveyouhad today?”
“Food is basically poison to me right now. I have an excuse.”
“Oh? And you think I don’t?”
It’s right there, on the tip of my tongue: ‘Hah! Go on, then. Hit me. What’syourexcuse?’ But I already know what it is. His son was just convicted of multiple counts of rape and attempted murder. And the daughter he feels he failed to protect has just shown up on his doorstep, pregnant and intermittently hysterical.
Okay, life is pretty dicey for Dad, too, I guess.
“How about this?” he says. “I’ll make some soup. Both of us can manage that, right?” He pats himself down, absently looking around, as if he’s put something important down somewhere and can’t find it. He seems to realize what he’s doing and focuses his attention back on me. “Chicken okay, sweetheart?”
I nod, sinking back into the couch cushions. “Yeah, sure.” I don’t sound sure, though. I sound dubious as fuck. After the dream I just had, the thought of putting anything into my mouth and swallowing it makes me feel like rushing to bend over the toilet bowl.
“I’ll run out to the store for some supplies. Dry crackers? Bread? Anything else take your fancy? Just say the word and I’ll grab you whatever you want. How about some of those little cookies from that bakery you like on the other side of town? If I hurry, I might make it before they close.”
Fuss.
He’s done nothing but fuss for the past three days. He means well, but he’s driving me fucking crazy. It takes every scrap of patience I possess to stop myself from snapping at him. He’s just trying to help. I’ll only hurt him further if I’m short with him. “Just the crackers would be great.” I smile weakly, placing a hand over my stomach. Dad catches the movement, his eyes flitting to the hand that now cradles my belly, and a hot, sharp bolt of acid fires up the back of my throat, making me want to puke all over again. Immediately, I shift, grabbing both my cell phone and the TV remote, one in each hand.
“Won’t be long now,” Dad says. “It’s natural that you’d do that, though. It’s normal to feel—”
I don’t want to know what it’s fucking normal to feel like. None of this isnormal. “Gatorade,” I snap. “I’d love some blue Gatorade.Please.”
He looks me over, his words still hovering there in the air between us, lingering even though I did my best to reject them. It doesn’t matter what he says—this isnotall right. It’s not okay. It’s not acceptable. “And yeah, actually, those cookiesdosound great. If you hurry, you’ll probably get over there before they close.”
With a heavy, sad look, Dad nods, heading out of the living room and disappearing down the hall. He didn’t say a word about the nightmare I was having, even though he purposefully woke me from it. He’s being eaten alive by guilt. He knows perfectly well that I was dreaming about Jonah and all of the terrible things he did to me. My father can’t bear to hear the details of it, so he doesn’t ask. I think he’s honestly afraid to know—
The front doorsnicks closed, the sound soft as a whisper, foreboding as a clap of thunder. The house silently screams in my ears, the walls ringing with the memory of Jonah. I shouldneverhave come back here. I can’t even think about going up to the second floor of the house without feeling like I’m going to faint. The formal living room, with the patinaed photos of Grandpa hanging on the walls, and the heavy, slate-grey curtains, and the Art Deco lamps from Restoration Hardware, has become my hideout. I eat in here. Watch TV in here. Sleep in here. There are some things I can’t do in here, though…
I was not prepared for how often I would need to pee when I got pregnant.
I was not prepared for any part of pregnancy, full stop.
I groan as I get to my feet—not because I’m anywhere near big enough to warrant complaining. I’ve just been so lethargic since I got home—three days, sprawled out on the couch. Everything feels stiff, swollen, and achy. I use the downstairs bathroom, even though it’s cramped, and the shitty lighting makes me look ill. The other full bathrooms are all upstairs, and I can’t—I can’t—
I just can’t.
I flush when I’m done, washing my hands in the sink. Even over the noise of so much running water, I hear the front door slamming. Shaking my head, I smile ruefully as I exit the restroom. “It’s on the kitchen counter!” I call, shuffling across the hall, heading back to the living room.
“What is?”
I scream, staggering back a step, right into...fuck, fuck,FUCK!The ornamental elephant my grandfather bought on a trip to Africa wobbles precariously on its stand; I barely catch hold of it before it crashes to the floor.
Pax stands in the darkened hallway, a pale white ring of light cast off from the porch light haloing his head. Drawn brow. Eyes full of steel. Jaw clenched tight. Safe to say, he’s not very happy.
“My…dad’s…wallet,” I whisper pathetically. “I thought—I thought—”
“Liar,” he says coolly. “Youdon’tthink. If you did, you’d never have come backhere, of all places, thinking I wouldn’t follow.”
