I try to draw in a breath, but my lungs burn. My scalp feels too tight. My skin feels like it’s being flayed off my body. Is this how it felt when the rest of my team were being tortured? Why does this feel so much more painful than when I was being abused by my captors? Why does it feel like I’m dying, like there’s nothing left for me to live for?
She looks at me with glittering eyes. “If you feel anything for me, if you have one iota of respect for me, you’ll hold out your palm and take back your rings."
Fuck! “Penny, I—"
“No, don’t try to convince me or order me to obey you because we know I’ll end up doing what you want, but that’s not what I want.”
“What is it you want?”
“I want you to take back your rings, Knight. Please.” She looks at me with so much pain in those eyes, so much beseeching, so much everything, that inch by painful inch, I find myself raising my arm. I hold out my palm, she drops her rings in it, then she turns and takes off running.
And I let her go. My thigh muscles spasm, my feet hurt, every part of my body insists I follow her, but I hold back. I twist my fingers into fists, let the rings dig into the flesh of my palm, let the pain of the separation sweep through me, but I don’t go after her. She’s better off without me. She is.
He, on the other hand— I turn in the direction of my father’s office. His door is closed. Fuck him. I barge in, slamming the door behind me.
The sound crashes through the space. My father looks up.
Before he can react, I cross the floor, round the desk, then grab his collar and haul my sperm-donor to his feet. I raise my fist and swing, only to stop less than a hair’s breadth away from his face. To his credit, the old man doesn’t flinch. Nerves of steel, he has. The same quality that made me such an asset on any mission. Cool under pressure, able to dissociate myself from reality and do what was needed in the moment. And I paid the price for it later. Just like he’s going to pay the price for causing distress to my sweet wife. I tighten my hold on him, then clench my fist. The rings dig into the palm of my hand and blood squeezes out from between my fingers. His gaze widens. For the first time in my life, he appears shaken.
"Son, you’re bleeding," he whispers. His eyes—so like mine—darken with empathy, and goddamn, but I can’t stomach it. I can’t handle the pity in his eyes. I don’t want him to understand what I’m going through. I don’t want anyone to realize the depth of the wound I’m carrying around inside me—no one except her, that is.
I release my father, and he stumbles, but he doesn’t back away. He grabs my fist. I allow him to pry open my fingers. He sees her rings, and the color fades from his features. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and holds it out. I drop the rings into it. He wraps the bloodied rings with care and hands it over to me. I take it with my unhurt hand, but he doesn’t let go.
"Let me help you," he insists.
"The way you did by what you just told her?"
"I didn't think I was telling her something she didn't already know. She’s your wife; she should know your secrets. How long did you think you'd be able to hide it?"
"That's my problem. She's my wife; I'm the one who gets to tell her my secrets. "
"The only way to have a healthy relationship is by starting out on the right foot; something you, evidently, haven’t done."
"And you have?"
He releases his hold on the handkerchief, and I slide it into my pocket. Then he grabs some tissues from his desk. When he reaches for my torn-up palm, I don’t pull away. I allow him to press the tissues into the lacerated skin, then he folds my fingers around them. He releases his hold, and the two of us stare at each other.
The silence extends, then he blows out a breath. "If you’re referring to your mother, she’s aware of my past. She’s aware of what I had to do to keep my family in the style they were accustomed to."
"And all we wanted was more of your time. We could have done with far less and a father who was present at mealtimes, at school plays, and at graduation ceremonies."
He winces. "I accept, I wasn’t perfect. I accept, I didn’t come close to it. But I tried my best. When you come from nothing, you realize the value of money. It’s the one thing I was determined my family would never suffer for want of."
"And when you have an absentee parent, you realize you’d rather have their presence in your life than all the money in the world."
His features twist. He rakes his fingers through his hair, then seems to get a hold of himself. "I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you and Abby. But I’m not sorry I interfered in your life. I’m not sorry I put down a deadline for you to get married and settle down. And I’m not sorry I told her that you're planning to adopt Bobbie’s child. I only wish you'd told her first."
65
Penny
"How can he think so little of me? Does he think I would stop him from adopting a child who needs his help? Why couldn’t he tell me earlier? Why did I have to find out this way?" I stare into the depths of my Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice-cream. It’s a classic, and one my mom loves.
After my father passed away, and before she started losing her mind, it was our ritual most Friday evenings—the one day she didn’t hold down a third job—when we’d share a tub and watch her favorite classic movies on TV. My normal go-to for comfort is wine—don’t judge. But the fact I turned to ice cream today shows how upset I am. It’s one way I feel connected to my mother, but it’s also something I try to avoid, as it makes me feel so nostalgic, and that only makes me wallow in self-pity.
But today, I want to wallow. I want to roll around in my distress. I want to squelch through all the emotions and bury myself in my misery. A tear rolls down my cheek and plops into the ice cream. I scoop it up, tears and all, and plop the spoonful in my mouth. Tasting the slightly salty taste only makes me feel worse. Which was the entire point… right? I sniffle, then hunch my shoulders. "I can’t believe he didn’t tell me."
"Maybe he thought it’d upset you more?" Mira ventures.
I’m in our flat and sprawled out on the couch wearing my favorite pair of fuzzy slippers and pajamas. Good thing I didn’t take any of my old clothes when I moved in with Knight. Not that I needed to, since he filled the closet in my room with brand-new clothes for all seasons, and with footwear to accompany it. All my size, too. Of course, he must have had a professional stylist do it, but still. He not only guessed my size correctly, but also the colors I like. And the cuts of the clothes? They were perfect and flattering and always showed off the best parts of me, too. It’s another sign of how thoughtful he can be. Another thing that confuses me about this man.
"It’s upsetting me anyway. I specifically asked him if he had any more secrets and he—" I frown. "And when he didn’t reply… I thought there couldn’t be anything else. And I understand why he’s doing it. Bobbie is his dead teammate’s wife, and he feels responsible for his family. If he’d only told me, I’d have stood by him."