Page 34 of Pucks, Lies, and Sticktape

“He puts me first…”

“He puts himself first trying to advance his career – which you are stupidly giving him. You look like a tramp living with a man who will not marry you, and the whole world knows it. My daughter is a tramp…”

“Goodbye,” she whispered, pressing the button, her father’s voice vanishing into silence.

For a long, breathless moment, she sat there, the word echoing in her skull like a bullet.

Tramp.

A sob clawed its way up her throat, but she swallowed it back. She couldn’t panic react, she couldn’t breakdown, she had to think, to find a way to outsmart her parents because this wasn’t over. Her father wouldn’t call back, instead, he would find a way to punish her for disrespecting him, and she knew it.

With shaking fingers, she dropped her phone onto the passenger seat.

Matthieu.

She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her lips together to stop the flood of emotion threatening to drown her.

She had to protect him.

I have to protect myself and my home - Even if it meant facing the monster that had raised her,she thought wretchedly, looking around in horror and awareness. Was there another person hired to watch her? Did her father have Jim head to Quebec to continue his employment? How far would he go to keep her under his thumb?

And worse yet, when would her father announce it in the papers, or in the media, ruining any chance at happiness or a future she had here? She’d experienced his sort of destructive love before, thinking he was helping her out. That was the reason she left for the west coast – to get away from the east coast, where her family had her practically trapped one way or another.

No, she was going to have to tackle this monster on her own to protect Matthieu and save any semblance of peace that she had in her life.

Jeannie shoved another shirt into the suitcase, her movements jerky and frantic, as if speed alone could outrun the suffocating dread clawing at her throat. The house was eerily silent, save for the rustling of fabric and the occasional sniffle she refused to acknowledge.

Then her phone rang again.

The sharp sound sliced through the tense air, making her heart hammer against her ribs. She hesitated, swallowing hard as she glanced at the screen. Matthieu.

Her fingers trembled as she accepted the call.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” his voice was quiet, cautious—worried. “What’s going on? Where are you?”

She forced a neutral tone, but even to her own ears, it sounded brittle. “It’s nothing.” Another shirt landed in the suitcase with more force than necessary.

Matthieu didn’t buy it.

“It’s not nothing because I spoke with Laurel, and she said you had to leave for work—we both know that you aren’t working yet and?—”

“Well, see,” she cut in, her voice sharp, defensive. “That is where you would be wrong. I do work. I work for myself. I’m just not very good at it, which is why I was waiting tables—but if you even asked about me…”

A long pause, then a gentle, almost pleading interruption.

“Jeannie?”

The way he said her name made her stomach twist painfully.

“Jeannie, you are right. I’m not sure what is going on right now, but you are always welcome to unload on me if whatever is happening becomes too much—I’m here.”

The simple offer shattered something deep inside her. No one had ever been "here" for her before. Not really. Not without conditions, without expectations. He didn’t demand an explanation, didn’t push or pry—just stood there, waiting, offering himself as a safe place to land.

It scared her more than anything.

Her throat burned.

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