Page 24 of Lassoed Love

One of the men, a burly figure with a voice that rumbled like distant thunder, adds,“Yeah, used to be a proud dad, boasting ‘bout his daughter, Isla. Now he’s just a sad sack.”

Another, with a weathered face etched with years of hard living, chimes in,“Heard she hightailed it to the big city, left the ol’ man high and dry. Can’t blame her, though, dealing with a father gone to the dogs.”

Their words hang in the air, laden with the heavy drawl of locals. My hands tighten around the edge of the bar, nails digging into the wood. Eyes darting around, I become acutely aware that others could be catching snippets of this raw revelation about my father.

The atmosphere shifts abruptly as the girls pick up on my uneasy demeanour, turning their heads toward the men engrossed in their conversation. Claire, perceptive as ever, is the first to utter my name, “Isla…”

Embarrassment and anger intertwines within me, manifesting in a sharp and irritated retort. “What, Claire?” I snap, my voice ladenwith frustration.

Imogen, sensing the brewing storm, chimes in with a plea for calm, “Woah, calm down, Isla.”

A bitter laugh escapes me, my anger simmering just beneath the surface. “Calm down? How can I fucking calm down when I have those wankers bad-mouthing my dad? Like I’m right fucking here.”

The gravity of the situation hangs heavy in the air, shrouding our table in a palpable tension that replaces the earlier revelry. Imogen reaches out, her hand on my arm as if trying to anchor me in the storm brewing within. “Isla, they’re not worth it. Just a bunch of old townies on the piss,” she urges, her eyes imploring me to reconsider.

“No, Imogen, I can’t let them talk about my dad like that.” Intentions solely fueled by the alcohol coursing through my veins, drown out any sense of reason.

Claire, now more sober-minded, leans over and whispers, “Isla, please, it’s not worth it. Let’s just finish our drinks and get out of here.” She tries to be the voice of reason, but my resolve is unyielding. Had I been sober, such a confrontation would have never crossed my mind.

As I stand up, my gaze locks onto the men in conversation, and one of them has the audacity to make another insulting comment about my father. “Probably better off without a daughter who’s abandoned him,” he sneers.

That’s it. A line has now been crossed. The last shred of restraint snaps, and my resolve solidifies. I pull away from Claire’s grip, fueled by an anger that eclipses any ounce of sobriety. The confrontationwas inevitable. I storm over to their booth, fueled by hot, molten rage.

Claire and Imogen trail behind me. The men, a group of local townies, look both shocked and unimpressed as I approach.

“Is there a problem here?” I demand, my voice cutting through the air like a blade. Their faces go from nonchalant to surprised at the unexpected confrontation. I can see the shock lacing their expressions as they process me standing in front of them. One of them must recognize me, as he says, “Bloody ‘ell, didn’t know you’d come back.”

One of the men, a burly figure with a thick drawl, chuckles dismissively. “Well, well. Thompson’s girl, huh? Your old man’s been making quite a spectacle of himself lately.” What’s it to them? It’s none of their fucking business. Oh, how I do not miss the small-town gossip, and how everybody just about knows everybody in this fucking town, I think to myself, frustration bubbling under the surface.

I feel Claire and Imogen tense behind me, but I wasn’t about to back down. “Cut the crap. What are you talking about? What’s it any of your business?”

The men exchange glances, clearly caught off guard by my direct approach. One, a lanky figure with a cocky demeanour, decides to spill the beans. “We were just talking about how he’s gone off the deep end. Imagining his dead wife, drowning his sorrows in booze. Ain’t that right, boys?”

This hits a sore spot in me, and my eyes start to blur with unshed tears, but I hold them at bay. The others chuckle in agreement, theirfaces sneering. The news hit me like a punch to the gut, and a surge of anger and embarrassment courses through me. I glare at each of them in turn, my fists clenching at my sides.

“You’ve got some nerve talking about my dad like that.” I seethe, my voice sharp.

Unbothered by my words, one of the men continues, “He’s the town drunk now, living in some delusional world. We’re just calling it like we see it.”

“Show some fucking respect." I feel my blood boil. “You think it's funny to mock someone clearly struggling with things? You spineless pricks.”

The second man chimes in, “Just stating the facts, sweetheart. We all know he's a lost cause.”

My frustration boils over, and I take a step closer. “You have no idea what he's been through.”

“And what, you do, young lady? Last time I checked, you packed up and left him all by himself to deal with the aftermath. No wonder he’s become a looney.”

“You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.” Those tears that I held back are fighting too hard to fall freely. I swallow hard, my emotions raw and unfiltered.

Claire, sensing the tension escalating, tries to intervene, “Come on, Isla, let’s go.”

“Oh, everyone knows about it. Quite sad actually, but he did it to himself. All those years of drinking finally caught up to him. Just ask her.” He nods up towards the girls behind me. Her?Imogen.

I turn to Imogen. “What’s he talking about?”

Imogen, visibly shaken, is stunned into silence, slowly shaking her head while stuttering, “I-I swear I didn’t know it was this bad. Dad never mentioned anything of the sort, just that he hadn’t been himself.”

I scoff in disbelief, raising my voice. “And you didn’t think that would be worth fucking mentioning to me? Your own best friend?”

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