Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 115619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
I guess the best way to go is to be gentle. Hey, Dad, you said a few things the other night, and I was hoping we could talk about it. I mean, that’s normal. It’s almost enough to make me lose my hold on the plates I pull out of the cabinet. Callum. Mom. Impossible.
But what if it is possible?
I hate that question. It’s the reason why I haven’t gotten into it yet with Dad. Unable to come up with a motive, I can’t see it being true. Callum wouldn’t murder an innocent young mother, for fuck’s sake. A flash of bitter disbelief blazes through me, leaving in its wake a horrible taste in my mouth. He’s many things, but he’s not that sort of a monster.
You’re assuming she was innocent.
Stupid subconscious. That could be the reason Dad doesn’t want to offer an explanation. It might mean sharing a lot more. I was eight years old—what did I know? So many things could’ve passed under my nose without me ever noticing. I don’t think I could handle having that picturesque image of her shattered, but I have no other option. I need the truth. At the very least I need to know what makes Dad so sure it was Callum who killed her.
By the time the food’s ready, I’m not closer to having any sort of resolution than I was before. This is ridiculous. Grow some balls Bianca! Since when can’t I talk with him? Okay, so he can’t know about Callum or about Lucas hitting me with his car or about where Lucas is now… fine, I can’t talk to him about most of what’s gone on lately.
This isn’t the same. We’ve always been close, but especially over the loss of mom. If there is anyone I can talk to about her, it’s him.
“Goulash?” Dad’s eyes light up at the sight of what’s waiting on the stove. It isn’t goulash, actually, just macaroni mixed with ground meat and tomato sauce. One of my favorites from when I was little.
“I can’t help thinking about the past,” I admit as he fills up a plate. “When Mom taught me how to make that. I’m so glad I had the chance to learn.”
“Me, too.” He’s smiling fondly as he sits at the dining table.
“I feel like she’s still here with us at times like this.” Heavy-handed? Yes. I’m laying it on thick, hoping he picks up the hint and runs with it.
“It makes me happy to think of you keeping her memory alive.”
Fuck. This is torture. He’s so happy, eating and smiling, and all I want is to ruin things by bringing up the painful past.
Whatever’s happening, it’s visibly affecting him. And it’s not like I can stay here forever, no matter how much he wants me to. I should at least find out what he’s going through if I’m going to eventually leave him again.
It isn’t easy to ignore the rush of nostalgia at the first bite, tears threatening to fill my eyes. All of a sudden, I’m a little girl who wants to know why her mom had to die. I swallow back more than noodles before I can muster up the courage to speak.
“Do you… remember anything about when I first got here a couple of nights ago?” I keep my gaze trained on my flowered plate because it’s easier than watching the light drain from his eyes. Somehow I know if I look up at him, that’s what I’ll find. A man empty of life, of joy.
“Not very much. Enough to feel guilty.” He clears his throat sharply before his fork clangs against his plate. “Why? Did I say something stupid? You know, you can’t trust what a person says when they’re drunk. A person’s rational thought process isn’t there.”
He forgets I went to college, though he’s probably so deep in denial that he never imagined me going to parties. Like, I don’t know what it’s like to be drunk. Like, I don’t know that a person is far more honest when intoxicated than sober. Rational thoughts make you lie; when you're drunk, the truth pours out.
“Don’t bother trying to cover your ass in advance,” I warn with a smirk while glancing up at him. “You mean you genuinely don’t remember anything? You were in your room, looking through pictures, talking about Mom.”
At first, all he does is stare at me. There’s nothing angry or malicious about it. More like he can’t figure out what he’s looking at. “I remember pulling the boxes down from the closet. I’m sorry if it upset you. Sometimes I find myself feeling sentimental.”
He cracks a brief grin, lifting his shoulders. “Now you know. Sometimes, your old man gets sentimental and has too much to drink. Or is it the other way around?”
The silence between us drags on. His face falls when I don’t chuckle along with him.