Page 9 of Trapped and Tackled

“Don’t get any ideas about my players now that you’re back,” Dad warns, pointing a French fry at me. “And single.”

He’s baiting me.

I don’t fall for it. “Mom says you need to lay off the fried food.”

His eyes narrow. “Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not.” I flick my fingers at him before popping one of his fries into my mouth. “You needing to prioritize your health is a fact.”

He glowers. I grin.

“And,” I reassure him, “I’m not going to suddenly fall for one of your players when you’ve been warning Linc and me away from the team since we were like fifteen.”

“My rules stand,” Dad carries on. “Just because you’re an adult now?—”

“I’ve been an adult since I turned eighteen,” I remind him, pausing to take a swig of my Diet Coke.

“You’re still living under my roof. And my rules stand.”

I smirk, loving how much he cares. While Craig’s interference in my personal life came from a place of control, Dad’s comes from a place of love. “I know, Dad. I got it.”

“Good,” he grunts. And then, “How torn up are you over Craig?”

I sigh, letting my shoulders slump. “Mom told you to ask, huh?”

Dad nods in confirmation. “But even I know when you’re hurting, Leni Lou.” He uses the nickname my parents used to call me as a kid to soften the blow this topic delivers. “I know you’re putting on a brave face.”

I nod, blinking to keep my tears at bay. The truth is, I’m not that good at putting on a brave face. Or pretending everything is cool when it’s not. Or acting like my heart isn’t shattered and my dreams aren’t splintering. But are they? “I thought I was going to marry him.” My voice cracks and Dad winces.

“I know,” he murmurs, reaching across the table to place his large, rough hand on mine. “He seemed like a good one. What happened anyway?”

I sigh, biting my bottom lip. My parents don’t know how many hours Craig worked. How some nights, he wouldn’t come home until three a.m., reeking of booze, his eyes too bright.

They don’t know how controlling he became, commenting on my choices of clothing and inspecting my makeup to ensure my lipstick was demure, not bold.

The more he worked, the more he drank. And the more he drank, the more a mean streak emerged.

But I can’t tell my father that. He’d head up to the city and beat the piss out of Craig.

Besides, my hurt over things going sideways also stems from my guilt in staying with Craig for as long as I did. I naively hoped things would change. I thought that if I could be enough for him, he would fight for me. For us.

I wanted to be the reason he got help and got better. By conjuring that mental fantasy where my love for him would be enough to inspire a change, I allowed myself to stay in a dangerous situation.

But the gash on my arm and the bruises on my neck were the last straw. The one that broke the camel’s back, buckled my knees, and nudged me to call Mom.

I don’t want to share that with Dad. I don’t want to admit that I stayed with Craig through the shouting matches and the night he threw a bottle of scotch against the wall. The time he slapped me across the face. I don’t want to tell him how I started cutting off my friendships, ignoring Marlowe, and sending Lincoln’s calls to voicemail. Or growing unbearably homesick and not knowing how to vocalize it.

I’ve failed at everything I pursued in the city and now I’m back home, with my tail between my legs. I don’t know where to go from here.

In response to his question, I shrug. “We…grew apart,” I reply lamely, layering my lie with a tiny morsel of truth.

“Hm,” Dad murmurs, watching me closely. “That happens sometimes.”

“Yeah.” I take a bite of my steak. I know it’s delicious, but I hardly taste it. Not with my stomach in knots and my knee bouncing beneath the table.

Dad wipes his mouth with a folded napkin and regards me carefully. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right, Len?”

I nod, tears burning the backs of my eyelids. “I know.”

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