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“Seventy.” His words are a whisper, quiet, and I have to wonder if they’re also embarrassed. He’s never shown that particular emotion before. It would be a novel change.
Still, I feel sick with the words, numbers flashing in my brain like a calculator showing a total as I process them.
“Seventy. Seventy thousand dollars?!”My voice cracks as it rises, the mere idea of such a large amount of money being essentially gone, of my father promising it to anyone sinking in, much less that I would fulfill that.
“It was a game.”
“It’s always a game!”
“I thought . . . I thought we’d be good for it. I never—”
He thoughtIwould be good for it.
“Dad, I told you I have nothing left! Mom’s trust isgone. What were you thinking? What were you—”
“You didn’t have a problem opening the bakery.” His words are tipped in acid, cruel and unnecessary. My stomach drops.My mouth drops. Shock filters through me, making me lightheaded, making the tips of my fingers feel numb. “You somehow had enough to start your bakery. That wasn’t cheap, I’m sure.” He says it like it’s an accusation.
It’s funny how most parents would find that to be an accomplishment. Mine finds it to be an unsavory trait.
“I took out loans, Dad! And I saved! And I worked my ass off! But all of that money isin the bakery!It’s not just something I can give you to settle some debt with the fuckingmob!”
“You can help your old man—” My voice goes cold. Cold and steady as I cut him off.
I am done.
New Lola comes back into my body, filling the holes and consuming whatever space Old Lola was still in.
Transition complete.
“My business is not there to become another source for you to dig yourself out of holes. I told you I was done. I’m living my life for me now. I deserve that much.”
My feet find the ground, moving to push my chair back.
I’m ready to leave.
His next words are said with intent, sticking me to my chair with remorse and hurt and betrayal.
“Your mother would have wanted it.” The intent is to gut me, to weaken me.
But instead, his words strengthen my resolve.
I wonder for a moment if he truly thinks that or if it’s just a new tactic. A low blow he’s never had to stoop to.
“No. No more of this. That’s not true, Dad. The truth is, Mom would be ashamed of this. I have a bruise in the shape of Johnny Vitale’s fingers on my wrist.” My words are a slow staccato as I lift my arm to show him again, and at least that gets a reaction, a small softening in his eyes. “This is a bruise he gave me in open daylight in a busy bakery. He threatened me without a care in the world. Mom would never have wanted that. She wanted us to steer clear of them! And you know that’s forgood reason, D—”He cuts me off.
“They know about Lilah.”
My gut drops.
“What?”No, no, no.
“Johnny definitely knows.” Acid moves up my throat. “He knows, and lately, there have been talks. Strengthening family ties. He wants a seat at the table, I think. I’m afraid . . .” He swallows, looking somewhere past my head, avoiding my eyes. “I’m afraid that he’s using this as his chance. Getting me in deep, more than you can handle, more than I can handle. Threatening you, and then going for her.”
This is everything Mom didn’t want.
Everything I have fought against.
I gave up 15 years of my life to avoid this moment.
