Page 62 of Sizzle

“Then act like it,” he says, yelling now for real. “I raised you to take care of your responsibilities. If you can’t handle it—”

“I am handling it fine.”

Connie’s made herself comfortable on the sofa, watching us argue with mild interest.

“Joelle’s right, you know,” she says to Dad. “She handles herself beautifully. You should see her in the kitchen.”

“I see her in the kitchen all the damn time,” says Dad. “It’s all she does anymore, unless she’s out partying all night.”

This scores me a smirk from Connie.

“Out all night, huh?”

“Don’t encourage her,” snarls Dad. “She slept half the day away because of it and now she’s late to the only job she could get.”

“It’s not the only job I could get!”

“Sure looks that way to me,” says Dad.

“And anyway, at least I have a job. When’s the last time you went to work, huh, Dad?”

I regret the words even as they’re coming out of my mouth. Connie holds up a hand. Unbelievably, Dad stops whatever he was about to say.

“She’s got a point, Hank,” says Connie in a calm, reasonable tone. Like we’re just debating local politics or something. How does she do that?

Dad’s face goes red and for a moment, I wonder where we stored the blood pressure cuff. Mad as I am right now, getting this worked up can’t be good for him. “What the hell are you getting at?” he asks.

“I’m just saying that I know it’s been a while since you were in the workforce,” says Connie. “You ever think about getting back to it?”

The room goes quiet and I hold my breath, waiting for his reaction. Because I couldn’t be the one to say it to him, even if my sixteen-year-old self has been asking this silent question since Mom bailed on us and left me in charge of keeping us afloat.

I’ve spent so much time trying to keep our heads above water, and now I’m so close—so goddamned close—to moving on to a part of life that’s just for me. I want to be a good daughter to him, but… sometimes I just want to be a daughter.

Not the head of the household.

I’ve buried that thought so many times that letting it play out in my own mind feels foreign, like it’s not supposed to be there.

Guess this is just the season for having thoughts I shouldn’t. Suddenly my mind is filled with Elliot and Alex, and of the three of us together, and how nothing in my whole world outside of my work in the kitchen has ever felt so precisely right. Like the universe struck a tuning fork just for us and it’s the most perfect sound I can imagine. That’s what it felt like, being with them last night. It feels that way when I get in that zone in the kitchen.

And that’s what the thought of being a daughter to my father, and only a daughter, feels like. Not being a caretaker, or a manager, or sole breadwinner.

The sense of rightness, that resonance, it gives me the courage to say something I’ve been holding back for years.

“Maybe it’s time you start doing some of these things for yourself, Dad,” I say softly, the urge to yell gone.

Dad still hasn’t answered Connie, and now I’m wishing I’d waited until he had.

“Explain yourself,” he says, damn near apoplectic. I can see the vein at his temple throbbing as he pulls himself up out of that stupid recliner. My pulse is pounding so loud in my ears it’s hard to hear.

“I only meant that—”

“You think I’m freeloading? Is that it? Just lounging around on the back of my only child.” He’s shouting at Connie now. I’ve never seen him this angry, literally shaking with rage.

Hell, now I’m shaking. I twist my hands together and try to talk him down.

“Dad, I’m just saying—”

“I think you’ve said quite enough, young lady,” he says. “I want you out of the house by the end of the week.”

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