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 grit my teeth and clench my fist. I can feel the blood rushing to my head. “Don’t tell me how to treat my daughter. She is mine, not yours.”
“I’m not anybody’s!” Tatum shouts, crunching broken glass beneath her slippers as she charges across the room and puts herself between us. I'm the one she's glaring up at, though, and I hate it. “When are you going to get that through your head? People don't belong to other people. I am your daughter. I am not yours to order around or push aside when you don't want me to see or hear something. I'm not a little girl anymore.”
“I realize that,” I growl.
“Do you? I've barely seen you or spoken to you in days. You're in here all the time, most of the time with the door closed. You're not eating, and here you are, reeking of whiskey. This isn't like you. This isn’t my father.”
My head is going to burst if this goes on much longer. “I don't need this right now. I don’t need any of this!”
“What don't you need? For somebody to look you in the eye and tell you you're spiraling?” She even nods toward Romero. “And since when do you throw things at him? What is happening to you? It's like suddenly you've turned into a different person. I don't understand why, but I do know you can't alienate everybody just because you're going through something.”
“Tatum, you don't know what you're talking about.”
“Are you sure about that?” Romero pipes in.
“And you can take your opinion and shove it up your ass,” I bark.
“Listen to yourself!” Tatum pleas, getting in my way before I can lunge at him. I don't know what I planned to do once I got my hands on him. I only know I need to shut his fucking mouth. “Dad, stop. Just stop and think for a second. If you weren't drunk, you might actually hear yourself and know you're making a big mistake.”
“Don't worry about it,” Romero growls, reaching into his pocket. “I've said everything I have to say, anyway.” Without breaking eye contact, he tosses what looks like a memory stick onto my desk. “There. There's what you were in such a hurry to get. You're welcome, by the way.”
With that, he turns away, leaving without a word. He doesn't go to his office, either—I have half a mind to tell him to pack his things once he gets to his cottage. The arrogant prick. I should have set him straight a long time ago. I should punch him in the face. It would make me feel better, at least momentarily.
“Wait,” I say to Tatum when it looks like she's going to follow in his footsteps.
“Dad, trying to talk to you when you're like this is useless. I'm not going to waste my time or yours.” The ache in her voice punches me right in the chest.
Fuck me. I might as well be Charlie now, with a daughter who pities him and doesn't see the point in trying to get through to me. I don't move for a long time, staring at the open doorway. The house is deadly silent. The only sound I can hear is the pounding of my own heart.
I'm alone.
Without Bianca, without my daughter, without Romero.
The thought of him makes my hackles rise. The smug little prick. He knows I need him, or else he’d never get away with half the shit he says. I should cut out his fucking tongue for being so disrespectful. Who is he to give parenting advice? He doesn’t have the first clue what it takes to raise a child. What it feels like to have part of you walking around in the world, walking face-first into shitty decisions. Knowing you can’t stop them, you can’t take on their pain to spare them–no matter how much you wish you could.
Add to that a stubborn, smart kid like mine. She’s always known her own mind and done exactly what she wanted. She’d cut off her nose to spite her face if it meant proving me wrong. Why would she listen to anything I say when I could barely convince her to get a check-up after learning what Kristoff did to her?
Somehow, Romero has the balls to stand before me and act like he gives a shit. Am I now supposed to believe he’s packing his shit and calling my bluff? Is that supposed to scare me?
He'll be back. They all will be. They have to be. Because what’s the point, otherwise? Standing here, alone, surrounded by spilled whiskey and shattered glass, a man could be forgiven for wondering if this is what his entire life has come to. It’s only me and drunken regret and the memory stick I was in a frenzy to get my hands on and now dread opening.