Page 4 of Beautiful Ruins
Of course. Even his own daughter’s homecoming wasn’t enough to keep the police chief from working for one night.
“I’m twenty-four Dad,” I said, picking at a loose thread on the bedspread. “Pretty sure I can manage a microwave dinner on my own.” I’d been cooking my own dinners since eighteen—cleaning up my own messes, too.
“Right.” Dad rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, you’re welcome to stay as long as you need. This is your home. Maybe tomorrow you can head into town, see what’s changed.” He frowned and dropped his voice when he said the last words. “Or what hasn’t.”
I didn’t ask what he meant. I already knew. Nothing in this town had changed.
“Maybe.” I stood and grabbed my bag, but Dad hadn’tfinished yet. He couldn’t help himself. Always one more piece of advice, one more fix I never asked for.
“I don’t think hiding out here is going to fix things,” he said. Is that what he thought I was doing? Hiding out in a place that could barely hide me? “Maybe a job would be helpful. Or at least go visit Jasmine. She’s always asking about you.” His voice held the kind of judgement that smothered everything else.
Every muscle in my body tensed at the mention of my friend—once a best friend. My fingers tightened around the zipper of my bag before I even knew what I was doing.
After all those years, she still cared enough to ask my dad about me.
I unzipped my bag with exaggerated movements just to prove I wasn’t happy he was still standing there. “Seriously?” I said, shoving my hands into the opening. “I thought we agreed to leave the lecture until I’ve at least unpacked my things.”
Dad exhaled, the sound raw and ragged. “You’re right.” He held his hands up in a kind of surrender, but not the kind I needed. “I’ll leave you to it.” He stepped back and paused, a hand on the door frame as if he wasn’t sure whether to walk away for good. Maybe that’s what I had made it feel like to him. “And Sadie?” I glanced up, no words needed. “Just make sure you lock the doors tonight.”
My smile came out tight and thin, more of a warning than a goodbye. “Will do.”
He disappeared then, and I sank into the mattress once again, head in my hands, elbows on my knees.
This was going to be worse than I’d imagined. Dad would be watching me the way he always had. He called it protective. I called it suffocating. Either way, I was trapped.
I’d stepped back in time and nothing had changed. Only this time, I didn’t have my best friend to escape with.
Just memories, and silence.
After unpackingthe small amount of belongings I bothered bringing with me, I headed downstairs into the kitchen. Dad’s house was more of a ghost house than an actual home.
Everything had fallen into decay. “A real fixer-upper,” I muttered, surveying the graveyard of forgotten chores.
Plates piled haphazardly in the sink. The bin was brimming with food scraps and daily newspapers. The whole joint wore a film of neglect like a badge of armour.
He really didn’t care much for living, the state of the place making me wonder if he even remembered what it meant to live at all. Sure, he was still breathing, but what kind of life was it?
I ran a finger over the small dining table, leaving a clean line through the dust gathered there. Stacks of unopened mail, also covered in a thick layer of dust, screamed surrender.
Everything just felt . . . unloved. Like me.
Dad expressed his love through an arsenal of avoidance tactics. He pretended like nothing was wrong, ignored the tension festering between us, and filled every crack with stale, meaningless chit chat.
Coming home felt like the worst idea I’d ever had, overshadowing even my monumental stabbing of Marcus. At least with him I’d been busy enough with bruises and bullshit to distract myself from the loneliness.
It had been a special kind of hell. Calling what he did ‘working’ was a generous use of the term since most of his timeand energy went into screwing his secretary. He was the sort of pathetic cliche you’d find in a terrible soap opera. A walking stereotype, and I fell for it.
I hadn’t been able to see the truth, even as he pinned me against the wall that last time. I had reacted without thinking, survival instincts kicking in where common sense had clearly failed me. One second, I had frozen. Next, I had plunged the knife into his chest.
Shame on me, really. Shame for believing I could save him, for giving so much of myself to an arsehole who didn’t deserve it. Shame for not wanting to acknowledge the fact my life had been literally falling apart in front of my eyes, piece by piece.
I’d stopped answering calls. Let the bills pile up. Smiled when I didn’t mean it. And every time he’d raised a hand, I told myself it was the last time. Until it wasn’t. Marcus and the knife—those had been the final nails in the coffin, sending me on a one-way trip back to Barrenridge.
And back to Dad’s sanctuary of unchecked misery, where the only thing more suffocating than the dust was the silence between us. The sense of isolation here was so strong I could almost taste it.
Dad and I were just chipped pieces of the same story, stuck in the same loop of longing and regret. I wanted out, but a part of me thought I should suffer through it. Maybe I deserved to feel that miserable.
While I stood there, drowning in self-pity, the stench of rotting food assaulted my nose. I sighed and snatched up the overflowing trash bag, tying it off while shoving a hip against the broken screen door. It creaked, then slammed shut.
