Page 74 of Covetous

Feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck, I drag myself up the stairs. Stepping into my old bedroom is like stepping into a time warp. The vintage lamp on the white wooden desk calls my name, and as I switch it on, the soft light makes everything feel a little less shitty. When I toss my car keys on the desk, the sound of metal hitting wood is way too loud in the quiet room.

I’m too drained to deal with my usual bedtime routine, like brushing my teeth or washing my face. Stripping down to my underwear, I leave my clothes in a messy heap on the floor. The shag rug welcomes my bare feet as my toes sink into it. Pulling back the fluffy white duvet cover, I crawl under the sheets. With my head on the pillow, I stare up at the ceiling, and it’s strange, but the tears have stopped. I feel…numb even with the day’s events playing on a loop in my head. Exhaustion eventually takes over, and I drift off into a dreamless sleep.

The comforting aroma of banana vegan pancakes, with a hint of vanilla and cinnamon, wafts through the house as I make my way downstairs. Dad’s in the kitchen, stacking golden brown pancakes onto a plate. When he sees me, the plate nearly slips from his grasp as he rushes over, his eyes wide. “What happened?” he asks, zeroing in on the bruise on my cheek, his jaw clenching.

My attempt at playing it cool fails as tears spill down my cheeks, the same tears that refused to come late last night. “I’m okay,” I mumble, but the words sound unconvincing and empty to my own ears.

Dad’s eyes narrow to slits. “Who hit you?”

Fidgeting under his intense stare, I push my glasses up my nose. “There’s a lot that I have to tell you.”

He pauses as if steeling himself for the worst. “What happened?” he asks again, his voice strained this time.

“Can we sit down?” I glance at the spread before me: a heaping pile of scrambled tofu and a vibrant fruit salad bursting with color. It’s a breakfast fit for a special occasion, not a typical Monday morning. I take a seat, and after a beat, he joins me across the table with the pancakes. Taking a deep breath, I gather my courage. Dad waits patiently, even though I can tell it’s killing him not to bombard me with questions.

“Ian and I broke up.” I swallow hard, thinking about all the money my dad has already spent on the wedding preparations. Thousands of dollars, gone just like that.

Confusion flickers across his face at my confession. He’s always loved Ian, falling for the perfect facade he put up. It takes but a few seconds for realization to dawn, and his expression morphs into pure rage. “He did this to you?”

I nod. Dad’s fist clenches on the table, his knuckles turning white. A deep breath escapes his lips as if he’s trying to calm himself. “I’ll kill him.” Even though he’s a born-again Christian now, I don’t doubt that he would hurt Ian if given the chance.

“Dad, no.” I reach out, placing my hand over his clenched fist. “He’s already been dealt with.”

“Dealt with? How?” His eyebrows furrow, creating deep lines on his forehead.

“My boyfriend.”

He leans back in his chair, his eyebrows shooting up in shock. “Boyfriend?”

“Yeah.” I draw out the word, my gaze dropping to the table before risking a glance at him.

“So you met someone else, and Ian thought that was a reason to put his hands on you? That son of a b—” He catches himself.

The words pour out of me. I tell him everything, going through the early days of my relationship with Ian to the gradual changes—the manipulation and the gaslighting. My voice wavers as I confront the truth, some of it for the first time.

After I finish recounting my relationship with Ian, I meet his concerned gaze. Leaning forward with slumped shoulders, he runs a hand through his thick hair. “This is my fault,” he says, his voice heavy with guilt.

“No it’s not.”

“It is,” he insists, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I wasn’t there for you, Bug. Not when you were growing up, not when your mother died. I was so lost in my own pain that I left you to fend for yourself. I should’ve been there to protect you, to show you what unconditional love looks like. I should’ve been the one to teach you that you deserve love and respect so you wouldn’t have to search for it in all the wrong places from men who could never give you what you truly needed.”

Tears sting my eyes as his words sink in, the weight of our past and my childhood pressing down on my chest. I didn’t think I needed to hear that, but I did. I so did.

“Daddy…” My voice cracks.

He reaches across the table, his callused hand engulfing mine. “I’m so sorry, baby girl. I failed you in so, so many ways.” His voice trembles with his words. “But I’m here now. You’re not alone, Bug. We’ll get through this together.”

“I love you, Dad,” I say, my voice barely a whisper because of the tears clogging my throat.

“I love you too, Bug. More than anything in this world.” He squeezes my hand, giving me a watery smile in return.

As we sit there, our hands clasped and tears in our eyes, we turn our attention to the food. This breakfast isn’t a magic fix, but it’s another step forward in our journey to heal the wounds of our past and strengthen the bond we’ve been working so hard to rebuild.

Dad leans back in his chair, a gentle smile softening his features. The tension from earlier, when he first saw my bruised cheek, has eased, replaced by a more optimistic curiosity. “So tell me about this new guy,” he says, taking a bite of his scrambled tofu.

A flutter fills my chest at the thought of my man. “His name is Victor. He grew up not too far from here.” I pick at my fruit salad, suddenly nervous about sharing more. He doesn’t need to know about the Esme factor. I’ve managed, so far, to keep her out of the conversation the entire time.

“Is it serious?” Dad asks, his fork poised midair.

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