"We need to talk."
The morning chill of a steadily approaching autumn had me bundled into the kitchen chair nearest to the heating vent, reading for the last few minutes before I needed to catch the bus to my internship. Cautiously, because being told by anyone that you needed to talk was typically a bad sign, I set down my book and waited for my father to continue, frowning when he failed to do so. Instead, he sat across from me and made a show of examining his hands. His prolonged silence indicated they were far more interesting than I gave them credit for.
"Yes?" I prompted. I waited for him to muster up a response. Anything, really. Seeming restless, he stood up again and circled behind his chair, facing away. "Did you want to talk or not?" I sighed, exasperated. "Because if you don't, then you can listen for awhile while I yell at you about keeping secrets, now that Alexia isn't nearby to hear."
"I sent them away."
"Them?" I echoed, a bid for elaboration.
He turned his head, not quite looking at me, but keeping me in his frame of sight. "Adrian and Alexia. I asked him to take her out for a few hours so we could have this conversation."
Trying my best not to sound terribly snide, I asked, "What conversation, exactly? You haven't even said what you mean to talk about."
"No, I haven't."
Cue me beginning to tear my hair out. Frankly, I was tired of fishing for answers, of trying to urge him to speak when he initiated this little talk, so I sat back and crossed my arms tightly over my chest, a not-so-subtle hint for him to get on with it. That wasn't the only reason I didn't press him further, however. It was the way his eyes never stopped roving, how is pointer and middle fingers ceaselessly tapped a discordant rhythm on his upper thigh, the buzz of his thoughts practically permeating the air.
He was nervous, and to talk with me, of all people. This was the same man who changed my diapers and subjected us both to the mortifying ordeal of dealing with period and puberty talks, because I had no close older female women in my life that lived within a hundred mile radius to have those hard discussions on his behalf. We were far past the point of pushing through awkward conversations.
No, better to let him order his thoughts first. Too much pressure and I feared he'd shut down completely; then I wouldn't get any answers at all.
"Do you remember the day of the crash?" he finally asked.
Every lax part of myself awoke and went on full alert. I didn't need to ask which crash, because there could be only one. The crash. The one that changed everything.
We rarely spoke of it, of Charlie and of Mom, partially for Adrian and Alexia's sake, to not make things uncomfortable for our blended family, and partially for our own sake. I didn't keep silent for myself. I wanted to ask questions and learn more about the woman who birthed me and the boy who once shared the whole of my DNA. What memories I retained of them never sated my unquenchable thirst to know them in ways I'd either forgotten or never seen in the first place, but my father scarcely brought them up, and, as a result, neither did I. Why cause further pain when he was obviously still healing internally from what happened? In the end, I valued his peace of mind over my petty curiosity.
For him to not only bring them up now, but also bring up that one pivotal moment in our lives, he must have felt he had no other recourse, and that worried me.
I wet my lips. "Does this have something to do with why you don't like the Guild? Why you don't want me there?"
"In a way, yes." He hesitated, and I wondered if that was the whole truth. "And also no. I guess I really ought to start with my father instead."
YOU ARE READING
Super•Villainous
Fantasy"I've been looking for you." There was an unexpected rasp to his voice, a hint of desperation. He stretched out one hand, as if to brush it across my cheek, or perhaps wrap it around my throat. Oddly enough, I didn't know which option frightened me...
