by Lana Sky
“Wait.” He grabs me when I try to stand.
Rejection is a pill best swallowed on your feet. Ideally after, you can hide for a few hours and reassemble your armor of charming grins and carefree giggles.
Tired, with tangled hair and sore skin—I’m not strong enough.
“You can send me away later,” I blurt out. God, I’m pleading. “But just don’t—”
“I’m not sending you away. Come here.” Thorny sighs and tugs me down, forcing me to crouch.
We’re on the same level now. It’s strange down here. If I squint, it almost seems like he’s not leaning away from me.
“Go get dressed,” he says, compiling a new plan on the fly. “We’ll…we’ll go for a drive.”
A drive. To Mr. Lawyer’s stuffy office?
Thorny rises without an explanation, still wearing his rumpled teacher ensemble, his hair a wild mess. “I’ll be in the car,” he grumbles before lumbering through the house, ever the storm cloud.
Like a good girl, I heed his command. I go upstairs and shower. Then I get dressed in my last clean sweater and another pair of jeans. I’ve run out of clean clothes: four weeks of clothing is all I’ve ever really needed.
When I return downstairs, I half-expect to find the driveway empty. He’ll take his drive alone, clear his head, and fix whatever malfunction made him say those dangerous words in the first place.
I’m sorry.
It’s me.
I’m the fucked-up one.
I approach the front door cautiously and open it. It’s bright outside. The sun beams off a cherry-red convertible, almost as if taunting me. He’s seated behind the steering wheel, staring resolutely at the windshield.
When I descend the front steps, he doesn’t drive off.
Odd.
He doesn’t frown, either, when I slip into the passenger’s seat and close the door behind me. Instead, he sighs that tired way only he can. Then he rolls our windows down and flicks the radio on.
Classical music can be an effective barrier. It seeps into the silence and gives it depth—something anyone wishing to break it has to fight to overcome. He uses the music to keep me at bay, and I watch the world pass from behind the window rather than fight.
He’s taking me into town. The closer we come to Thornton, the more my stomach tenses, feels queasy. When we pass buildings and street signs near Mr. Lawyer’s office, I’m not surprised. A good, brave girl would face the bitter end and smile.
Fuck everyone.
No one can reject me.
I’ve rejected them first.
But I was prettier then. And whole. And maybe a little less tired from having slept in a real bed and not in Thorny’s arms.
That’s the mean part: He let me sleep there. He lied to me. He pretended, even for a second, that the obvious wasn’t in store.
The car comes to a stop before an intersection and I shrug my seat belt off. The door opens with little resistance. Voila. I’m free, skipping out of the path of an oncoming truck.
“What the hell are you doing?” Thorny shouts over furious honking.
What am I doing?
I set my sights on the first destination I find. “I’m going shopping,” I say over my shoulder. “I need new clothes.”
Clothing fit enough to be thrown away in. Something made of sequins, gaudy and blinding. Thorny is old. I could always blame his not wanting me on his poor, poor eyes: I’m far too much for them to handle on a daily basis.
Not that this boutique has much that catches my interest. It’s small, with frilly lace things. The clothing displayed in the window looks like the horrifying cross between something one might find in Elaine’s closet and Grandmama’s. Beautiful, expensive, and plain.
I enter through a small doorway with a chiming bell and finger the first thing I cross: a seafoam-green dress with a stuffy silhouette.
“Hello!” The lone saleswoman flashes a beaming grin in my direction. Then her eyes widen, fixated on someone barreling into the store after me.
I can’t resist sneaking a peek. Thorny huffs and puffs his way past a carousel of clothing. In the unflattering daylight, he looks even more disheveled. Before he can say a word, I snatch up a dress in a hideous shade of yellow and hold it against my chest.
“Think this would make me look pretty?”
His eyes narrow as his lips twitch to deliver his trademark rebuttal. Enough, Maryanne! “I don’t know,” he says dispassionately. “Try it on.”
Uh-oh. I recognize a dare when I hear it. I set the yellow dress aside and pick out an even simpler one of gray silk and white lace. “This one?” I finger the hem thoughtfully. “Think it will make me look grown up?”
