Page 90 of From the Wreckage
“Stop.” His voice breaks, harsh and final. He pushes me back, putting space between us. “You’re young, Bri. You’ll see this for what it is one day—a mistake. A man too broken to give you what you deserve.”
“No!” I cry, lunging forward, but he rises to his feet, towering over me, shutting me out with the sheer force of his presence.
“I don’t love you the way you think I do.” His voice breaks, his shoulders slump. “If I keep you, I’ll ruin you. I can’t let that happen.”
Even as his words slice me open, I don’t believe them.
He doesn’t look at me when he continues, his voice breaking. “I can’t. It ends here.”
The silence after is worse than the words.
I stumble backward, my chest hollow, my vision swimming. My body feels foreign and empty, like he ripped something vital out of me and left me nothing in return.
He turns away, retreating down the hallway, his back a wall I can’t break through. His departure hurts more than if he’d thrown it in my face.
I wait, hoping he’ll return and take those awful words back.
One second.
Two.
Three.
But he doesn’t.
The silence remains, suffocating me with a weight I’ll never crawl out of.
That’s when I know he’s not coming after me.
The door clicks shut behind me as I leave the one place that used to feel like home.
The night air bites into my skin as I stumble across the clearing, my sobs strangled and raw.
My father thinks he’s saving me. Everett thinks he’s saving me.
But all I feel is ruined.
CHAPTER 65
Brielle
The morning feels hollow.My eyes ache from crying, and my throat is raw. I wander into the kitchen, expecting silence, and for a while, that’s all there is. The coffee maker gurgles, the hum of the fridge, and the dull creak of floorboards under my weight are the only sounds in the otherwise still room.
Dad is already at the table, his elbows braced on the wood, staring into his mug like it might give him answers. He doesn’t look up.
I linger by the counter, unsure if I should say anything. The air feels fragile, like one wrong word could shatter it.
Then Dad clears his throat, rough and tired, and pushes a mug toward me. “Coffee’s fresh.”
I take it, my fingers curling around the warmth, and whisper, “Thanks.” I slide into my usual chair.
For a long time, we just sit there, drinking in silence. His eyes are red, not from tears—at least, not ones he’d admit to—but from the kind of restless night that leaves you raw.
Finally, he leans back, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“I’m still angry, Bri.” His voice is low and measured. “Angry at him. Angry at myself. Hell, angry at you.” His jaw flexes. “But you’re my daughter. That doesn’t change. It’ll never change.”
Tears prick my eyes. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I swear I didn’t.”
