Page 97 of Every Silent Lie
“Your dad?” I ask, sitting up straight and pulling the sheet over me. The phone stops ringing, but the knocking on the door starts again. “Wait, is he here?”
“Sounds like it.” Dec pulls some sweatpants off a nearby chair and starts tugging them on.
“What does he want?”
“Is that panic in your voice?” he asks, amused.
I shrink back into the bed. “I thought you hated him.”
“I do.”
“Then care to explain why he’s here?” Early on a Saturday morning when I’m here, naked in your bed?
Dec’s mobile starts ringing again, and this time he answers. “Hi,” he says flatly, visibly taking in air. Patience. “Yes, I can hear you hammering on my door.” He picks up my dress and throws it toward me. It lands on my lap, and I look at it like, what? “On my way.” Hanging up, he points at my dress. “This is happening much sooner than I anticipated.”
“What? Wait, what’s happening, Dec?” Please don’t say what I think you’re going to say.
“You’re going to meet my wonderful father.” He doesn’t give me anything other than those bombshell words. “See you downstairs.” And then he turns and walks out, leaving me with a mouth like a goldfish on the bed.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, disappearing beneath the sheets.
“You can’t hide,” he calls.
“I am hiding,” I yell back.
“You can’t hide from me, Camryn.” The sound of his voice fades as he gets farther away. Closer to the front door. Where his father is.
“Shit.” I dive out of his bed and grab my dress, rushing into his bathroom and falling in front of the mirror, feeling flustered. And I look it—a complete, agitated mess. “Oh my God,” I murmur, prodding and pulling at my wild hair, trying to coax it into something reasonably acceptable. Something that doesn’t look like I’ve just crawled out of bed. “Urgh.” I flick my hair from side to side, sending water spraying onto the mirror. I give up, accepting the disastrous, untamable waves, and splash my face with cold water, slapping at my cheeks to try and get a bit of colour. “Fuck,” I hiss, my glowing cheek stinging.
What am I doing?
I don’t need to impress Dec’s father—he hates him. “Huh.” I reach for a towel, pat my face dry, pull my dress on, and leave the bathroom. Despite my head telling my hands not to, they still pull at my dress as I go. They still faff with my hair, flicking it this way and that. They still feel at my blemished cheek. I should have tried to cover it, but I don’t expect Dec to have any makeup lying around. Unless, of course, he’s still not cleared out his wife’s things. I cringe at that thought, the squishy carpet sinking under my feet as I pad to the stairs, and the moment I take the rail, I hear the telltale signs of a coffee machine grinding beans, as well as smell it. “Meeting his bloody father,” I mumble, following the curve of the staircase down to the hallway.
A mirror on the wall entices me over, and my eyes widen when I see myself in the cold, harsh, unforgiving natural light. Oh my Christ, I look like I’ve been dug up. My eyes are puffy, my skin’s blotchy, the evidence of a hard, uncontrollable crying fit written all over my face. That’s it. I’m retreating upstairs, hiding. It shouldn’t be a problem, since Dec hates his father.
I hurry to the stairs, but my foot doesn’t even make it onto the first step. “It’s malicious and you know it!” a man’s voice booms from the kitchen.
“Coffee?” Dec asks calmly, unperturbed.
“No, I don’t want no damn coffee. I want you to face me and tell me it’s you.”
“I’m going to have coffee. Mind?”
“You’re a grown man, Dec. Do as you damn well please.”
“I am and I will.” A few plates clang on the stone worktop. “Pastry?”
“Shove your bleeding pastries.”
Curiosity races like a steam train through me, pulling me toward the kitchen. A tall man in a brown suit is standing with his back to me, a matching Trilby on his grey-haired head, a polished wooden cane in his grasp. When he walks a few paces around the island without using it, I conclude it’s a fashion accessory.
Dec’s eyes glimmer when he sees me in the doorway. I give him a look that I hope tells him I’m feeling more than awkward. “Dick, this is Camryn. Camryn, Dick.”
Dick?
The old man whirls around, a scowl of epic proportions contorting his face. “Who?” he barks, looking me up and down.
“Camryn,” Dec repeats, licking the sugar off his fingers, a small, sick smile hiding behind his hand.
