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“H-hi,” I say, “hey, it’s Olivia, can I speak to—” but she’s already running, my ear filled with static as she is hurrying to bring the phone to my dad.
And then, his voice is here.
My dad’s voice fills my ear.
“Livy?” he says. “Baby? Are you alive, baby?”
He’s crying, and my dad never cries, unless we are watching Lion King or another one of our favorite movies (all of our favorite movies are crying movies somehow), but it’s still his voice. My dad’s voice. And I haven’t heard it for a while, and I haven’t wanted to hear it for a while, and now I don’t care about any of the things that happened, they don’t even exist, they are forgiven, forgotten, insignificant, and all I want is his arms around me and his voice in my ear.
All I want is my dad.
“Don’t cry,” dad says, because I’m not breathing, and he knows that when I’m crying too hard, I can’t breathe. “Or cry if you want, baby, I’m here. You’ll be ok, Livy, you’ll be ok.”
We waste precious moments as he comforts me like he used to do when I was eight and had one of my famous fevers (they were super high and lasted for up to ten days at a time—I used to have them three or four times a year until I turned seventeen, fun times).
Marco doesn’t rush me. He keeps the phone steady by my ear, and then, when he sees that I can’ draw breath for sobbing, he places a tentative hand on my shoulder. I lean into it slightly and he, as if it was the small sign he was waiting for, pulls me to him with such force, the phone is knocked out of his hand. He holds me to his chest so tightly I can’t breathe, I can’t cry, I can’t do anything but feel his arms like steel around me.
My panic subsides, and his hold relaxes a tiny bit. He picks up his phone.
“Livy,” dad says in my ear, “I am so sorry. You must think that I’m a horrible human being.”
“I don’t,” I reply, my voice thick with tears. “I love you, dad. I’m sorry I was mad.”
“You should be mad. I’m glad you were mad, baby,” dad says. “I made so many mistakes—” he can’t continue. He’s crying again.
“We’ll fix them together,” I say. I’m lying. I know I’m not getting out of this barn alive. “It will be ok, dad.”
“There is backup coming for you, Livy,” dad says. “Just hang tight, and they’ll be there any minute now. You’ll be safe, I vow it.”
I don’t tell him that they’re here already. I don’t tell him that they are dead. He’s there and I’m here and there is an entire ocean between us.
“Ok,” I tell him. “I’m ok, dad, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you alone, baby?” he asks.
“No,” I reply. “I’m with my bodyguard.” Marco shivers next to me as I say the word. “I’m with my bodyguard, Marco.”
“That’s good,” dad says, “I’m glad. Marco is a good guy, one of the best I’ve ever seen.” I shudder. Dad always interviews my bodyguards himself, he insists on vetting them personally, after they have been hired and approved by the palace team. Which means that he met Marco, and he… He thought he was a good guy. And my dad is never wrong about people. Never. “Tell Marco that I owe him a debt bigger than life. Give him my heartfelt thanks.” Marco can hear everything, of course; he shakes his head at this, his lips forming an ugly smile. “Liv, honey…” dad’s voice breaks. “I am asking for your forgiveness.”
Oh. So I’m not a good enough liar. Dad knows that this is the end, too.
“You’re forgiven,” I say quickly. Marco’s shirt is drenched with tears as my head lays on his chest. “You’re forgiven, dad. I forgave you the moment I heard about it. I just… I didn’t know how to deal with it.”
“I know,” dad says. And then he says: “It’s Hector.”
“What?” I freeze.
I grab the phone from Marco’s hand, and he scoots away to give me some privacy. I don’t know if he heard that last part, because he had buried his head in his hands when dad said ‘my heartfelt thanks’.
“He is your brother,” dad says. “Hector, your guard. He is my son. I’m so sorry, Olivia.”
“What?”
I am all intelligent questions today. But really, what else is there to say, except, what?
What on earth?
Hector? My friend, my…? My Hector?
