My father’s gone.
My best friend.
My biggest cheerleader.
My chief pain in the ass.
I was messed up from the moment our eyes met.
And now here I am waking up next to the man I have tried to forget over the last ten years. Who’s sleeping peacefully, naked, with his limbs wrapped around me. Keeping me warm, and God, how do I even admit this, making me feel safe. We were friends once. And for a split second in time, almost more. The thought of that memory is painful. Still fresh, even though it happened a lifetime ago.
Every moment I’m conscious and sober is painful.
Of everything I have endured in my life, losing my father has been the worst of the worst. The most fucking devastating. For as long as I can remember, I felt like I didn’t belong. Felt like I was an outsider everywhere except with him. He accepted me. He loved me. He supported me.
And now all of that is gone.
My eyes begin to water as the sobering truth of the last three days sets back in. I’m spiraling back into that dark place that’s empty and numb. That’s isolating.
It’s a hole I can’t climb out of, and spending the night with Damon only dug it deeper.
I have to get out of here. I have to escape. Looking at the clock on the nightstand, I realize I need to go. It’s eight thirty, and I have a meeting with my sisters and my father’s lawyer at nine.
“Shit.” I shimmy out of Damon’s death grip, careful not to wake him. That’s the last thing I need. A morning-after confrontation. I just want to get the hell out of here and hope he forgets I even exist. I’m praying the abrupt disappearance will send him the right message:Don’t call me, I’ll call you.
I literally slide off the bed doing my best ninja impression. Naked, with my head splitting, I crawl around the room collecting my clothes. They are strewn everywhere. I survey the damage from last night as I dress. There’s two empty tequila bottles, a dozen-and-a-half lime rinds, and a knocked over shaker of salt. I take a pinch between my fingers and throw it over my shoulder. I don’t know who spilled it, but better safe than sorry. That’s all I need, my luck going even further down the toilet.
Once I’m dressed, I steal one last look at Damon still sleeping soundly.So manyconflicting emotions. It’s a war zone inside my chest. We may not have seen each other in a decade, but that doesn’t matter one bit. Damon La Rue has been a hazard to my heart since I was seventeen years old. And now at twenty-seven, he’s still an emotional risk. Even if he is older, supposedly more mature, and an even better kisser now than he was back then.Like, how is that even possible?
Lots of practice,my subconscious sneers.
Ugh.
I say a silent goodbye to Damon and crawl out of the room with my shoes in my hands. Once in the hallway, I tiptoe down to the elevator, hitting the button like a crazy woman, so close to an escape. When the doors ding open, I hop inside and inhale a sigh of relief.Success.
“Liv?” I pop open my eyes when I hear my name, and there is Damon standing in front of me with a pillow covering his private parts.Shit, shit, shit.The doors close, saving me, stealing my chance to respond.
I bang the back of my head against the wall as I descend down to the lobby. So much for a great escape.
Still in bare feet, I power walk out the front door and grab the first cab I can get. If I planned better, I would have had an Uber waiting. It takes a minute, but the valet is very helpful and flags one down. He no doubt sees my distress. It’s not like I’m trying to hide it. I’m a friggin’ hot mess.
I hop in the car and give the driver the address to the lawyer’s office. There’s no time to go home and change or even attempt to freshen up, so I’ll use the precious minutes I have in the backseat to try and pull myself together.
Using the compact mirror in my purse, I wipe away the smudged mascara under my eyes and finger-comb my tangled hair.
I can feel the judgmental stares of my sisters already. There’s no way they would even show up to a five a.m. spin class without a full face of makeup and perfect hair.
We’ve come a long way, my sisters and me, but they will always be one thing I’m not. High maintenance. That’s a hereditary trait from their mother’s side, for sure.
Our family dynamic is unusual, to say the least. For the first twenty-one years of my life, my sisters hated me. I was the shameful offspring. The scandalous lovechild of my father’s illicit affair.
Growing up, they never let me forget how unwanted I was. They did everything in their power to ostracize me. Alienate me. Make me feel small, ugly, and disgusting. Make me feel like I was unworthy of being loved. My childhood was hard. There were a lot of dark times. A lot of times I questioned myself. Questioned if they were right and if I should even be here. Getting bullied did a number on my self-esteem. Those days still haunt me, even though the three of us are in a better place now.
The one constant, the one person who was my rock, who got me through it all, was my father. He never made me feel like I was a mistake. Like I was I unloved or unworthy.
He was there for every single thing. Every dance recital, or school award assembly, or art exhibition. He was my biggest cheerleader. Strongest supporter. My number-one fan.
His affair tore his marriage apart and broke the hearts of three women in the process, but he never made me feel like I was to blame. Like it was my fault. He owned up to his mistakes. He took responsibility. Of his actions and of me. I think that’s what pissed everyone off the most. That he saw me as an equal when his ex-wife and my half-sisters did not.
