Wildfire (Maple Hills, #2)(89)
“Yes, Aurora. And I need you to fly straight to Palm Springs for this to work out. Do you understand?”
His snippy tone should hurt me more than it does, but my brain is scrambling as I realize he’s waiting for me to be free instead of just doing it without me. Jesus Christ the bar really is on the floor. “I understand, Dad. I’m excited to see what dress Norah picks. Thanks, uhm, thank you for letting me be a part of it.”
“Of course you’re a part of it, Aurora. You’re my daughter.” I’m stunned to silence. It’s such a basic statement from a parent. It’s not even something particularly kind but from my dad it’s major. Weirdly, I feel like my recent happiness caused this. Put out good energy into the universe and get it back. Silly, but comforting all the same.
I want to tell him how much that small statement means to me. How it’s everything I’ve ever needed and how I desperately want to have a good relationship with him, but I don’t get a chance to, because he starts talking again. “And it’d look strange in the photos if you’re not there. I’m not having Norah’s moment stolen by the media’s obsession with giving you and your sister attention.”
My heart sinks. “So you only want me there for the photographs?”
“Is there something wrong with you today? What aren’t you understanding?” he snaps impatiently. “Norah has arranged a magazine exclusive. Yes, you need to be there for the photographs. I’m not having our day overshadowed by rumors of a family divide because of you.”
I feel numb. “Okay. Do I get a plus one?”
“Do you need a plus one? Who is it? Emily?”
“Emilia,” I correct him. “But no, not her. I met someone. He’s cal—”
“Met someone where, exactly?”
I don’t know why my hands are sweating, but they are. “At camp. He’s cal—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Aurora. I’m not letting you bring a stranger to a private family occasion.” He interrupts me again and I can feel my heart pounding as my frustration grows. “You won’t even remember who he is after you stop playing make believe at that farm. Be realistic for once, for Christ’s sake. It’s my wedding, not a children’s birthday party.”
My throat is completely dry, but I force the words out anyway. “He’s important to me, Dad. I’d like to bring him. We go to the same college, it is realistic, we like each other.”
He sighs and I feel it all the way in my bones. It’s like acid. “I’m sure your fling is very important and special, but I said no. Can I trust you to be there alone, Aurora? Yes or no?”
Fling. “Yes.”
“Good. I’ll see you in a few weeks. Bye.”
The call disconnects before I can say bye back and I sit in the same spot frozen, trying to process how my day was bulldozed by a three-minute phone call.
I don’t know what I thought would happen when I answered his call. I could have stopped talking at “you’re my daughter” and been blissfully unaware. I’d have spent the rest of the day floating around feeling untouchable. But I went too far, asked too much.
If I wasn’t so desperate for something I’m clearly never going to get, or if I grew up and stopped being pathetic about the fact he doesn’t care, maybe I wouldn’t feel like I’m being run over when I talk to him.
I need to get away from here and that’s the thing I repeat over and over as I somehow get myself from the picnic table to my cabin. Sitting down on my bed, I lean against the wall while I replay the conversation over and over in my head.
I think about what I said and how he responded, then what I could have said instead and how he might have responded to that. I keep going and going and going, until there’s an endless stream of dialogue spinning around my head and I can’t do anything to get the outcome I want.
The outcome where he changes and I feel like he wants me in his life for more than just media purposes.
My hands are shaking as I pull my suitcase from the wardrobe and open it on my bed. I love Honey Acres but pretending it’s my home when it’s not, is silly. Dad’s right, it’s all make believe. They’re just people who were paid to look after me and probably took pity on me.
I don’t know why I brought so many things with me knowing I’d hardly wear any of them. It’s just making it harder to get out of here quickly. I don’t know why I believed I’d last the summer. My shorts won’t fold. Jenna knew I wouldn’t deep down. No matter what angle I twist and turn them in they look messy and uneven in my suitcase. I wonder if Emilia thought I’d fail too. Russ is great at folding my clothes.
I could go to Bora Bora and turn off my cellphone.
I don’t even need a cellphone. Fuck, I might just throw it in the trash.
Why won’t these shorts fucking fold properly?
I need to tell someone to make sure Freya remembers to put on her bug spray and that Michael doesn’t eat anything with sugar after six p.m. I’ll miss the talent show, but Emilia can make it work without me. Everyone will be fine. Opening the drawer in my bedside table to empty it, I spot the origami dove Russ made for me next to my collection of friendship bracelets the kids have made for me.
I sink to the floor beside my bed as my chest constricts and years of hurt that I’ve buried beneath reckless actions and self-deprecating jokes finally soar to the surface as a sob. It’s like the dam breaks and I just let the tears fall because there’s nothing else to do and no one else who can fix it.