The son of a bitch hits her.
It only takes thirty minutes in Cindy's company for me to reach that conclusion. To pick up on the signs. I see it in the way she flinches whenever he touches her. Just slightly, and probably unnoticeable to anyone else, but it's the same way my mother would respond each time he came near her. It was almost like she was anticipating the next strike of his fist, or his palm, or his fucking foot.
But that's not the only warning sign Cindy is broadcasting. The long-sleeved lacy thing over her red dress is a dead giveaway-I've fucked enough sorority girls to know that you don't match white heels with a black jacket. And then there's the spark of fear that flicks through her eyes whenever my father so much as twitches in his chair. The sad droop of her shoulders when he tells her that the gravy is too watery. The slew of compliments she gives him because she's obviously trying to keep him happy. No, to keep him calm.
We're halfway through dinner, my tie is choking the life out of me, and I'm not certain I can control my rage anymore. I don't think I can make it to dessert without attacking the old man and demanding to know how he can possibly do this to another woman.
Cindy and Hannah are chatting about something. I have no clue what it is. My fingers grip my fork so tight I'm surprised it doesn't snap in half.
He tried to talk to me about hockey earlier when Hannah and Cindy were in the kitchen. I tried talking back. I'm sure I even managed to form proper sentences, with subjects and predicates and all that shit. But from the second Hannah and I walked into this godforsaken house, my mind has been somewhere else. Every room holds a memory that brings bile to my throat.
The kitchen is where he broke my nose for the first time.
Upstairs is where I got the brunt of it, usually in my bedroom, where I don't dare venture tonight because I'm scared the walls might close in on me.
The living room is where he slammed me against the wall after my eighth-grade league didn't make it to the playoffs. I noticed he hung a painting over the hole in the drywall, though.
"So yeah," Hannah is saying. "Now I'm singing a solo, which is what I should've done in the first place."
Cindy makes a sympathetic noise with her tongue. "This boy sounds like a selfish ass."
"Cynthia," my father says sharply. "Language."
There it is again-that flinch. The weak "I'm sorry" should come next, but to my surprise, she doesn't apologize.
"You don't agree, Phil? Imagine you were still playing for the Rangers and your goalie left you in the lurch right before the first game in the Stanley Cup series."
My father's jaw stiffens. "The two situations aren't comparable."
She quickly backpedals. "No, I guess they're not."
I shovel a forkful of mashed potatoes and stuffing into my mouth.
My father's cool gaze travels to Hannah. "How long have you been seeing my son?"
From the corner of my eye, I see her shift in discomfort. "A month."
He nods, almost like he's pleased to hear it. When he speaks again, I realize precisely what he's pleased about. "It's not serious, then."
Hannah frowns.
I do, too, because I know what he's thinking. No, what he's hoping. That this thing with Hannah is just a fling. That it'll fizzle out sooner rather than later and then I can go back to focusing exclusively on hockey.
But he's wrong. Hell, I was wrong, too. I thought having a girlfriend would distract me from my goals and split my focus, but it hasn't. I love being with Hannah, but I haven't lost sight of hockey, either. I'm still bringing it in practice, still smoking my opponents on the ice. This last month has shown me that I can have Hannah and hockey in my life, and give both of them the attention they deserve.
"Did Garrett tell you he's planning on entering the draft after graduation?" my father asks.
Hannah nods in response.
"Once he gets drafted his schedule will become even more hectic. I imagine yours will, too." My father purses his lips. "Where do you see yourself after graduation? Broadway? Recording an album?"
"I haven't decided yet," she replies, reaching for her water glass.
I notice that her plate is empty. She's finished all her food, but hasn't asked for seconds. Neither have I, though I can't deny that Cindy's cooking is fucking fantastic. I haven't eaten a turkey that juicy in years.
"Well, the music industry is a tough one to break into. Requires a lot of hard work and perseverance." My father pauses. "And an incredible amount of focus."
"I'm well aware of that." Hannah's lips form a tight line, as if she has a million more things to say but is forcing herself not to.
"Professional sports is the same way," my dad says pointedly. "Requires that same level of focus. Distractions can be costly." His head tips toward me. "Isn't that right, son?"
I reach for Hannah's hand and cover her knuckles with my palm. "Some distractions are worth it."
His nostrils flare.
"Looks like everyone has finished eating," Cindy blurts out. "How about some dessert?"
My stomach churns at the thought of spending even another second in this house. "Actually, Hannah and I have to go," I say roughly. "The weather forecast called for snow tonight so we want to head back before the roads get bad."
Cindy's head swivels to the floor-to-ceiling window on the other side of the dining room. Beyond the glass, there isn't a speck of white in the air or on the ground.
But God bless her, she doesn't comment on the snow-free state of the street. If anything, she looks almost relieved that this uncomfortable evening is about to come to an end.
"I'll clear the table," Hannah offers.
Cindy nods. "Thanks, Hannah. I appreciate it."
"Garrett." My father scrapes his chair back. "A word."
Then he walks out.
Fuck him and his fucking words. The bastard didn't even thank his girlfriend for the lovely meal she prepared. I'm so goddamn sick of this man, but I swallow my anger and follow him out of the dining room.
"What do you want?" I demand once we enter his study. "And don't bother ordering me to stay for dessert. I came home for Thanksgiving, we ate some turkey, and now I'm leaving."
"I don't give a shit about dessert. We need to talk about that girl."
"That girl?" I laugh harshly. "You mean Hannah? Because she's not just some girl. She's my girlfriend."
"She's a liability," he snaps.
I roll my eyes. "How do you figure?"
"You lost two of your last three games!" he roars.
"And that's her fault?"
"Damn right it is! She's making you lose sight of the game."
"I'm not the only player on the team," I say flatly. "And I'm not the only one who made mistakes during those games."
"You took a costly penalty in the last one," he spits out.
"Yeah, I did. Big fucking deal. We're still number one in our conference. Still number two overall."
"Number two?" He's shouting now, his hands forming tight fists as he takes a step toward me. "And you're happy with being number two? I raised you to be number one, you little shit!"
Once upon a time, those blazing eyes and red cheeks would have made me flinch, too. But not anymore. Once I turned sixteen and gained two inches and forty pounds on my father, I realized I no longer had to be afraid of him.
I'll never forget the look in his eyes the first time I fought back. His fist had been coming toward my face, and in a moment of clarity, I realized I could block it. I didn't have to stand there and take the abuse anymore. I could dish it right back at him.
And I did. I still remember the satisfying crunch of my knuckles when they connected with his jaw. Even as he'd growled in fury, there'd been genuine shock-and fear-in his eyes as he'd stumbled backward from the force of the impact.
That was the last time he ever raised a hand to me.
"What are you going to do?" I taunt, nodding at his fists. "Hit me? What, you're tired of taking it out on that nice woman out there?"
His entire body goes stiffer than granite.
"You think I don't know you're using her as your punching bag?" I hiss out.
"Watch your fucking mouth, boy."
The fury in my gut boils over. "Fuck you," I hurl out. My breathing goes shallow as I stare into his enraged eyes. "How could you lay a hand on her? How could you lay a hand on anyone? What the fuck is the matter with you?"
He stalks toward me, stopping when we're a mere foot apart. For a second I think he might actually strike me. I almost want him to. That way I can strike back. I can smash my fists into his pathetic face and show him what it's like to get beat on by someone who's supposed to love you.
But my feet stay rooted in place, my hands pressed tightly against my sides. Because no matter how badly I want to do it, I will never lower myself to his level. I will never lose control of my temper and be like him.