Fight Like a Girl | ✔️

20)

"Look, kid," he walks in and sits on the end of the bed. "A friend at work, Allen, gave me the details for the podcast host, he told me he was good with teenagers. I sent an email asking for some advice, the host asked me to guest appear on the episode to discuss the situation and I said, sure, as long as we could be anonymous. It wasn't like I went out looking to get some airtime with your story, but I understand if it looked like that."

"It's fine," I say. "I'm not mad."

"You swear?"

I look up at his desperately sincere face and nod. "Swear."

"How come you were following me?"

My cheeks warm. "Because, I thought you were ditching me for a woman."

"Would that be an issue?"

Admitting that I don't want him leaving me alone for the sake of hooking up with a date is embarrassing, no part of me wants to admit I'm lonely enough to be jealous of his attention being elsewhere. So, I don't tell him that.

"I just think it's a bit unfair. Mom's never dated."

His brows knit in confusion.

"She doesn't trust men," I elaborate, my tone purposeful and accusing. "Because of what you did, she doesn't trust men and I just think it's a bit unfair that you get to go out and live the good life, date whoever and love whoever and mom is left with crippling trust issues, courtesy of you."

He looks like a child who's just learned there's no such thing as Santa Claus. Stunned, hurt, in disbelief. "I've never—" he almost chokes on his words— "I've never thought of it like that."

"No shit, that would be admitting you did something wrong."

"I have admitted that. I know that."

"Have you admitted it to the right person though?" I ask, staring at him while he avoids looking at me. "It's all good and well to say all of that and think it, but if mom doesn't know it, it's useless."

He sits, wordless. Verbally at least. It's clear that a thousand thoughts are running through his mind as he stares into the distance, hurt in his face.

"I'm going to have a shower," I fling the comforter back, exposing my legs in cotton shorts. The cuts heal more every day but the scars will never leave, some of the oldest ones are raised, white bumps and while they aren't red and aggressive, I'll never get rid of them. Sort of like the assault. It's not fresh, but at this point, I can't imagine the pain ever leaving.

Since dad took the razor, I haven't cut again. Sometimes the temptation is there, when I'm having a bad day, or the nightmares are strong. Not having the option within arm's reach helps and I want to stop enough that I haven't gone in search of a new razor to hide.

After my shower, I go upstairs in a pair of sweatpants and a long sleeve. There are several pamphlets spread on the kitchen countertop and dad drizzles premix pancake batter into a hot pan. Gag. Mom makes it from scratch, there's no other way to eat it.

"What are these?" I ask, reading the front of the pamphlets. Therapists. "Dad—"

"I'm just providing some options," he says. "You don't have to go, but I thought it'd help to have some resources. Talking about what happened with someone who knows how to respond, might help."

I stare at the pamphlets.

"I'll cover the cost," he says. "I could come too, or not. I can wait in the car. Just. . . whatever works. You don't even have to go. I just wanted to make it accessible. So the option is there. But no pressure. At all. I promise."