“No.” He holds my gaze and points to a mannequin posed near the back of the store. “Try that one.”
It’s a paisley-patterned sundress—red, white, and yellow. Not quite Elaine. Not quite Maryanne, the chaotic mess of a girl. It’s different, and my stomach clenches in warning.
But a dare’s a dare.
“Fine.”
I take the dress into the dressing room and pull it on over my sweater and my pants. There. I stick my tongue out at my reflection.
If I squint, I can almost pretend it’s not me. Someone new, maybe? Someone who wouldn’t be driven to the proverbial dump the moment she said boo.
This time, it wasn’t even my fault.
Haha. I scowl at my reflection. Are those tears?
Of course not.
I swipe my hand across my wounded cheek and then step outside, smiling so hard that my mouth aches. “Tada!” I hold my arms out and twirl. But I can’t complete a full circle without sneaking another glimpse at his face, ready to gloat over the scowl that I know is plastered there.
But his face is blank—alarmingly so. His eyes reflect nothing as he watches the fabric swish and dance around my legs. Up they travel, tracing the bulky contours of the satin stretched over my clothing. My hips. Waist. Quivering throat.
“It’s a bit too mature for you,” he says, meeting my gaze.
It’s not the word itself that makes my cheeks heat up and sting. It’s how he says it. Too mature.
“Take it off and let’s go.”
I hover near the mouth of the dressing room, teased by the reflection lurking from the corner of my eye. My fingers seize a handful of fabric and won’t let go. “I…I want it.”
He grits his teeth in that impatient way. “We don’t have time to—”
“Please?”
He stares at me and then glowers at his watch. “Fine.” His hand sneaks into his back pocket and removes a wallet. He fishes out a crisp bill and hands it to the saleswoman.
“Car,” he commands me after. The bell chimes as he exits while the saleswoman packs my dress in a nest of tissue paper and seals the entire package in a white shopping bag.
The victor takes the true spoils of war, but at least, this time, I get a souvenir in addition to my battle wounds. Something to reflect upon one day, if I ever feel bored enough, on all the ways I’ll never measure up to Thorny’s lofty expectations.
He likes muted colors and crisp, clean lines. He likes to play Mozart as he drops off wayward family members. He likes to take the long way there, winding through town, drawing the inevitable out.
Until he leaves town altogether.
As Thornton fades in the distance, I sit straighter in my seat, scouring our surroundings with renewed interest. We’re on the west side of the island now. Where the neat, picket-fenced parish gives way to grassy knolls and windswept beaches. It’s the rocky, forsaken wilds that tourists avoid and locals creep only to remind themselves how good they have it on their privately maintained lands.
Thorny drives up a winding road, following the coast. For hours, it feels like, but the sun stubbornly doesn’t seem to move from its spot in the sky. As the ocean eats up more and more land, he switches Mozart off.
“We bring out the worst in each other, you know.” He makes it sound like some nove
l concept he just discovered. The worst in him equates to scowls, and glares, and mean, nasty words.
The worst in me? Naughty sarcasm and fingers quick to push his buttons. Poke. Poke. It’s so easy to make him roar sometimes. It’s so easy to make him shout, and turn red, and stomp around like a living thunderstorm.
I’ve never made him talk though. And it’s the worst. He has no polished filter, like this.
He means every word he says. Words tipped like arrows, aimed mercilessly.
“We really do…” He sighs and eyes the gray sky as though it might be able to tell him why. “But I can’t live like this. I refuse to. So let it out.”
He waves his hand to put weight behind the command. Speak.
“Say whatever it is you’ve been holding on to all these years. Let’s put it all out into the open once and for all. Say it.”
My arms crisscross over my chest. “I’m not sure what you mean, Daddy.”
“Oh?” He holds his palm out as if to feed my words back to me. Aha! Exhibit A. “We could start with why you call me ‘daddy’ when you know it—” He grits his teeth, holding the bad words back.
When you know it drives me fucking insane?
