I play what I want to play, even when my mother warns me that my father will be home soon. I keep going, the sounds only those I want to hear, and when his car idles to a stop in our driveway—I play louder.
I play him right through the front door, and I hold my head up high, daring him while he walks closer to me, the stern look on his face no longer holding the value it once did. There’s no threat here any more. And I couldn’t give a shit if he’s disappointed in me now.
“You know I don’t like that crap,” he says, pushing the lid forward, threatening to close it on my fingers. But I anticipate this, and I stop it as I stand to my feet, letting my fingers tap out one last faint pattern that I know my father will hate.
“Have you practiced your showcase? Or did you just spend the entire day wasting time?” he asks, walking back to the front door to kick off his shoes, loosen his tie, and drop his briefcase full of music—full of his music. Probably full of his lies, too.
“Who is she?” I ask, my voice loud enough that my mom hears. I hear her hear, the sounds in the kitchen coming to an abrupt stop.
“Who is she, Dad?” I ask again, my voice wavering with the tears I’m fighting to keep inside. I won’t be weak for this. He won’t face me, and the longer it takes him to speak, the more I start to feel everything.
“Who is she!” I yell, grabbing the last music book lying on my piano and throwing it at him.
My father turns to face me slowly, and the more his face comes into view, the more I see just how broken everything is—my life, my mom’s life, our family—we’re broken.
“Dean?” my mom’s voice questions from behind me. She walks up to him slowly, her hands clutching a towel from the kitchen. With each step she gets closer, the more honest my father’s face becomes, the more the puzzle comes into view.
This house, the move—all of it—it’s because of him, because he was unfaithful. Because he did something my mom couldn’t live with, at least, not in our old house, in my old life. She couldn’t live with the memories from where we were.
My mom slaps my father so hard that his face jerks harshly to the side, and the bruise is almost immediate. Then she hits him again. And again. My father stands perfectly still, taking every hit.
“You son of a bitch!” she yells. “You promised. You promised that it was done. We’d move here, away from the school, away from her. It was over, and we’d start over. I would try to forget, and you would never see her again.”
School.
Her.
Blue BMW.
Her!
There are key words that ring through my anger. I think I knew the moment Owen opened this wound. But I just couldn’t believe my nightmare was that horrifying. I didn’t want to believe it.
“Dad?” I whisper behind my mother, everything coming into focus, everything hurting me from all sides all at once. My mother turns to me slowly, her hand covering her mouth, her entire body shaking when she realizes what I’ve put together.
“Ohhhhhh….” I start to cry hard when I see her, when my nightmare is confirmed. Shaking my head, I rush around them both up the stairs to my room, slamming the door behind me, and logging into my computer to sift through my Facebook posts until I get to it—and it’s all right there, staring me in the face.
There I am, standing next to my best friend, Gaby, in front of her 18th birthday present—a brand new, blue BMW. It’s this picture, the one my father took, and it’s the way Gaby is looking back at him, through the lens.
How could I have been so blind to it all?
I hear Owen’s tailgate slam, and I rush to my window to watch him round his truck, his keys in his hand, his step quick and determined. I don’t have much time.
I grab my wallet from my nightstand, and push it and my phone into my back pockets before stuffing my feet into my wool boots and throwing a white hoodie over my body. My parents are screaming at each other as I come down the stairs, and I realize my mom has broken a few dishes at my father’s feet.
“I’m going out,” I say, but really only for her benefit.
“Like hell you are, young lady!” my father yells, his step gaining ground on me as I head down the porch steps.
“You can go to fucking hell!” I scream over my shoulder, my legs picking up into a run as I hear Owen’s engine turn over. He’s slowly rolling from the driveway when I slam my fist on his hood, positioning myself in his path. My dad is still undeterred, walking right at me, and I’m so ruined that I don’t care if Owen runs me over.