Page 135 of Sweet Caroline
“Caroline, you can’t?—”
“Fuckingtry me, Dad.” I clench my jaw as a tear slips down my cheek, begging my voice not to break. “I’m done putting up with your meddling, toxic bullshit.”
“Toxic?” Dad balks. “I’ve worked my whole career to support this family. Always done what’s best for you.”
“Oh, was it best for me when you let my fiancé disrespect me? Humiliate me?”
Dad lets out a defeated exhale.
Mom cuts in, “Sweetie, I’m sure your father never meant?—”
“Was it best for me when you pulled funding from my charity?” I cut her off, too angry at Dad to back down or entertain her attempt at placating. “Was it best for me when you called the man I love a deadbeat and a drunk?” I step toward him. “If you’re keeping track, that last one was only a couple minutes ago.”
“Caroline, listen—” he starts.
“No. No more listening to you.” I take in the picture before me one last time: my father sitting behind his big, obnoxious desk, surrounded by the artifacts of a life lived for his own gain. And I don’t see power or prestige: just a pathetic, weak old man. “Earn a place back in my life or don’t. That’s your choice. But I can’t even look at you right now. I need space.”
I’m midway through storming out to my car when I come face to face with the last person I want to see.
“What are you doing here?” My voice is terse, a barely controlled rage searing the back of my throat.
“Nice to see you, too, Caroline.” Fletcher finishes climbing the front steps, regarding me coolly as he adjusts the leather strap of his shoulder bag. “And to answer your question, I’m moving next week.”
At least one positive of my dad losing the election is his disgraced campaign manager getting the boot.
Good riddance, Fletch.
“Got a new position at Delta Consulting.” He smooths down his tie as if he can sense how I’m fantasizing about choking him with it. “In Olympia.”
“Good for you.” I give him a withering smile. It’s joyless and phony—concepts he should be well-acquainted with.
“So,” he continues, “I’m dropping off my work phone, laptop… a few other things.”
That infernal phone.
The mere mention of it fans the flames of my anger all over again. “Well, I hope the women of Olympia are ready for you, Fletch.” It’s possible I could incinerate him with a look. “And I hope they get off on mediocre sex and snoring.”
He rolls his eyes and I turn to go. “Care, come on,” he calls after me. “Don’t be like that.”
Stopping halfway down the stairs, I face him, my jaw working. “And how should I be?”
“Here.” He digs out his wallet and slips a glossy business card from inside as he comes back down a few steps, holding it out to me. “In case you lost my number.” When I only gape, he does a disgusting little smirk and adds, “For when you get over your Bob the Builder phase and need a man who sits at the grown-ups’ table.”
It takes everything in me not to punch him in the throat.
This guy just won’t let the dream die.
I give him an icy once-over. “If anyone’s a child here, Fletcher, it’s you.” I take one step up—as close as I’m willing to get—and drop my voice low. “You selfish, entitled…”—I pause before landing on the perfect term for my ex, courtesy of my favorite wordsmith—“…shitweasel.”
Plucking the business card from his grasp, I tear it in half, then turn away to jog down the last steps. As I cross the driveway to my car, I flick the pieces from my fingertips like they’re not worth the dirt they land on when they flutter to the ground.
Twistingthe gift bag’s handle between my fingers, I peer past the fire engines, unsure whether I’m allowed to just walk in. I’ve never been to a fire station before, and I’m on edge.
Of course, being on edge is a near-constant state of affairs for me lately.
My nerves feel like they’ve been raked over a bed of nails. It’s been five days since I stormed out of my father’s office. A lifetime of repressed emotions and people-pleasing finally broke me, detonating some part of my brain. I haven’t found a way back to normal yet.
Not that anything about the last month has felt normal. Between losing Miles and the stress from Grandpa’s accident, I was already a mess. Blowing up the status quo with my parents has only tightened the twisting grief gripping my chest for the last few weeks.
