Page 28 of Force of Nature

“I doubt a few weeks are going to change how I feel.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” he said in a put-on patient tone that made me feel twelve years old. “Look, Willow, I’m not going to push you to do something you don’t feel ready for—” He winced, his choice of words undoubtedly hitting close to home. “—but I also don’t want this experience to stop you from living your life.”

“I am living my life,” I said. It was because of him that I was sitting here alive right now.

“Just give it some time. You might welcome the change of scenery.”

Dad left the table to go rinse off his breakfast plate.

I stared at his back, feeling blindsided and confused. Was I being overly sensitive, or was he acting weird? Maybe weird wasn’t the right word. If anything, he was acting too normal.

“I thought you wanted me to find a therapist,” I said. “What’s the point of looking for someone around here if I’m just going to have to find a new one when I leave?”

“Don’t most therapists offer online appointments these days?”

“Obviously I wouldn’t know.” I blinked back the tears before they could breach my eyelids. How could he still be adamant about sending me away after he’d almost died trying to bring me home?

The days blurred together. Dad went to work as usual, came home as usual, ate dinner with me and then tinkered in the garage doing his usual dad stuff. Before the camping trip, I had a part-time job at a bookstore. But being around a lot of people made me anxious. I was convinced that they could tell who I was, even though the police had done a good job keeping our names and faces out of the media. I quit the same day I went back.

I spent my days sleeping, streaming movies, and doing chores around the house. The kitchen and bathrooms had never looked so spotless. Dad continued to push for therapy but he didn’t seem eager to find a therapist for himself.

We didn’t talk about what happened, not in so many words. We talked over it and around it, under it. Meanwhile, the memories sat between us like a ghost on the couch.

Sometimes my dad looked at me so intently that I swore he hated me. The idea wasn’t so far-fetched; after all, my presence was a reminder of the worst night of his life. I imagined him counting down the days until I moved out.

My feelings about leaving didn’t change with time. But I promised myself that I would be strong, just like my dad had been strong for me. I would pack my things and go off to college across the country, like we planned. I would give him the space he obviously wanted.

It was easy to make plans in the daylight, but at night, in the dark, I was weak. Sleep eluded me. Herbal tea and relaxation videos didn’t help.

The only place where I felt safe enough to fall asleep was in my dad’s bed.

No matter how mundane or awkward things were between us in the daytime, when the sun went down, we came together like puzzle pieces. We couldn’t help ourselves. It felt right to slip under my dad’s covers and let him touch me, taste me, fuck me. And he never denied me. He took me like it was the last time every time.

I craved it all the time. His love made me feel alive in a way that nothing else could. In the cold light of day, I was a walking corpse, but at night, between my father’s hands, I was molten. I poured myself all over him, and he drank up every drop.

More than that, the things I needed from him made me realize how much that night in the woods had broken me. Like shards of glass reheated to thousands of degrees until they flowed like lava, my desires had taken on new and twisted shapes. The vanilla fantasies I used to masturbate to were wholesome compared to the things I asked him to do to me. I didn’t just want my dad to fuck me. I wanted him to strip away my control.

“You asked for this,” he’d growl, as he entered me from behind with his arm around my neck. “If you didn’t want Daddy to fuck this pussy, you should have done a better job of hiding it. You know the shorts you wore today don’t cover shit.”

He only admitted to wanting me when we were already in bed, but I knew he watched me constantly. All I had to do was crawl into his bed to find him hard and aching to punish me for torturing him all day with my clothing choices or my bad habit of leaving the bathroom door open. I knew part of him felt guilty for the things he did and said, even if I came harder when he pinned my hands above my head or wrapped my hair around his fist.

But then the sun would rise, and he’d pull away, leaving me to wonder if any of it was real or if it was all just a dream.

* * *

I heldthe ticket in my hand as I watched the sunlight creep across my bedroom wall the day before my scheduled departure. Tomorrow I’d board a flight that would take me thousands of miles away. I really should have started packing sooner, but I kept putting it off, despite my resolve to give my dad the distance he wanted.

My suitcase sat empty beside me on the bed. I glanced at the jewelry on my dresser, the hair products on my desk, and the folded clothes in the laundry basket on the floor.

Who had I been kidding all this time? I was never going to leave. I wasn’t strong enough.

I didn’t have to get up to know who was knocking at my door.

“Come in,” I called out.

My dad opened the door but didn’t step inside.

“I made lunch,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

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