Page 78 of Wild Card
“Well, we’re estranged.”
He grunts as I pull my fingers up behind his ears and then down over his throat.
“He kicked me out when I was eighteen. Which isn’t really all that bad. I mean, I was an adult. But it was mostly because I wouldn’t do what he wanted me to. He’s incredibly old-fashioned.”
“What did he want you to do?”
“Marry my high school boyfriend and start a family ormaybego get a degree—but mostly just so that I could meet a husband. Alas, I wanted neither. I decided I would have fun, casual sex,meditate with my feet in the sand, and rub lavender oil on people instead. He hasn’t spoken to me since I walked out with all my belongings in one suitcase. Sometimes I think I haven’t stopped moving around just to spite him, just to prove that I have control over how I live and when and where I do eventually settle. To prove I can live a happy, fulfilling life without abiding by his rules.”
I chuckle, trying to cover the absurdity of the whole thing.
“He still won’t talk to you? Ten years later?”
“It was less about yoga—though he made it clear he thinks it’s stupid—and more about control. He hated the fact I wouldn’t just do whatever he wanted. My mother embraced the homemaker role, which would be totally cool, except with them it was toxic. If dinner wasn’t on the table when he walked through the front door, the passive-aggressive bullshit started. Shirt not pressed perfectly? Then he’d joke about it being too complicated of a job for her. But there was nothing funny about it.”
“I hate him,” Bash practically growls, his fists clenching before my eyes.
I smile at that, a tightness squeezing my throat. “I wish I could hate him. The comments about my weight shouldbe enough. It fluctuated so much through my teen years and he always let me know that he noticed. Hormonal changes, yo-yo dieting, emotional eating—he’d comment on every phase. Once, he even got me a treadmill for my birthday. Told me he thought it could help withthat extra little bitI’d been carrying lately.”
I laugh, but it’s humorless.
Bash’s fingers curl to grip my thigh, firm and reassuring. I drop my chin to revel in the sight of his hand on my body. His silent support.
It’s comforting.
Not wanting to gawk, I swallow the lump in my throat and carry on. “Obviously, he really fucked with the way I saw myself. Nothing I did was ever enough. And the feeling that no matter what I did, my body was fair game for commentary—for notes and feedback—was inescapable.”
Bash’s jaw tightens, his teeth clenching, but he doesn’t comment. So I carry on. “Then I left. And my world opened up. I realized the way he treated me wasn’t healthy or even normal. That I could live a full lifeandfind peace in my body. And I did it. I’m there. But I…” I pause and then push through. “I guess I’m still grieving a relationship I’ll never have. I’ve spent years making peace with the fact that no matter what I do, he’ll never give me the approval I want. Because I defied him, and for him, that’s the ultimate insult. So I focus on loving myself. And most days, I do. Especially my ass and side boob. I’m a big fan of them,” I add, to lighten my gloomy monologue.
“Fuck. Me too,” Bash mutters with a little groan.
I chuckle, retreating into my head for a beat, reflecting on my childhood and how far I’ve come.
The air around us vibrates with the ringing of the glass bowls before I speak again.
“The little girl in me will always wish it were different, though. Knowing I won’t have him there to walk me down the aisle or be a grandparent or just…any of those things. I’ve had to make peace with that.” I shrug. “Well, I guess I’m still trying. Some days are better than others. Like I said, daddy issues.”
Bash peeks at me from beneath heavy lids. “What about your mom?”
“We talk on the phone. It’s strained because I know he probably gives her shit for it and she’ll defend him until the day she dies. I don’t think it will ever change with those two. It’s hard to watch. Promised myself a long time ago that I wouldn’t end up like her.”
“You won’t,” he murmurs in confirmation, sounding sleepy and relaxed.
I smile down over him, the satisfaction that comes with helping people all warm and gooey in my chest.
“I won’t let you,” Bash mumbles sleepily. That feeling in my chest goes hot and achy. It leaves a spark of hope.
I don’t respond. There isn’t much to say to that. I just want to take the sentiment and cherish it.
As I move to roll away, one of his hands shoots out, wrapping around my forearm. “I don’t want you to leave, Gwen,” he says, his voice rough with sleep.
My heart skips. Because does he mean tonight? Or to Costa Rica?
He doesn’t open his eyes to gauge my reaction—like he’s hiding from it instead.
His hand slips away, not forcing me to do anything I don’t want to.
My heart thuds, heavy and languid, the rhythm of it humming in my veins. My head spins with the possibility of spending the night beside him.
