Page 27 of White Rabbit

“Apologies. There was traffic,” I lie. Taking a seat in my usual spot, I reach across and pour myself a glass of water. I was only allowed one or two glasses of wine with dinner, and if he was in this kind of mood, I wanted to savor it with my main course.

“Prepare better.” My father lights up a cigar, still standing watch at the window. “Being late is a sign of sloppiness.”

Swallowing, I count to ten inside my head. It doesn’t matter what I say this evening, I’ll still be the one in the wrong. I wonder what happened today to put him in this kind of mood?

We exist in silence while he smokes, the bitter smell clinging to everything. I sit there for a while, losing myself in the decor, counting the ridges on the gold gilt mirror. My mother used to fill the quiet. She was the glue holding us together with her soft-spoken jokes. It would be her asking about how our day had been and if we’d been eating properly. My father had never done that, and now he didn’t really know how to.

When he’s stubbed out the cigar in the ashtray, he limps over to his seat at the head of the table, holding his body as if he’s in discomfort.

“Are you unwell?” I tilt my head, watching as he sits down with a hiss, exhaling a painted breath.

Straightening, he avoids my gaze. “I’m perfectly fine.”

Elsie brings in two small bowls containing a creamy mushroom starter, and places them before us. My father pours himself a large glass of wine, but doesn’t offer me anything. When a third bowl doesn’t appear, I glance at my phone to check the time. Where was Andrew?

“Your brother won’t be joining us this evening; he has an important business meeting.” Again, my father avoids looking directly at me as he eats. His movements are slow and considered. He’s injured somehow, and hiding it.

“But it’s Thursday…” I mumble. “We never skip a Thursday.”

His head snaps up, and he gives me a long stare, gray eyes cold as they lock with mine. “I know you don’t understand how things work outside of that disgusting little prison, but sometimes men must make concessions for business. Your brother is working hard to make something of himself, so we shall give him some grace and allow him to miss one dinner, Ava.”

The way he says my name makes me shiver, as if I was some sort of petulant child or a nagging inconvenience instead of his grown daughter.

Chewing the inside of my cheek, I’m debating whether to say something, when my mouth seems to move on its own. “I had to miss Chad’s birthday last year because it was on a Thursday.”

The bitterness in my voice is undisguised. There’s no missing it. The undertones of anger, throbbing with each syllable, but my father waves them away.

“Until he’s your husband, this family comes first.” He goes back to eating now that he’s had the final say.

It shouldn’t surprise me; I’m always treated differently to Andrew. It’s always been the same—I have to fight for even a scrap of attention, and it’s rarely positive. I can do nothing right.

When we’re almost done with our main course, a delicious fish dish served with roasted vegetables, when my father pours me my first glass of wine.

“The Lutwidge charity auction and dinner is coming up at the end of the month.” He reminds me as he barely half fills my glass. Women shouldn’t drink too much in company apparently, which always made me wonder if that meant I could drink an entire bottle behind closed doors.

I think about the sleek black embossed card with silver text stuck on my fridge with a cat magnet. “Yes, I received my invitation a few weeks ago.”

The Lutwidge Trust is a charity that supports LGBTQ+ teenagers. They mainly focused on issues of homelessness, helping get kids off the streets and back into education. It was something my mother had been very passionate about, and she’d been close with one of the founders, Warren Rothschild. Each year, they held several fundraising events, and my family still attended and made donations in my mother’s name.

“Your brother cannot attend, so you will need to be on your best behavior. Remember you are still there to represent the Walters family, even if you insist on using your mother’s surname.” He rolls his eyes as he returns to his meal.

It irks my father that I choose to use my mother's maiden name. I’d changed it not long after I started high school and my father became a judge. He was always outspoken, attending all these public events and rallies, and people began to take notice of me and Andrew. They wanted to know what our father was like, what we were like, and it got to the point where there were reporters waiting for us after school almost daily.

My mother pulled us from our school and enrolled us in a private academy where they were stricter with security, and my brother and I both changed our surnames. After a while everything died down, and we were able to step back out of the spotlight my father stood firmly under, only to be wheeled out at political events and when it benefitted my father’s image.

Andrew changed his name completely a few years ago, shunning Walters and Bishop to become Bass. It was a family name on my mother’s side from a few generations back. It was to ensure his business was separate from Father, because he wanted to prove he could make it on his own, or so he’d insisted when my father had thrown a whiskey decanter at the wall.

My father finishes his meal and places his cutlery down with a quiet clink against the plate. “Will you be bringing Chad?”

Shrugging, I chew faster, knowing that my father hates to be kept waiting. “I don’t know yet, maybe.”

“Maybe?” His eyes narrow as he pours himself another glass of wine. “Is there a problem? Has he lost interest?”

Taking a sip of my wine, I frown. “What? No, nothing like that.”

How was I supposed to explain that inside my head I had already started separating my life from Chad’s, untangling all the knots that bound us together? I still needed to talk to him, cut the cord, but I was finding it harder than I thought I would. For four years, he’d been my person.

This morning I’d been collecting up the items he’d left at mine and boxing them up. It was strange to think that four years together equated to three boxes, that wasn’t even a box per year.

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