“You know what? Fuck it.” He takes his own advice. “You know it pisses me off. It makes me feel like a goddamn pervert. So why say it?”
Why? I mull it over. “Maybe I like making you angry.”
“Of course.” Thorny scoffs, shaking his head. He flicks the radio on, switching it to full volume. “I should have known,” he hisses above the melody. “You can’t be serious for one fucking—”
“Maybe it’s the only way you hear me.”
To prove me wrong, Mozart cuts off and the silence returns, too loud to smother. I have to chip away at it with tiny breaths. When that doesn’t work, my fingers scratch at the leather of my seat. Scritch. Hiss.
“Go on,” Thorny demands. His hollow tone is a wrecking ball.
Suddenly, everything is noise; my heart plays a violent melody as my teeth hammer the accompanying percussion. “Calling you Daddy,” I admit in a rush. “Maybe it’s the only way you ever respond to me.”
“That’s ridiculous.” He shakes his head, his lips drawn tight over his gnashing teeth. “Be serious—”
“I am.”
And that’s the sad part. I’m honest and he sneers down his nose and orders me to stop. I lie and he flies into a rage. But at least then he looks at me. Really looks.
It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t like what he sees.
At least I know I’m still here.
“You can never just be upfront about something.” He sounds so overwhelmed, Thorny. Poor him. He’s the one whose entire life has been on puppet strings, manipulated by guardian after guardian. He’s the one who gets balled up and thrown away like scribbled journal pages.
Poor James Thorne—he’s the victim.
“Where are you going?”
My hand is on the door handle again, shoving it open. I place one foot on the damp sand edging the road. A stretch of beach is only a few paces away. Plenty of space. I need space. My chest feels too tight. I’m breathing too fast.
When I climb out of the car, Thorny slams his fist over the horn, blaring it. BEEEP!
“For fuck’s sake, Maryanne! I try to talk to you like an adult and you can’t even—”
“Daddy,” I say, watching him sputter, enraged into silence. “Daddy. Daddy. DADDY. See?” I gesture toward him with a wave of my hand. Tada! “It’s the only way you actually listen to me!”
I slam my door shut and head toward the water. The wind teases my eyes, making them blink. Cry, they urge. Go ahead. You can feel it, can’t you? Cry-baby, cry…
“Stop running away,” Thorny snarls, his voice chasing me down the hill. He left the car as well, I realize, as his footsteps creep on mine. “Just tell me what you want to say. I’m listening. So talk.”
He waits.
I’m silent.
He hisses. “You see? This is what I mean! You scream and throw tantrums to get attention, but once you have it?” He mimes grasping at the air. “Nothing. You bitch and moan about never being heard, but you never have anything to say, do you? Answer me!”
He’s gaining ground, covering three of my footprints with one stride.
I change direction and practically skip toward the shore. Whoosh! The tail end of a wave laps at my sandals, licking up my calves and soaking through my jeans. When I look back, Thorny’s standing several feet away.
“Let’s make a pact,” he declares. “You act like an adult. You call me by my name and speak reasonably, and I’ll answer whatever you ask. Do that for me and I will never lie to you.”
Oh? I plant my hands on my hips and purse my lips. “Why is Elaine fucking someone else? James?”
His eyes narrow, but in the direct path of the sun, he doesn’t look as surly as he should. “Because she’s a whore, Maryanne.”
I swallow as shock makes me forget the millions of ways I could tease him. Taunt him. Make him redder and redder until he explodes.
“My turn,” Thorny says, turning the tables. “Why did you have sex with a professor’s son in the headmaster’s office? Or why did you ruin Caroline’s marriage? Why did you steal from Lily and destroy her family’s SUV? Why does it seem like you go out of your way to make the lives of everyone around you all the more difficult?”
He sounds genuinely curious. But the answer is obvious.
I shrug. “Because I’m a whore, James.”
Attention whore.
Needy whore.
W H O R E.
My new favorite word. Bingo!
