Page 15 of Off Limits

I try to bear that in mind as he pulls out the chair at the head of the table and runs a hand over the stubble of beard across his jaw before speaking.

“I know you’ve probably gotten used to living by your own rules,” he starts, keeping his eyes on his mug of coffee as he speaks. “And God knows what you’ve been through. But at your age, sweetie, there still needs to be an adult in your life—“

I cut him off before he can continue. “I’m eighteen.”

I appreciate that he cares for me, I do, but he’s right: I have gotten used to taking care of myself. And I’m old enough to do it.

He flicks his eyes up in annoyance and locks them on mine. “You’re seventeen.” His thin veneer of patience evaporates. “You’re in high school. And you snuck that boy in here against my orders and then you…you…”

He stammers and trails off, and without really meaning to, I roll my eyes.

“Is this about sex?” I accuse. “Because I don’t know what it was like in your day, but yes, kids my age have sex, okay? And we give blowjobs. You might think of me as a child forever, but I happened to like giving Kye a blowjob, okay?” My tone is angry and staccato, and I’m trying to shock him.

I didn’t, actually, particularly like giving Kye a blowjob.

But the comment has the desired effect. His nostrils flare and his eyes widen.

“Danica!” he exclaims. “Is that how you want to spin this? That I’m some uptight prude? Sex has existed long before you, missy, so, yes, I happen to know something about it. And if that’s how you want to behave—fine. There’s not much I can do to stop you. But if you want to live under my roof you will live by my rules.”

I don’t say anything, my heart beating wildly in my chest. Perversely, Jean-Luc saying he knows something about sex is the only thing I can focus on.

“I was always stricter than your mother,” he continues, his voice infinitesimally calmer. “When I set a rule, it’s for your own good. And when you break the rules, Danica, there are consequences. I told you Kye couldn’t come over and you deliberately disobeyed me. Your priority needs to be catching up on your schoolwork and completing the extra assignments you’ve been given to make up for your absence. Not your social life. Not boys. So for the next two weeks, there’s no going out, no one is coming over, and you will focus on school.”

“Dad!”

“Danica.”

“So I’m grounded for my eighteenth birthday?” I stand up, kicking my chair back. It makes a scratching sound as it skitters over the polished floor and Jean-Luc winces. “That’s so unfair! I was better off at the apartment!”

He stands up too, sliding his chair back more carefully, and as I storm around the table towards the stairs, he speaks low and rough.

“Don’t say that.” The emotion in his voice stops me in my tracks. “You should never have had to go through that,” he says emphatically, taking a step towards me and placing his hand on my shoulder. “You’re not better off being abandoned, Danica. You’re better off being loved.”

The last thing I wanted to happen happens. A hot rush of emotion floods through me, and suddenly tears spring to my eyes.

What did I do to deserve this? was a question I had often asked myself. Why would a mother leave her child? Was I really such a drag to come back to? Me, and that shitty apartment, compared to her life in New Mexico with whoever the hell ‘Jack’ was…

The tears in my eyes humiliatingly spill over, and suddenly I’m crying.

“Baby.” Jean-Luc pulls me in towards him, and I let him enfold me, pressing my cheek against the soft cotton of his t-shirt, with my arms hanging limply at my sides. For a moment I battle with myself. Something heavy and hot swells in my chest, a balloon of grief rising up through my rib cage and pressing against my heart.

When it bursts, it’s like a dam has broken. Sadness and relief floods through me, and I lean in against my stepfather and wrap my small arms around the hard column of his body and sob. He holds me tighter, his arms so big and so firm I could let myself go limp and he would still be holding me up, and he gently rocks me back and forth.

I cry for the weeks I was alone and scared and lost. But also for all the time before that. All the weeks and months that I missed him. Alone with Melanie’s impulsiveness and her whims. All the chaos and disorder and unpredictability.

I cry for the way I’ve disappointed Jean-Luc, for the fact that he walked in on me with my head in a boy’s lap. I cry for the fact that I’m no longer Jean-Luc’s little girl.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I’m sorry I was such a bad girl.”

“It’s okay, baby,” he murmurs, pressing me tightly against the hard plane of his chest. “You’re not a bad girl.”

“I am, though,” I sob.

I am.

From the moment Jean-Luc appeared in the doorway of the apartment, a comforting and familiar figure in the midst of strangers, I’ve been looking at him in a way that no daughter should ever look at her stepfather.

I told myself it was misplaced gratitude, it was the fact that circumstances made him look like a hero, but the feelings persisted.

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