Page 178 of Bide

But then Jacobs opens his fucking mouth.

“You will not talk to me like that, young lady,” he barks like has any kind of authority over me, and fuck me, does that grind my gears. As does the way he rears upright in a weak attempt at intimidation, one hand slamming palm-down against the dinner table and making everyone jump.

That whisper of an apology dies a fiery death.

“I can talk to you however I want.”

His neck flushes a bright red. “You're under my roof.”

“Because you bribed me to be here.”Because your daughter, and your wife, need me as a buffer so they don't claw their own eyes out.“Trust me, I would very much prefer to be anywhere else.”

That red broaches his jaw, spreading up his cheeks as his hands curl into pitiful little fists. “Watch your attitude, Luna. I tolerate a lot from you but after everything I've done for you, you will treat me with a little respect.”

“Everything you've done for me?” I scoff. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I pay for your apartment,” he spits. “I pay your college fees. You wouldn't even be in college if it wasn't for me.”

It takes a moment for his words to sink in.

For their meaning to become clear.

I think it hits all of us at the same time. What, exactly, he just admitted to. The gravity of his words. What they imply.

I'm the first one to break it, croaking out a quiet, “What?”

Jacobs blinks. He clears his throat loudly, equal measures aggressive and embarrassed. He sits back in his seat, bracing his hands on the arms of his chair—I think it's an attempt to hide the fact they're shaking.

It doesn't work.

He coughs again, and I get the feeling that's the only reply I'll get.

So, I try again.

“I have a scholarship,” I say, “so what the fuck do you mean you pay my college fees?”

He flinches, and whether it's from the shrillness of my voice or the decibel or maybe the language, I don't know, but still, he doesn't answer. He won't look at me. He won't look at anyone.

Especially not his wife, shaking beside him.

“Robert?” she whispers and he visibly shrinks. “Did you know about her?”

“Of course not,” he replies quickly.

Too quickly.

“You're lying.” Pen gapes at her dad, so much emotion on her face it's hard to pinpoint just one. “You're fucking lying.”

“Language, Penelope.”

The room fills with the screeching sound of wood scraping on wood as Pen shoves her chair back and stands. “Tell the fucking truth.”

Jacobs says nothing but that’s okay.

His wife speaks for him.

“You made a donation to the university,” she says quietly. “Three years ago, you said you made a donation.”

Something painful lodges itself in my throat. “My scholarship is privately funded.”

---