Bliss

five

When I wake up, I expect to see the brown blades of the ceiling fan. But instead of tracing the discoloured slates of wood, committing the texture differences to memory, I meet Dad's steely gaze. It takes less than a minute, less than a second even, to know that I've royally fucked up.

But before I can ask what I've done, or rather what I haven't, which is really the same question, not that—

Sorry, anyway, before I can speak, he jerks his head towards the door and disappears into the hallway. My lips pucker, questions stinging the tip of my tongue until he tells me to meet him in the kitchen. Sighing, I roll out of bed and do as I'm told.

An old jumper of Spencer's lies in a ball beside the door. I pick it up, shrug it on, resist the urge to sniff the faded blue cotton or pick at the peeling logo and slip out of my room.

Everyone else is lounging by the pool. Henry catches my eye through the closed French doors. His lips curl into the most taunting grin imaginable just as Dad asks me to hurry up. I flip Henry off, he sticks out his tongue, and Dad calls for me again. This time I run. After all, not following orders will only get me into more trouble. Not that I know the trouble I'm already in.

Dad's sitting at the island. In one hand, he caresses a steaming mug of coffee while the other presses against the granite countertop. His veins strain against his skin, creating sharp green ridges across the otherwise smooth plane. I take a seat across from him, picking up the other cup of coffee, and take a sip. The bitter liquid dances across my tongue; the strong notes are interspaced with the calming aftertaste of sweet, frothy coconut milk. Dad's the only one who knows how to make a good coffee. Mostly because he's the only one who likes it so rich you choke, but also because everyone else prefers tea. And as much as I like a mug of PG Tips, nothing can beat a scolding cuppa joe.

"So?" I sigh once the silence becomes unbearable. The two of us are practically staring one another out. He's grimacing; I'm frowning; it's exhausting. "What have I done this time?" I ask.

"I think you know what you've done, or at least I should hope you do," he says, turning his mug in his hands. I bite my lip and shrug. Whatever I've done, I certainly don't know about it. "Oh, come on," he laughs. It's as bitter as my coffee. No, worse. "Do you really expect me to believe you had nothing to do with Isaac's outburst last night?"

"Why are you grilling me about his actions?" I mutter. "Surely I'm not responsible. He chose to call me...well, you know. I in no way forced or encouraged him."

"Ha." Dad's laugh is dry, humourless. In fact, it's more of a statement than a laugh. A complete dismissal of my attempt at survival.

"What do you mean, ha?" I ask.

"You know exactly what I mean," he says. "Now tell me what you did."

I could come clean. I'm not the one who swore after all; my punishment won't be as bad as his. In fact, when you think about it, I'm pretty much blameless.

But why throw myself under the bus unnecessarily? Like, who does that? Or better yet, who does Dad think I am? He, of all people, should know better.

No, I'm not selling myself out. It's ridiculous Dad thinks I would. If I'm going to do anything, it's play the long game. That's it, the long game. I won't say anything unless Isaac already has. It's the best way, the only way, to save myself from maximum trouble.

"I'm sorry, Dad," I say, taking a slow sip of my coffee. "But I have no idea what you're talking about."

"How interesting," he hums.

I shrug again. Surely I've done enough to ward off further interrogation.

"Well, since you won't own up to anything—"