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She was one hell of a woman.
She will be missed.
But I don’t want to lie.
Finally, I whisper, “I’m sorry it hurts, Dad.”
As I go to leave, he reaches up and grabs the top of my arm, holding me to him. He exhales a strained breath, his hand tight on me, his breathing powerful like the air that leaves him is saying a lot, saying it all, and now he’s damn breathless with the sentiment pouring from him.
And maybe he is.
Finally, I hear, “I love you, my boy. I love all my boys with all of me,se.”
I laugh it off. “And there’s a whole lot of you, so—"
“I don’t say it enough, Xander.”
None of us do.
I nod. I nod to abate the rise of tears as they scorch the backs of my eyes. I nod to accept it, to trick my mind into thinking I’m fine. “Yeah, mate. We love you, too.”
CHAPTERSEVEN
kaya
The next morning,I’m still alone in Chloe’s bed, fiddling with her fluffy toy owl and staring at the exposed rafters on her parents’ ceiling. That wood is mahogany. I learnt about fine things from the moment I was born.
Tidy isn’tfine.
Wood is worthless without the grooves. Wine is cheap without the tannins and the grippy texture. We appreciate imperfections in some things but not in others.
Not in diamonds.
Not in people.
Definitely not in Lovit daughters.
Ironic… I think about Xander with his cuts and bruises—
I force him away.
Focusing on now, Chloe is probably naked with belt marks on her arse in Kenno’s bedroom. While her mum isdefinitelyhere, whistling from the other side of her bedroom door, the sound of the vacuum hitting the white skirting boards is a reminder that it’s morning and she deems it time to “rinse and rine.” In her sophisticated cleverness, she rinses herself of the past before drinking freshly squeezed orange juice. It’s too common to just ‘rise and shine.’
She won’t be pleased to find me in here without Chloe, although she’ll attempt to hide that fact.
Chloe’s mum should be used to it by now, but she doesn’t like me around her husband in the mornings. ‘Cause the time of day miraculously changes… something. It’s not a subtle dislike. She has openly asked me to cover up when he’s home, because men like him ‘can’t help themselves.’ Such a proud piece of wisdom to share with modern women.
Thanks, Veronica.
I fist the owl, my mind wandering to last night. To Xander Butcher and—his panting.It shouldn’t mean anything. It doesn’t. It’s a mechanical thing people do when they are aroused, but I’m not simply obsessed by the sound of air leaving him, but with the sense of pain in each breath, and how it seemed to mingle with mine. It was… withheld, too.
I shake my head, feeling stupid, clutching at the owl while clutching at strings. I hurl the plush toy across the room because it’s dumb, and I hate owls. They have weird gangly legs under their feathers and an exorcist head that flips.
And the owl always chased Brer.
Braving the day, the press, and the scene I might encounter when I get home, I slide out of Chloe’s bed, steal a pair of her flats, and decide to climb out the window. Surely Veronica has heard about my dad, and as fascinating as that conversation would be, I think I’ll pass. I’ll need one of my mother’s morning matcha latte with a shot of whiskey before I can even consider circlingthatparticular topic.
I tie my hair back, grab my things, slide out the window, and order a Cabi—same as Uber but cheaper—back to my house.
