Page 108 of Edge of Unbroken

Miranda becomes still, a look in her eyes as if he punched her right in the face.

“God, you really are about as dumb as you look,” I growl, unable to hold it in any longer.

He tries to make himself look big, puffing his chest out. “What did you say to me?” He’s a lot shorter than me, his beer belly protruding from his unwashed shirt, and instead of intimidating, he just comes across as a drunk, pathetic idiot. Nothing I haven’t dealt with at Murphy’s before. It’s fucking laughable.

“You heard me,” I say. “You really should reconsider how you talk to your daughter. Because if you haven’t noticed, she’s the only person in this world who still gives a shit about you. She saved your life. You know you almost choked to death on your own fucking vomit? If it hadn’t been for her, you’d be dead, rotting away in this disgusting mess of a house, probably figuring out that the heaven you kept preaching about doesn’t exist, and even if it did, that’s certainly not where you’d have gone after treating your own daughter like shit for so long.”

Father Jackson looks at me, taken aback.

“Did you ever stop to think that life was hard for Miranda after her mother died? Did you ever consider that maybe you weren’t the only one suffering? Probably not, judging by the selfish fucking asshole you’re showing yourself to be. Talk about worthless,” I scoff. “Fuck, I remember you preaching about doing unto thy neighbor how you want done unto you, about forgiveness and grace and mercy and all that bullshit. But here you are,” I say. “You’ve done nothing but tear her down, shame her, dismiss her, and still she’s here trying to take care of you. After everything you’ve done to her, she still cares and, man, if there’s anyone less deserving of Miranda’s love and care, it’s you. She’s too damn good for you. She’s too smart and kind to waste her energy on a trashed, washed-out drunk like you.”

I can’t remember ever talking to anyone the way I’m talking to Father Jackson right now, and I’m not totally sure my hateful words only reflect my feelings toward him.

“As far as I’m concerned, you can drink yourself to death. Go ahead, be my fucking guest. I don’t give a shit whether your corpse decomposes right here in this damn house. But it’s apparently not what Miranda wants. I don’t know why, but she obviously still cares about you. So I suggest you shut the fuck up, go sit your drunk ass down on that filthy sofa of yours, and let her help you, because God knows you fucking need it or you’re going to die alone and full of regret.”

I fall silent, though I don’t move an inch from Miranda’s side.

The three of us stand there for a moment, Father Jackson’s eyes bouncing between Miranda and me. Finally he snags the tipped-over glass from the counter and totters back into the living room, where he takes a seat on the sofa, pouring himself a drink without another word.

I may not be able to stop him from drinking himself to death, but I’ll be damned if I let him rip into Miranda in front of me.

I turn to look at her. “Are you okay?”

She nods. “I’m fine,” she says, just like I always do, then picks up the trash bag and takes it outside.

I watch her leave, exhale deeply, then do what I did a week ago and start cleaning the kitchen. There’s something about a messy house that gives me anxiety. It’s probably because growing up, a messy house was one of the fastest ways to ensure punishment, so I very much associate clutter with pain. But this house is more than just cluttered; it’s outright filthy, and it’s obvious that Miranda’s dad doesn’t bother cleaning. Ever. He probably spends every waking minute drinking away his pain. I wonder if he even realizes the dilapidated conditions he lives in.

Miranda and I spend some time cleaning in quiet, her dad firmly planted on the couch—TV blaring—only occasionally staggering back into the kitchen, seemingly surprised that we’re still there, then walking back into the living room. I do the dishes, wipe down the counters, and collect the trash piling up around the house. There are so many empty liquor bottles that I lose count. Miranda starts some laundry and puts fresh sheets on her dad’s bed, then does what she can scrubbing the bathroom.

I open up every window in the house—despite Father Jackson’s protests—to let it air out. “It smells like a dumpster in here,” I say. He only mutters incoherently before taking another swig of whatever booze he’s slowly destroying his body with.

“Randi?” I say as I stand in the door to the small bathroom about an hour later. She’s on her knees, scrubbing the absolute shit out of the bathtub. She looks up, and I realize she must have been crying this entire time we were cleaning because her eyes are puffy and red, her cheeks tear-stained. “God, Randi.” I sigh, take the few steps toward her, and pull her into a standing position, then hold her tightly against me. I rest my chin on her head while she sobs quietly against my chest. “I’m so sorry,” I say as her small frame heaves with her sobs. “You know you’re an incredible daughter. None of this is about you. None of this is your fault. He’s so fucking lucky to have you.”

Miranda composes herself after a few minutes but doesn’t let go of me. “Can you do me a favor?” Her voice is hoarse from crying.

“Yeah. What do you need?”

“Can you just go and grab some takeout from Sterling’s and bring it back while I finish the bathroom? I want to make sure he has something to eat before I leave him.”

I study her, amazed that, even after the toxic words Miranda’s dad spewed at her, she’s still only concerned for his well-being. Seriously, the power abusers hold over their victims is unfathomable.

“Sure.” I release her from my arms, though hers remain wrapped around my waist a few seconds longer.

“Thanks, Rony,” she says, wiping the tears from her face.

It takes me roughly thirty minutes to drive to Sterling’s and return to Miranda’s house with food for her dad. I got the greasiest food on the menu, hoping it will absorb some of the alcohol sloshing through Father Jackson’s veins. I don’t speak to him when I unceremoniously drop the food on the coffee table in front of him, then push the table toward him. He eyes me, watching my every move like he’s afraid I might pounce.

“Ready to head out?” I ask Miranda when she walks into the living room, looking worse for wear.

She nods heavily. “I’ll stop by in a few days, Dad.”

He digs through the bag with the food, pulling out the Styrofoam container that contains a Philly cheesesteak and a large order of fries. “Don’t bother.”

My hackles go up again. Funny how I could never defend myself against my mother, but I have no qualms about wanting to beat the living shit out of anyone who verbally or physically attacks the people I care about. I remember the moment at Murphy’s last year when Adam stalked Cat to New York and I so readily became physical with that asshole, pounding my fist into his face and stomach repeatedly until Shane and Steve managed to pull me off him.

I have the urge to do exactly that right now, but I know it wouldn’t be a fair fight. Miranda’s dad can’t even stand up straight. Plus, it would only cause Miranda more pain.

“We’ll stop by in a few days,” I repeat Miranda’s words sternly, then take her hand and lead her out of this fucking house and to my truck.

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