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Chapter 1
Nova
~ May ~
“Your nasty, disease-riddled cunt couldn’t do one fucking thing right in our marriage?”
In the space of a minute, my entire conception of my father changed. He’d never been a man to curse, belittle, or even speak sharply to anyone. And yet, he stood, right in front of me, his cheeks red, hurling abuse at his own wife – my mother.
I turned my attention to Mom, whose shoulders were slumped inward, even as they heaved with her sobs. She wasn’t even trying to deny the accusations.
“I’m sorry, Jer. I always thought she was yours,” my mom managed to squeak out through her sobs.
My laundry bag, which was slung over my shoulder, seemed to have doubled in weight in an instant. I was long past having Mom do my laundry, but I didn’t want to share the community machines with the petty thieves in my dorm, so I always brought it home. A moment ago, I’d carried the bag effortlessly, but now it was like a giant boulder, weighing me down. Surely she wasn’t saying…
“But you knew there was a chance she wasn’t and never said a fucking word. You let me go on believing I had a daughter this whole fucking time when it was all a lie.”
It was true.
My knees buckled and the bag fell from my shoulder, its weight suddenly unbearable as the momentum of the bag, and maybe the moment, pulled me down along with it. My knees smacked on the marble floor, making a noise which echoed in my ears like a gunshot.
It was true.
The laundry bag hit the floor a moment later, making another sound which reverberated inside my skull.
“Oh God!” My voice came out in a ragged whisper as my eyes flitted to my father for reassurance that I hadn’t just heard him correctly. For a moment, everything seemed normal. His lips turned upward, and when our eyes met, I could see the love he’d always held for me. But then his eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched and lips pressed together in a hard line. He didn’t say it, but he didn’t have to: He wasn’t my father anymore.
I hugged my arms to my chest, fighting a sudden chill in the air.
“Clean your mess up here, then pack your shit, and get the fuck out of my home. You know what our prenup says. You will get nothing. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.”
My father -no, Jeremy Williamson- glanced back toward me one more time, his fingers twitched by his side, as if he was fighting the urge to come comfort me. In a twisted way, he won the battle, even if doing so destroyed me instead of offering the comfort we both needed. Without another word or gesture in my direction, he turned and stormed off. The slam of the front door resonated through the echo-chamber like space before the stagnant nothing that was left behind finally forced me to move.
As I lifted myself to my feet–a difficult task with my head spinning– I tried to make sense of what had just happened. If Jeremy wasn’t my father, then who was? If I ever learned his name, if I ever met him, could he possibly compete with the lifetime of memories running through my mind on a loop? Jeremy watching as I opened presents on Christmas morning. Jeremy telling me how proud he was when I made the honor roll. Jeremy bringing me ice cream after I managed to punch my self-defense instructor where it counted most, because I felt bad about it afterward.
How could anyone else ever be a dad after that?
I turned to my mother and asked the only question I could think of. “What did you do?”
“Nova, darling,” she said while offering nothing more than an emotionless stare. Her fake sobs had stopped about the same time the front door slammed shut. My mother was ever the trophy wife, who always exhibited whatever emotion was necessary in a moment. I’d known that for years. But even knowing that, I would never have suspected she’d keep this from me.
“What did you do? If that man is not my father, then who the hell is, and where has he been all my life?”
“Listen, we’ll get this straightened out, I promise.”
“What exactly are we straightening out? Is my last name even supposed to be Williamson? If not, what is it? Mom!”
Her name came out more like a tragic whimper than the angry growl I really wanted to use. I knew better though. My mother didn’t respond to loud, angry, or incensed. She was the only person allowed to show those emotions, and only if the dramatic effect would garner her the response she was looking for from her intended target. Psychology class had given me the words to define my mother, to identify her genus and species: She was a classic narcissist. A sociopath. I wasn’t sure true emotions were in the realm of possibility for her.
“What have you done to us? To him? To me?”
“Oh, stop the dramatics, Nova. It’s not that big of a deal.” She swiped away the tears now that no one important was around to see them. Obviously, she didn’t care if I knew they were fake.
“Not that big of a deal?”My mother didn’t seem to notice the quiet in my voice, but that wasn’t really a surprise. Reading the room had never been her specialty.“WHO IN THE HELL IS MY FATHER?”
She flinched away from me. That was a first. Then again, I had never screamed at her, or anyone else for that matter. My even-keeled temperament was supposed to have been inherited from my father, and maybe it was, just not the father I’d always thought it had come from. Her wide eyes stared into my enraged ones for a long time, and once she realized that fire of hatred she stoked that day wasn’t going out anytime soon, she reluctantly answered me.
“Clark.” The name came out as no more than a whisper. For a moment, I thoughtperhaps the impossible was true. Did Mom actually regret what she’d done? Maybe it had been a one-night stand that went wrong. Not great, but fixable. Maybe this was all still fixable…
