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I should tell him to fuck off and call the cops.
But I don’t.
“Talk to my father, Johnny,” I say, gently trying to pull my wrist out of his grip, but he just holds tighter, causing a small squeak to fall from my lips.
He just smiles before another hand comes over, grabbing the bag and taking a single step back.
It’s interesting how he has the confidence to do this in a crowded, small bakery.
He’s not scared of getting caught.
But I sure as fuck am scared.
“See you soon, Lola,” he says, taking a step back as he unfolds the bag, picking a cookie out and taking a bite. “A great thing you’ve got going on here. Hope you can keep it strong.”
Before I can argue, he turns his back. His dark suit jacket, so out of place in the sea of customers and vacationers, is out of my bakery, already walking down the boardwalk.
And despite having turned over a new leaf, despite deciding I’m the well-thought-out and all-knowing version of myself, New Lola has no fucking clue what to do.
And as I go through my day, I feel the throb of my wrist and watch the fair skin darken into a deep bruise.
This is bad.
Eighteen
-Lola-
My dad doesn’t answerthe text I send as soon as Johnny is out of my store or the three others I send him during the day.
He doesn’t answer the call I make at noon when I find a moment of peace or the one I make right before closing.
He doesn’t answer when I call to tell him I’m heading over.
That’s why I’m now sitting outside of my childhood home, readying myself to go inside and figure out what the fuck is going on.
A year ago, I told my dad I was done, and nothing has touched me since.
Until that note in my bakery.
Until today, when a literal mobster came into my business, threatened me, and bruised me in a public, crowded space.
Old Lola would have let this be brushed under the rug and hoped to God that Dad figured it out.
New Lola says fuck that. She says that she’s not letting the shitty actions of others impact her sleep, her business, her happiness, or her safety.
New Lola knows that when you sweep something under the rug, it’s still there. Just because it’s out of sight doesn’t mean that you’re out of the range of repercussions. You can still trip on a rock you hide under an ugly rug.
And when the rock is a debt to the Jersey Mob, it’s better to face it sooner rather than later.
My feet move up a familiar walkway, noting my dad’s car in the drive. He’s home.
And as I walk up the three steps before reaching his front door, my dad opens it, standing with the light to his back, creating an illusion that almost replicated how I used to see him.
Some kind of awesome higher power. Just. A superhero. Undefeatable.
But the man beneath the glow is exhausted in a way I haven’t seen since my mother was on her last days. Wrinkles and lines look deeper, the circles under his eyes are darker, his hair disheveled.
This is not the untouchable father I once thought I had.
