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If I’m going to make myself uncomfortable by attempting the kind of relationship which inherently leeches control from me, then I’ll make the world uncomfortable along with me. Although with the amount I've droned on about her since this summer, I think Gideon will be pleased. That’s not the case for everyone. My family, or rather, the paternal side of it will have a veritable fit.
I think I might find some dark relief in watching that…
I scan a message from Tom asking if I've calmed down and if Indie got home okay because she’s not answering Carrie’s messages, to which I respond dryly:
She’s at my house where she’ll be spending the weekend.
And enjoying it.
Thanks for setting her up on that date, asshole.
The busted lip was worth it by the way.
Next time it will be his.
Or yours if you introduce that woman to another man.
I hope that’s clear.
Grey.
Stanley asks if we need anything and I add my secretary Janet to the chat, asking them to work together to go get some casual and comfortable house clothes for a woman of about five three and a hundred and twenty-five pounds, including some night dresses and slippers. I make sure to give Janet a fat bonus at the end of each month if I have to bother her at the weekend which I try to do as little as possible, so hopefully, she won’t mind.
I make a mental note to inquire about Indie’s tastes when it comes to food and drinks so that Stanley can procure the items she likes but in the meantime ask him to get a variety of fruits, vegetables and plant milks, chocolate and ice cream.
I do believe I will very much enjoy hand-feeding her the foods that she likes.
Pulling my thoughts to something altogether less pleasant, I flip to the four messages I see waiting for me from Landon Everitt.
Also known as my father.
I scroll up to the first one, malaise rattling in my chest.
I see you’re too busy to respond to your father’s messages, he writes, no doubt in reference to last night’s demand that I have dinner with him to discuss an engagement to a woman I never proposed to nor have any inclination to marry, and can barely stomach at this point.
There’s urgent work to be done today.
I need you in the office now.
Fuck you.
It’s rarely urgent. He just enjoys pulling the strings and making me dance like he does everyone else in his world. That’s his version of fatherhood.
These last few months, I've been less and less inclined to go along with the dynamic he’s offering me, even though this insidious goddamn need for him to one day express a shred of remorse, or even insight into what happened, to acknowledge that my life matters, that he cares still taunts me, despite me knowing full well he’ll never give me these things. The twisted high he gets off withholding them is just too pleasurable to him.
Instead, he’ll demand submission in exchange for occasional dregs of lukewarm approval which will vanish as quickly as they appeared, and some semblance of family life—fractured spectral pieces of an unsplintered warmth I once felt, something that made sense… until the day it was lost, never to return.
Other than when staring into inquisitive green eyes which bathe me in warm light, melting the cold dark inside me, albeit taking control from me in the process.
Even the thought of her lying naked on that rug next to the fire waiting for me to return takes the bitter edge off conversing with my father.
Are you getting my messages?
Have you just forgotten that you have responsibilities?
Or are you busy with some whore?
He can’t know I’m with her…
