The only crazy—crazy bad—clothes I’ve worn recently were the ones Dad sent me for the gala night, to parade me around, and those I’ve already sent back.
Jeez. How did I live like a good little pet for so long?
Furious at myself, I go through my stuff, trying to find something I can use, something I like. I end up throwing a couple of jeans and stretchy T-shirts into my suitcase, followed by a few long sweaters and a pair of cowboy boots I don’t even remember buying. Socks, boring underwear—until I can buy something more exciting—and my running shoes and sports clothes.
Then I go through my room and gather my dog-eared paperbacks, my notebooks, my favorite DVDs, my tablet and my laptop. If Dad objects to me keeping these, then screw him.
My whole life fits in a suitcase. Wow. Okay, to be fair, I’m leaving a lot behind I’d have liked to take with me—old stuff mainly, photo albums and CDs and posters, heavy coffee table art books my granddad left me when he died, bottles I decorated with melted wax and my painting tools.
When I moved in here, away from my parents, I thought I’d be free of them. Didn’t realize the fetters were anywhere I went, that I carried them in me, because I hoped for acceptance where there was none.
I slam the suitcase closed and drag it out of my bedroom on its small wheels. The sound of them rolling on the ceramic floor echoes in the empty apartment as I cross the long living room and reach the door.
There I stumble and come to a stop. The words ‘Fuck you, bitch’ have been drawn in red on the pale gray door.
Sean was here. Inside my apartment.
A shudder goes through me, fear clawing its way up my throat until I feel bile rising. I swallow convulsively, grip the handle of my suitcase more tightly.
He’s not here. Sean isn’t here, and if he is, I’m calling the police.
My cell. I dig in my purse to find it, and for a moment I panic, thinking I left it in the car, but no, there it is. I pull it out, and suck in a deep breath.
I can do this. He has a restraining order. If he as much as approaches me, I’m calling the police, and I’ll land his ass in jail.
But when I cautiously open the door, the same emptiness and silence as before greets me. Dragging my suitcase behind me, I exit and cross over to the elevator. My palms are sweaty. My pulse is booming in my ears. It’s not until I’m sitting inside my jeep, the doors locked, I can breathe again.
It strikes me that, although I faced this on my own, but it isn’t over yet. Not until I stop walking in fear.
I need to face my dad one more time, and there’s no time better than now, with the red-blood words written on my door flashing through my head and the fear driving me relentlessly. I’ll use that fear, and that anger, to break the mold of my past.
***
When I enter the reception area of the law firm, I find it empty. The secretary isn’t behind her desk. Still shaking, I cross and open the door to Dad’s office.
He’s sitting in his usual place, behind his massive desk. He doesn’t look up when I enter, though his eyes flicker to the side. I can see that his computer screen is dark.
I open my mouth to speak, but something keeps me back. I want to see if he’ll say something first, and what that will be.
So I walk the length of his office, to the polished shelves lining the eastern wall, and peruse the spines of the law books stacked in neat rows. Silence stretches between us like a tightrope. Who will walk it first?
“I expected you to come around sooner,” he says.
“Around to your office?”
“I mean I expected you to see sense.”
My hand, that’s been sliding along the smooth shelf, stills. “Really?”
“Sit down, Tessa,” he snaps.
I tense, but force my hands to fall, lax, at my sides. I turn slowly. “No, thank you. I’d rather stand.”
“What are you…?” His blue eyes, so similar to mine, narrow. It’s like looking into a distorted mirror. “I said sit down.”
“You can say anything you like, Dad.” My hands are curling into fists. “You don’t control me. Not anymore.”
“That’s what you think. I pay for your apartment, your gasoline, your goddamn pocket money.”
“Not anymore,” I repeat, taking a step toward him. “I don’t want your money. I don’t want the damn apartment.”
“The hell you don’t.” He starts to rise from his chair, and I wonder if I’ll have to use the pepper spray after all, on my own father. “If I take away your car and your college tuition, what will you do?”
“You can’t do that.” I step to his desk, and place both hands on it. We’re so close I can see something I never expected to see in my father’s eyes: uncertainty. “The car belongs to me. Mom gave it to me. It’s in my name. And she’s giving me money for college, so I can study what I choose.”