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Unlike back home, I don’t have the football team lining up to rail me, so reading about sex is the next best thing.
I managed to survive my first week in Andarusia. The Aristocrats—including Alek—have left Prisha and me alone. Although, I can’t say it’s gotten easier sitting in front of him in class, and the ever-present feeling of being watched keeps me distracted from my lessons.
The schoolwork has been brutal. I’m way behind the other students in terms of my education. These kids went to boarding school abroad and had the best private tutors money could buy. Graduation is less than three months away. There’s not enough time to catch up, so what’s the point in trying?
A soft knock pulls my attention to the door, and my father cracks it open.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
He’s still walking on eggshells around me since our blowup fight, and while I’m glad we’re staying out of each other’s way, it certainly gives the house a tense atmosphere. It’s stifling, so I spend as much time in my room as a refuge.
“May I sit?” he asks, gesturing to the end of the bed.
I nod, and when he takes a seat, the mattress dips.
“I spoke to the headmaster today,” he says. “They received your transcripts from Conroe.”
Ah, yes. The secret is out: Willow Baker is a failure, and my dad can’t hide this shameful fact from the school any longer.
“They’re very concerned about your grades,” he continues. “What happened?”
I scoff. “You aren’t seriously asking me that question, are you? I thought I made it pretty clear at the Ambassador’s Dinner.”
He takes a deep breath before giving me a leveled, measured response. “You had a lot going on. I get that. Perhaps this is the fresh start you need to get back on track, and I want to provide the resources to help get you there, whether that’s tutoring or—”
“Do you even care?” I interrupt.
“Of course I care about you, Willow.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I fold my arms. “I’m talking about Mom. It’s like you won’t even acknowledge she’s dead, and you just expect me to carry on as if nothing happened.”
“You’re still grieving, and I understand that. This process takes time, and I don’t expect you to get over it. I’m just trying to get you past the finish line so you can graduate.” He puts his hand on my knee and pats it, but I jerk away from him.
I’m not letting him steer the conversation in a different direction. “You loved Mom once, didn’t you?”
He averts his gaze to the floor. “Of course I did.”
“Then why weren’t you there for her funeral? Why didn’t you come back to say goodbye?”
“It’s not that easy to travel right now with the political unrest—”
“I needed you. The one fucking time I needed you, and you weren’t there, and it showed just how little you cared about Mom and me.”
“I loved your mother.” His voice breaks, and he shakes his head before continuing. “All I wanted was for you both to come with me abroad. I wanted us to be a family, and it broke my heart when she asked for a divorce. It took years before I could even go on a date with another woman.”
“You should have fought to keep us together!” Hot tears spring to my eyes, and my hands ball into fists. “You chose your career over your family. Instead of coming home, you pulled me out of my senior year of high school to bring me to a country where I know nobody and don’t speak the language. On top of that, I’m trying to deal with Mom’s death, but everything changed so fast I haven’t had a chance to grieve. You’re unbelievable. Fuck you, and fuck you for abandoning us!”
There it is, years of anger and hatred spilling forth like steam from a pressure cooker. Everything I’ve ever wanted to say to him is out on the table, and the weight of my admission hangs heavy in the silence.
He drops his head and nods, letting the meaning behind my words sink in: I hate you.
But when he turns his head to look at me, his defeated expression doesn’t bring the satisfaction I thought it would. “You’re right. I’ve been a terrible father, and for that, I’m sorry.”
It’s funny. I’ve always wanted him to admit this to me, but now that he has, I don’t feel vindicated. I feel like an ass.
He stands up and leaves the room, his shoes falling onto the wooden floorboards with slow steps. When he closes the door behind him, it plunges the bedroom into lonely stillness.
