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Just last week, Benji had been at the top of the world. This week, he was barely standing on the ground. No one was going to give him an opportunity to turn on them anymore.
The rest of the week was much of the same as the school practically shunned Benji. When Wednesday came and I didn’t need to go to school because of a staff development day, I welcomed the peace from all the tension. He had been absolutely disgusting when he interacted with me, but even I was starting to feel bad for him.
No one should feel like everyone in the world had turned against them.
I poured my anxiety into my work as I did some of the jobs that had come in recently. I at least was able to work from my own house instead of at Seth’s place. I still didn’t sleep here, but having my piano and equipment made working so much easier. And I finally reached a point where I could stay here by myself during the day.
The day a stranger broke into my house to hurt me became the day this place no longer felt safe. Even after Bryan installed security. Even when others were here with me.
I was lucky if I could go downstairs and find food in my fridge at this point.
Sadness welled up inside of me. This was supposed to be home. Truly home. I bought it with that intention. A place to call my own, untainted. Safe. Mine.
But that little dream quickly shattered. My therapist had a lot to say about that, but at least she didn’t suggest I slept here. She did suggest I worked from here, and I’d admit, it did help a little. Only a little bit though.
Hitting the wrong key broke my thoughts, and I stared at the note sheet, focusing more carefully as I went through the cords again.
My phone buzzed and I looked at it.
Dad was calling me.
Instead of reaching for the phone, I curled my fingers and rested my hands on my lap, holding my breath, staring at his name flashing on my phone.
Eventually it stopped. Only then did I release my breath.
But then my phone lit up again. He was calling again.
I frowned. Was something wrong? Why not just leave a voicemail to go with the other voicemails he had left me? Was he hurt?
That thought was enough to spur me into picking up the phone and answering.
“Hello,” I said in a soft voice, tentative, trying to prepare myself for whatever bad news my dad had for me. He had to have bad news if he called twice in a row, right?
“Cadence.” His familiar voice warmed something inside of me, easing some of the tension. For some reason, it felt too reassuring to hear his voice.
“Is something wrong?”
“I wanted to check in with you. I know I had to leave abruptly to deal with work, especially after what had happened. I wanted to see how you were doing?”
“Checking in on me?” I whispered.
“Yes. I’m always worried about you. Wondering how you’re doing.”
There was so much I wanted to say to that. Did he worry about me all the years he was gone from my life?
Too scared to ask, instead I said, “I’m fine. I’m just working.”
“Oh. Right. I’m sorry for disturbing you. I’ll be quick then.”
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, just some commission issues for an exhibit I’m advising on.” He snorted. “Artists are stubborn.” He chuckled as if he’d made a joke. When I didn’t respond, he cleared his throat. “I’ll be back before Thanksgiving. Once this wraps up, I’ll be back. I promise.”
Empty promise. It was an empty promise. My brain practically whispered that to me.
“But before I come back, I wanted to offer you an idea.”
“What?”
