Page 105 of Versions Of Us

Kristen puts up a front, but I know it makes her doubt herself and I hate him for that.

I know I’m granting him more than he deserves by informing him of my intentions, but that’s simply all I’m doing. I’m not asking. I’m telling him. I want to marry his daughter and I want to lay into him for being the piece of shit that he is. I want him to know how much heartache he’s caused her, but I also want him to know that despite his neglect, she turned out just fine.

More than fine, no thanks to him.

I glance at the speedometer and realise I’m doing twenty kilometres over the speed limit. I lift my foot, easing up on the accelerator, knowing I can’t let my anger overtake me. My temper has led me to speeding fines in the past and I still have a few hours left of driving to do.

I’ve never met Greg Riley. I’ve seen an old photograph of him, but it had been taken so long ago I doubt I’d recognise him if I passed him on the street. But I know where he lives, thanks to the bundle of letters Kristen keeps in the top drawer of her desk. All of them addressed to him, though she’s never been able to bring herself to send a single one.

I know that he lives in Coledale, a small inland town almost four hours from Cliff Haven. I don’t care how far I have to drive. I’d drive all day and night for her.

I’m hungry and tired, but I don’t stop until I see the weather-beaten ‘Welcome to Coledale’ sign appear, adorned with scribbles of graffiti. Someone has scrawled a giant H over the C, so it reads Holedale.

Clever. And also fitting.

I pull over to the side of a dirt road and scroll through the images on my phone until I find the photo I took of one of the envelopes. It’s blurry, having been taken in a rush, but I can still read the address easily.

23 Woodville Road, Coledale.

I type the address into maps and wait for the app to find the best route. Phone service is practically non-existent in this town but after a long and painful two minutes, I finally get it to load. Apparently, I’m only four minutes away. I indicate and ready myself to pull out on to the road again when a black four-wheel drive hoons past, music blaring. A guy hollers out of the window swinging a bottle of amber coloured liquid.

Wanker.

Four minutes later I’m parked out the front of my destination.

23 Woodville Road is not what I expect. This decrepit house with its overgrown front lawn, littered with weeds and junk, is not where I pictured Greg Riley would end up. It’s a far cry from the elaborate two storey mansion I’ve seen in the photographs Kristen has showed me of her early years. This has to be a mistake.

I blow out a breath as I make my way up the paved path, weeds weaving through its cracks, and knock firmly on the battered, old front door. There’s no response, so I knock again, louder this time.

A deep bellow comes from behind the door and then it swings open, revealing a thin man with greying hair that seems to match his wrinkled complexion. The bitter scent of alcohol lingers in the air between us.

“What?” is all he says when he sees me.

“Are you Greg Riley?” I ask.

I expect him to say that I have the wrong address. There’s no way this loser could be Kristen’s dad.

“Depends on who’s asking,” he mutters.

I nod. It all suddenly makes sense to me now.

Why Kristen’s mother was happy just to let Greg go. Why she was content to let her daughter have no relationship with her father. Why she didn’t push for him to be a part of their lives. Greg Riley has nothing to offer them.

I can already see there isn’t a point in trying to converse with him, but for Kristen’s sake, I try anyway.

“My name is Alex. I’m Kristen’s boyfriend.”

“Who?” He slumps against the door frame, his hand coming up to scratch his forehead.

“Kristen. Your daughter.” My voice remains calm but I’m fuming on the inside.

What kind of lowlife needs to be reminded of their only daughter’s name?

“Right. What can I do for you?” He sounds bored. Or maybe he’s frustrated that I’m keeping him from his next whiskey and coke.

“Nothing,” I say through gritted teeth. “I just wanted to look into the eyes of the father that abandoned her before I ask her to marry me.”

Greg’s eyes darken. The door swivels open further, and he stumbles backward as though my words have physically assaulted him. It’s then I see the half empty bottle of Jack Daniels in his other hand and the untidy living room littered with dirty dishes and glasses behind him. He stares me down and I expect him to lash out at me, hit me in the face. But he doesn’t.

---