Page 15 of Monk
“How is he different?”
“He’s just more into status and having all of these expensive things,” I tell him. “He’s just changed into this materialistic person. He’s gotten cold. Sarcastic. He’s just… mean-spirited sometimes.”
“Has he ever put his hands on you?” he asks, his voice hard.
“No, it’s nothing like that.” Unless you count him slamming me up against the bookcase by my throat. “It’s more the things he says. And just the way he is with me anymore.”
“All marriages go through rough patches. Times aren’t always sunshine and rainbows, honey,” he replies. “Your mom and I certainly had our fair share of them.”
“Dad, this isn’t an argument over the color of the drapes or about taking the trash out. There are just fundamental differences between us now that weren’t there before. We’re two different people and we’re not traveling the same road anymore,” I tell him.
“I know it can feel like that sometimes. And sometimes you have to dig deep to sort things out and get through them. But if you work at it, you can get through them,” he responds.
I bite back the sharp reply that’s sitting on the tip of my tongue. I really don’t want to fight with my dad. Part of me just wants to go to sleep and wake up tomorrow to find this has all been a bad dream.
“Some things can’t be worked through, Dad. Believe me on this one.”
He frowns and takes a long swallow of his coffee. He doesn’t even need to say anything to express his disappointment. It just radiates off him like heat from the sun. Like I said, he’s traditional and conservative when it comes to marriage. I ought to have known better than to expect that he’ll jump to my defense. But in his mind, if Spencer isn’t beating me up, it’s something I am supposed to be able to get over.
Part of me wants to drop the whole cartel bomb on him just to see how he’ll react to that bit of news. To see if it will change his opinion of things, and if this is something that he thinks I can get over, and that Spencer and I can work out. But I won’t do that. Partly because I’m still coming to grips with it myself, but also—probably mostly—because I don’t want to drag my dad into this mess. Miguel Zavala is not somebody to mess around with, and I don’t want my dad caught up in this.
“Look, Dad, it’s really… complicated,” I say softly. “There’s a lot going on that I can’t share with you right now. I just want you to know this isn’t a decision I made lightly or quickly. And it’s about a lot more than just hurt feelings. I just need you to trust me. This had to happen.”
“I do trust you. I just hate to see it come to this,” he tells me.
“Yeah. Me, too.”
We both fall silent for a moment, each of us sipping our coffee. My mind is awash with a million different thoughts. Though the burden I’ve been carrying on my back for a long time now hasn’t disappeared completely, I feel like it’s lessened. Getting out of that house and away from Spencer and all of the bullshit that entailed, has lightened the load. More so than I have ever expected.
Suddenly, I feel exhausted. Wrung out. Totally and completely emotionally spent.
“Your room is right where you left it,” he says with a smile on his face.
“Thanks, Dad. I just need to get my bags.”
“I’ll help.”
My mind flashes to the bag of cash in the back seat and a jolt of adrenaline shoots through me, pushing that feeling of exhaustion aside once more.
“It’s okay. I can handle it,” I tell him.
“I haven’t done a lot of things right in life where you’re concerned, honey,” he says quietly. “At least lugging stuff around is something I know I won’t screw up.”
The expression on his face is that of guilt mixed with sorrow, and I feel like the world’s biggest asshole. I get to my feet and come around the island, then throw my arms around him, holding him tight. Though my vision shimmers, I manage to keep any tears from falling this time.
“Come on, let’s go get your things,” he says.
I nod and lead him out of the kitchen. I get to the bags first and make sure I grab the bag with the money in it, slinging it over my shoulder, and grimace as I feel my knees start to buckle under the weight.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah, just tweaked my knee running a couple of weeks back. No biggie.”
I give him a smile and walk back into the house, feeling guilty about the lie. Technically speaking, it’s not a lie. I did tweak my knee on a run a couple of weeks ago. It just hasn’t actually bothered me in a week or so. What bothers me the most is how easily that lie has come to my lips.
I’ve always prided myself on being an honest person. But the fact of the matter is that I’ve had to hide so much from Spencer and be less than forthcoming so often over the last couple of years that it’s become second nature to me. And honestly, I hate that about myself. Honesty. Integrity. Forthrightness. Those are qualities my father has in spades and traits I was always proud of having myself. But Spencer changed me… and not for the better.
I walk up the stairs and into my old room, and I can’t stop the waves of nostalgia washing over me. Stepping into my room is like stepping into my past. I drop my bags and look around. Just like everything else in the house, my room is like a museum display, a moment perfectly frozen in time. Nothing has changed and everything is exactly how I remember leaving it.