Now, he has an answer for everything. But it doesn’t seem to satisfy him. He observes me, his jaw clenched, his eyes flashing and angry. You never have anything to say, he groused.
But what use are words? I’ve been screaming through my skin for so long. I’m more fluent in nonverbal cues than I am in English. My mother couldn’t teach me French, but she taught me lies. She taught me how to smile sweetly while siphoning money from a wallet. How to kiss your victims on the cheek while rolling your eyes in the same motion.
Make lives difficult?
My mother taught me how to destroy them. At least I haven’t followed that far in her footsteps.
Yet.
Thorny wants words. Frowning, I try to give him some.
“What happens if I decide I like ‘Daddy’ better than James?”
His arms go over his chest. “Then I’ll act like your father.”
My brain flashes to an unwanted comparison. Like my father. Charming, funny, and sweet—but unable to be trusted around neckties. Devoted to his only daughter—yet so in love with a woman he’d die for her, leaving everyone else behind.
No. I think up another reason. “You mean you’ll spank me again?”
“I’ll spank you again.”
I freeze, suddenly aware of how tight my jeans are. The denim rubs my inner thighs as I draw my feet together. I’ll spank you again. Only he could make it sound like a credible threat. His posture speaks volumes where he doesn’t have to: his arms flex, his fingers twitch.
My bottom twinges. I can’t deny that I’m tempted to say that little word once. Just to test him. But he’s presented me with a harder temptation to resist.
“So, James.” I draw out his name, watching him stiffen from the corner of my eye. “If I can ask you anything… Then why did you take me back, really?”
It’s a softball question I already know the answer to: for the money, Maryanne.
“Why?” he repeats so quietly that I barely hear him above the waves. “What else was I supposed to do?”
Oh boo. That’s an easy one: he could have let me stay gone.
Made me a ward of the state.
Prove once and for all that it’s me—I’m the bane of his existence. Even miles away, on opposite sides of the country, he can’t ignore me.
I’ve won.
What else was he suppose
d to do?
Stay.
I turn my back on him and wrench my shoes off. Closing my eyes, I skip down the beach, darting in and out of the water’s reach. It’s so cold. It numbs my skin, paralyzing nerve and muscle—but the moment I leave it, my body longs for the cooling sensation. That deep, dark blue.
I wade a little deeper and it’s even colder. More shocking.
Gasping, I dance onto the sand again, but it’s too dry, chafing my raw skin.
Then it sinks in: I’ll never get enough of the ocean. It will always be too vast. No matter how cautiously I approach, it’s quick to shove me back with wave after wave. But a part of me loves resisting the push and pull. It craves the relentless cold, because…
If I can survive for a minute, maybe two, then it relents. I become warmer than I’ve ever felt. It’s salty and prickly, but more soothing on my skin than the cleaner, harsher tap water at Thornfield. It’s wild. I’ll never be able to tell it to stop, no matter how hard I stamp my feet or scream.
It will always resist me.
I’ll always try to stand tall against the onslaught.
I’ll always lose.
Thorny walks back to the car alone, and I follow him, tainting the interior of the convertible with sea salt and sand. I shamelessly wiggle my toes while cradling my sandals on my lap. Then I watch the tan grains scatter over the plastic mat beneath my feet.
When we return home, we say nothing, retreating to opposite ends of the house like warring armies in the midst of a truce. Dinner for me is a cheese sandwich I fish out of the fridge.
For Thorny, it’s a wine bottle with a side of two beers. He guzzles his meal ravenously, sulking at the ocean, his cell phone nearby. He’s waiting for a call, I suspect.
But, as the night wears on, the phone never rings.
A knock on my door jars me awake. Painfully early, it seems. The sun isn’t even shining.
“You have five minutes,” Thorny warns from the hall. “Or I’m leaving without you.”
Leaving? I lift my head, blinking back eye crust.
“Put on the uniform,” he adds before descending the stairs.
It’s a magic phrase that has me leaping from beneath the covers. I wash up and get dressed in record time, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. My bruises are purple, my cuts scabbed over and swollen. I look like a broken doll, crudely stitched back together.