Before You Go

Chapter One

Chapter One

Can you come to dinner?

I stared at the five short words my father had shot to me over text, gnawing on my lip as I read them over for the umpteenth time. The short and honest answer was yes, but I had no real intention of going. Maybe it had become my father's ritual to ring in the New Year with the people he cared about, but I found I much preferred solitude on a night like this, content with witnessing the celebrations from afar.

Besides, it was cold. And wet. So the answer was no. No, I could not attend the absurdly late "dinner". I began typing this out verbatim, but before I could send it, another message from my father appeared below the first. Sent a car, it read. Be ready in 15.

I scoffed, feeling like a fool. His questions were rarely anything less than a demand; I wasn't sure why I assumed this one would be up for debate. More than anything, I hated that I still was at his beck and call, unable to say no, and unable to stay away. Even at twenty-five, I couldn't seem to draw the line with him. Maybe that could be my New Year's resolution: set boundaries with Dad. And stick to them! Yeah, right.

Well, at least I had an excuse to get drunk now. When I loaded myself into the awaiting car fifteen minutes later, I had two bottles of soju tucked under my arm, and cracked the first one open as soon as we pulled out onto the street, taking a long, wincing drink.

The lively city lights of Vivienne thinned as the car sped along, eventually becoming only a winking cluster of gold against the rainy night. I took another swig of alcohol; it was a forty-five minute drive to the house. The least I could do was arrive already wasted. To spare my father from needing me to catch up with all the festivities, of course.

Unfortunately, I only made it about halfway through the first bottle by the time we pulled onto the property. The intense party days of my early twenties had destroyed the raw courage I had to commit to a chug, and after the soju had warmed, I could hardly stomach it. Still, I started to feel heat blooming through my chest, and when I emerged from the car, my first steps felt dizzying. Makes your head feel like it's in a bubble, doesn't it? My brother Joshua had asked me this the first time he'd snuck me a drink.

I shoved this thought down. Adjusted the strap of my dress—some old pearly thing from last year's festivities. Then, with a deep breath, I punched in the door code and stepped inside. Immediately, I was met with the same loud bursts of laughter I'd heard down on the street earlier tonight. Drunk people. Drunk happy people. My eyes skipped over the large family photo hung on the wall of the foyer, but it was too late—I could already feel my heart rising to my throat, feel the pinch behind my eyes. It was undeniable. I should not have come here.

"Happy New Year, June."

My father emerged from the chaos of the den, a glass of champagne in either hand, ready. I wondered how long he'd been standing there, probably peering through the window, watching from the flash of approaching headlights. The evidence was in the drink. "It's warm," I said, taking a sip.

Dad being Dad breezed over this, leaning in to press a kiss to my cheek. "I'm so glad you decided to come."

"I mean, I didn't have much choice, did I? You sent a car."

His hand lifted in a dismissive wave. "Come. There's many people who wish to see you."

Straight to business, then. I followed him into the fray all the same, settling into a forced smile as he paraded me around the guests like a spectacle. And while I hated the people—hated the way they stared, that timeless sting of pity still sharp in their gaze—part of me still relished the way my father would turn to me, beaming for once. "June," he said every time, swelling with pride. "Here is June."