Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 91560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” I tell him in a soft voice. This is the kind of restaurant where they serve fancy, pretentious food. The sort of place where the chefs win awards and try to innovate. I would be happy with a burger and fries.
“A girl only turns eighteen once.” Our server motions for us to follow her, and we fall in step behind her, passing tables full of people. Some of them recognize Dad and nod their acknowledgment while he does the same in return. I might as well not be here.
When we reach an empty table and the server steps back to give us room to sit, I pause at the sight of three place settings waiting for us. Dad clears his throat and shoots the girl a look. “There are only two of us dining tonight.”
She murmurs an apology and clears the third setting away while Dad scowls. I wonder why, but I have bigger things on my mind.
As much as I can’t stand this charade, this dinner has its uses, too. There’s something I need to talk to him about, and doing it here in such a fancy restaurant where there are so many witnesses might be the safest way to approach the topic. He’s not going to be happy either way. I have to try to protect myself.
“Iced tea, please,” I murmur when the server asks what I would like to drink. Dad orders scotch on the rocks. Once we’re alone with our menus, I turn to him, since I might as well get it over with quickly. Otherwise, there’s no way I’ll be able to eat a bite of food with my nerves as raw as they are when I imagine how he could blow up.
“So, Dad.” I try to smile happily, but it’s not really possible feeling the way I do right now. “I’ve been thinking.”
“I’ll alert the press.” Somehow, he manages to sound pleasant, like he’s teasing me. We both know the truth. He means it.
“And now that I’m eighteen,” I continue, “I think it’s time for me to move out. Just to the dorms.”
Record scratch. His eyelids flutter, his fake smile slipping. “Excuse me?”
Okay. Not a terrible first reaction. “Yeah, into the dorms. Everybody else lives there. They get to stick around on campus and hang out, and you know, have social lives. I have to drive straight home after class. I feel like an outsider.”
It all trips so smoothly out of my mouth, I could almost believe I actually mean every word. Not that I’m lying, exactly—it would be nice to roll out of bed and walk to class the way so many people get to do.
But it’s not like I would make any friends. I don’t need to. I just need to get away from him. I can’t stand the idea of spending another day walking through the front door and looking at the foot of the stairs to where my mother died. Every day, I see her just as fresh and clear as I did when it happened. There’s never any escape—not that I deserve it, but still. It would be nice to not have it thrown in my face.
And then there’s the idea of not having to see him anymore, which is even more attractive.
“You think I would let you do that?” His voice is quiet, but tension simmers under the surface, bubbling a little, making me wonder how long it will be until he reaches a boil. “You think I would let you live there? Away from me, where I won’t know whether you’re safe? Do you know what happens to college girls with no one to look after them, Maya?”
What would he think if he knew what has happened to me so far? “Dad, be serious, please. I just want a little freedom. That’s all I’m looking for. To start a life on my own.”
“On your own?” He snorts softly, showing me exactly how much respect he has for my wishes. Not that it’s a surprise. “Interesting, hearing you describe it that way. You wouldn’t be able to do it on your own. Have you forgotten I am the person who pays the bills? I subsidize your entire lifestyle. I’ll be the one paying for your new tires. I am the one who pays your tuition. I keep you fed and clothed.”
“I know that,” I whisper, looking down at the menu and scanning its contents when the server returns to ask if we’ve had a chance to make a decision. Feeling the way I do, something tells me everything will taste the same, anyway. What difference does it make? I order a pasta dish that looks at least reasonably edible, without too much fussiness, while he orders a steak that was supposedly aged for years or something.