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And when Ben turns to me, setting his empty plate aside, I know. I know he’s going to ask. I don’t know what I expected when he saved me from Johnny, chided me about locked doors, and ordered me to stay in his place, but I guess part of me was hoping for him to just . . . let it go.
And while I don’t know Ben Colemanthatwell, I’m pretty sure he’s absolutelynotthe type to just let things go.
Fuck, he’s been blasting music in his shop and apartment at night just to piss me off for weeks.
“Tell me what happened,” he orders, sitting back on the couch we’ve been eating at like he’s settling in for some great story.
“I really don't want to,” I say, picking at the crust of my pizza.
“Too bad. You have to.” Irritation runs through me.
New Lola has been hiding in the shadow of Old Lola, scared and quiet and trying to figure out a fix, but as Ben seems to do, she’s being dragged out.
“Says who?”
“Says the man who walked in to find a bookie in your business after you closed while you were scared out of your mind. And let’s not even mention that you didn’t seem surprised he was there, just that he was being aggressive. There’s also the issue of that fucking bruise on your wrist.” He stares at me, taking me in, his eyes burning my skin. “Heavy bags, my ass.”
“It does happen, Ben. Heavy bags . . . I have fair skin . . .” I try to divert his attention, to convince him of some other reason for that mark, but I know that it’s bullshit.
“Lola. Stop with the games. You’re in some kind of shit.” I look away, embarrassed, before his hand reaches out, touching my chin and moving my head to face him “I want to help you, Lola.” My heart stops. “No, I’mgoingto help you, whether you want or ask for it or not.” My stomach drops. “Tell me what’s going on. Why is Johnny Vitale in your business? Why are you giving him money? Is it for Libby’s?”
For a split second, I wonder if I can get out of this. Spin some story with the grace of the best PR agent, flip this mess on its head and tie it up in a pretty bow to avoid telling him the whole truth.
But how do you spin something this messy?
How do I tell him I spent my entire trust digging my father out of holes? How do I tell him that when I told my father I was out of money, I decided to follow my own desires and build my business? How do I tell him that my father thinks I’m selfish for not using that money to fix his problems?
No, not fix.
It becomes crystal clear now, for some reason, after all these years, as I prepare to tell a stranger to my family all about the skeletons in our closet.
He doesn’t want to fix his problems.
He wants to plug the hole so he can make more.
Every time I told myself it would be the last time.
Every time he told me it would be the last time.
Every time I remember how my mom never truly stopped him.
Every time I remember telling myself it was just the stress of losing Mom.
It was all a lie.
Lies he told me. Lies Mom told me. Lies I told myself.
He’ll never change. He’ll never stop. He’ll never put me first, not me or even Lilah.
The only person who kept the Turner family in line, who kept us safe and free from the chaos, was my mom.
But she’s gone.
She’s been gone for fifteen years. And for fifteen years, I’ve been fighting this fight alone. Letting Dad chase his career and feed his addiction without repercussions. Letting Lilah be a kid, and then a teen, and then a twenty-something without that pressure. Letting Mom’s lies and secrets go with her to the grave.
And I took it on, made it my job.
I wore it as a badge of honor, my duty to my family.
