Page 42 of Love in the Dark

“Two hundred and forty-six.”

“Received?”

“One hundred and ninety-eight.”

He huffs. “Needs to be better. What’s your hundred-meter split?”

“Twelve thirty-four.”

“You can get that lower.”

I nod.

“How many official bouts have you played in?”

The vein at my temple throbs. I don’t know why he’s getting to me today when this is very much the same line of questioning he always asks me.

Maybe it’s because he was rude to the restaurant staff.

Or maybe it’s because I’ve had a rough week, even without him being here. I texted Tristan twice more and he ignored me both times. In class, it was much the same. If I raised my hand, he pretended I wasn’t there. If I asked a question, he answered but without looking at me.

I’m starting to think I preferred it when he called me out in front of the whole class.

I thought after the way he’d tracked me down Monday that he was interested in fucking again, that I could convince him.

It’s not so much him that I want, as much as it is the feeling. I’m desperate to experience that kind of weightlessness, of temporary freedom from the pressures of my life, again. I’m starting to feel like I’m going to crack if I don't get it soon.

Instead, he seems much less affected than me. Aside from that first confrontation in the training facility, he’s given no sign that I even exist.

“Nera?” My father cuts in sharply. “Pay attention for God’s sake. It’s no wonder you lost the championship if this is how your mind wanders.” He clicks his tongue against his teeth and takes another sip of his wine. “How many bouts?”

Failure is not an option.

“Sixteen.”

“How many victories?”

“Thirteen.”

Failure is not an option.

He clicks his tongue against his teeth again, disapproving. The repeated sound is starting to play on a loop in brain like my own special version of dripping torture. It frays the ropes of my temper beyond repair.

“Not good enough, Nera. Remember, failure isn’t an option.”

Something finally snaps inside me.

“And what about repeatedly cheating on your wife? You don’t consider that a failure?”

The words are out before I can second guess them.

It’s like throwing a full can of gasoline on a raging fire. His eyes widen, popping almost comedically out of his face as it turns a deep shade of red.

“You little–”

“Hello,” a voice smoothly interjects. “I was told you wanted to speak with me.”

I look up at the voice’s owner, saved by his interruption.

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