Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 91560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
While he orders, my mind races. I knew he wouldn’t just roll over and give me what I want. After we’ve handed back our menus, I murmur, “Then I’ll just go off on my own. I’ll find a way to make it work. I’m an adult now.”
Snorting, he retorts, “Just because you’ve reached a certain number of years on this planet does not make you an adult, little girl. You aren’t capable of supporting yourself. You are not truly an adult yet.”
“How could I be without a chance? I need to at least try. I could find a job.”
“Right. An eighteen-year-old can make enough money to get an apartment on her own while still going to school. You live in a fantasy world. All the more reason for you to remain under my roof.” He wears a triumphant smirk as he lifts his glass to his lips.
He thinks he’s won. Maybe he has. I don’t want to drop out of school. There’s no way I could afford it on my own. I knew those were the terms he would set, but somehow, I hoped. I’m still naïve enough to hope.
What would he do if I got up now and walked out? The idea floats through my mind as we wait for a shared platter of meats and cheeses to start the meal. I could walk right now, and he would have no choice but to let me go unless he wanted to make a big scene. But where would I go? I don’t have a friend to turn to. Not even Wren. Besides, it would mean staying with her and Briggs, and I couldn’t impose, even if we were on speaking terms right now. I painted myself into a corner, basically.
“Thank you,” Dad tells the girl when she leaves the antipasto and bread. Eating gives me something to do besides sit and wish I had thought to bring something sharp with me. What am I going to do? How do I escape?
I notice the way Dad’s posture changes out of the corner of my eye. “Clark, what are you doing here?”
Lifting my head, munching on an olive, I find a middle-aged man approaching the table. Average looking, a pencil pusher for sure, with thinning brown hair and a slight paunch. He wears a wide, beaming smile, shaking Dad’s hand before turning to me. “And who is this?” he asks, his smile going wider. I’ve played this role before. The smiling, dutiful daughter who is always expected to be a credit to her father. One of my many roles.
“Clark Jenkins, this is my daughter, Maya. Maya celebrated her eighteenth birthday yesterday,” Dad explains, and nobody would know the conversation we just had. The way he talked down to me, the way he routinely degrades me to make sure I know my place. I am so tired of the hypocrisy. Literally weary from it.
There’s nothing to do about that now. I force a smile I don’t feel and shake the man’s hand. It’s clammy, making my skin crawl in distaste, but I’m good at disconnecting from reality.
He holds it a moment or two too long before letting go and looking at Dad with his eyebrows lifted. “Please, have a seat,” Dad invites, while my insides go cold in disgust. I shoot him a confused, surprised look, since this was supposed to be a dinner for the two of us.
“If you insist.” Clark chuckles as he takes the seat to my right, his knee brushing mine under the table before I pull it away. Now I wish I had worn something to cover every inch of skin rather than a knee-length dress with a cardigan over the top. I’m starting to get a creepy feeling about this. Dad wouldn’t go to these lengths, would he?
Wait, what am I saying? Of course he would. I would put nothing past him.
“Congratulations,” Clark murmurs with a twinkle in his eye that turns my stomach. He’s around Dad’s age, if not a little older, but he’s looking me up and down like I’m dessert. He doesn’t even bother hiding it. These are the kind of people my father spends time with. That shouldn’t come as a surprise.
“Thank you.” Looking at Dad doesn’t help. He doesn’t offer any clue what I’m supposed to think about this, how I’m supposed to feel. The appetite I was struggling to find is nonexistent, so I pick listlessly at my food, silently praying this will end quickly. Before I start screaming.
“Now that you’re a young woman, officially,” Clark continues, “what are your plans?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You must have some plans. A beautiful young woman like you?”
What has that got to do with anything? This is getting worse by the second. I want to crawl under the table and never come back. Dad just sits there smiling and murmuring his encouragement, but it’s an empty expression. There’s nothing behind it, nothing in his eyes. They’re just as empty as he is.