Page 15 of These Thin Lines

Vi stepped inside, cradling her injured hand, reaching over and turning on the lamp by the door before carefully placing the mail on the breakfast bar that served to divide the kitchen from the main living space. No, it wasn’t particularly dirty or cluttered. A coffee mug sat in the sink. A few of the bananas on the counter were beginning to show spots. A t-shirt was carelessly draped over a chair.

Furtively, she threw a look towards the alcove that served as her bedroom. The bed was made. You could not bounce a coin off it, the way he preferred, but it was made, the comforter clean and colorful even in the dim light.

“Good evening, father.” She hunched her shoulders, trying to make herself as small as possible in the face of whatever he’d throw at her next. But he was silent as he got up from the battered armchair with its ragged handles, roughened by time and excessive use by whomever had owned it before Vi found it charming enough to haul it up seven stories from the flea market.

He took a few steps and raised his hand to her face and Vi wanted to disappear into dust, desperately craving his comfort and knowing very well he had none to give. She thought of Chiara and of the warmth, and of Aoife laughing, and of Zizou teasing her, and of anything, anything at all, to stop hoping that he would reconsider at the last second instead of doing what he always did. Withhold his affection, ignore her, say something hurtful.

She shouldn’t have been surprised, because the gesture was not affectionate at all. His cold, rough fingers swiped at her cheek and came away with red lipstick. Chiara’s lips on her cheek. Vi closed her eyes and lowered her head.

“I sent you to Lilien Haus to work, not for whatever this is.” Her father cleaned his hand on the dishrag that was neatly folded on the counter next to Vi and took a step back from her.

Absurdly, Vi was so happy when she noticed only a small trace of color on the cloth, because now she knew that, once he was gone, she’d still be able to see remnants of the imprint Chiara’s lips had left on her cheek. To use that as a reminder that she wasn’t worthless, that she had done something right today.

Vi wanted to lift her hand to the spot that Chiara’s lips had touched. Amidst all the hopelessness, all the hunger for love, for attention, there was tangible proof of affection, of gratitude, as fleeting as it might have been. She schooled her features and, to avoid temptation, put her hands in her pockets, as her father spoke without looking at her.

“You didn’t show up for dinner tonight. Your mother was worried.” His voice echoed along with the thunder outside. No, her ‘mother’ wasn’t worried for her. Her mother was dead, as he so often liked to remind her.

Gwyneth, her stepmother, his fourth wife, could not give a flying fuck about whether Genevieve joined the family or not. The woman was, more often than not, plastered by the time the meal was served.

Vi had always wondered why she’d married her father and whether or not alcohol actually helped her endure him.

“I apologize, father.” She kept her voice low and her head down.

“Genevieve, I do not require your apologies. All I need is for you to do what a Courtenay must. DCan you appreciate the effort it took?” Vi nodded silently. “Your family worked very hard to get you the position at Lilien.”

She bit her lip to keep herself from telling him that asking Frankie to accommodate an internship was hardly work, but she kept her mouth shut.

“This is very important to our family, Genevieve. Do you understand?”

Vi nodded again and belatedly realized her mistake.

“I can’t hear you, Genevieve. You never did learn to be polite, girl.” His voice held such contempt that this time, Vi did flinch.

“Yes, father. I understand.” She took a deep breath and tried not to sound as dejected as she felt. “I’m not sure what you expect me to achieve at Lilien, though.”

He walked towards her again and she held her breath, both wishing he’d do something, anything, and at the same time knowing he didn’t care enough.

Still, he surprised her for the second time this evening as he laid his large, heavy hand on her shoulder, her bones feeling small and too fragile under his strong fingers. But his palm was warm now, and she drank in the sensation.

“I trust you to figure it out, Genevieve. Am I wrong to assume you are intelligent enough to accomplish that?”

And then he was gone, his heavy steps echoing in the empty stairwell, until another gust of thunder and wind from the outside dulled them into nothing.

Vi exhaled the air she was sadly very much aware she’d been holding in. Romance novels always had their characters hold their breaths and somehow be totally oblivious they were doing it. So strange.

No, Vi knew everything about not breathing. For as long as she could remember, she never quite could inhale with her whole chest around her father. She loved him, she wanted to please him and make him proud. He was all Vi ever had, and his approval was everything she ever dreamed about.

She was also aware of how unhealthy their relationship was. He was a callous man. And she was permanently looking for scraps from his table—which he withheld most of the time—and used his sporadic affection as the perfect carrot for Genevieve, who was used to the painful stick of being dismissed and ignored by now.

Taking a deep breath, she went to the bathroom and, for the longest time, simply stared at her reflection. Red-rimmed empty eyes, freckled sharp cheekbones and the outline of Chiara’s lips on her cheek. The perfection of it tarnished by her father’s hand. As metaphors went, this one was as obvious as it was poignant.

Vi had been so happy. And he’d ruined it. She sighed and took out a little cotton ball soaked in makeup remover. Her hand trembled when she finally took it away from her face, the white saturated with the blood-red of Chiara’s lipstick. Her reflection in the mirror had the same expression as Chiara’s when she’d cleaned blood off the floor after her encounter with Frankie.

Vi was grateful to be alone and thought she understood how Chiara must have felt in that moment to plead for Vi to just leave.

She walked into the kitchen, washed her coffee mug, grabbed the discarded t-shirt from the back of the chair, and folded it on autopilot. Something to do, something to take her mind off the visit.

She opened the window to the storm. Anything to wipe away the scent of pipe smoke and bergamot. And then she simply stood facing the raging nature, framed by the darkness outside, the occasional raindrop landing on her face mingling with her tears.

---