Page 14 of One Wrong Step
The first notes of Chopin’sPiano Sonata No 2: The Funeral Marchblare from my room. Father. Acid churns in my stomach as I leave the bathroom, making sure to close the door, and race to grab my phone.
I swallow the bile clawing its way up my throat. Throwing up is a luxury I do not have. Talking to my father will be much worse if I don’t answer now.
“Hello, Father.”
“Vivian. I don’t have time for your theatrics today. I have an important investor meeting. What do you need?”
I want to go to California and get a job doing makeup for the stars. Not exactly true, but that’s what my father will reduce it to.
The words I’d planned to say get stuck in my throat. I feel lightheaded and realize I’ve been holding my breath. Breathe. One. Two. Three.
“Vivian!”
The words disappear completely. I do the only thing I can do. The thing that has helped me survive for the last twenty-two years. I lie.
“I’m applying to UCLA, and I want to tour the campus. I—” Need money. I try to say the words. I visualize them leaving my mouth. But nothing.
“While I’m ecstatic that you finally want to apply yourself instead of working in a beauty salon…” He drops the last two words as if they’re something foul. “I’m not enabling you.” Like your mother. Those are the words he doesn’t have to say. I became adept at reading between the lines long ago. It was a matter of survival. “It’s important that you realize?—”
I can’t listen to him rant about my inadequacies when my dreams are on fire, and if they burn to ash, what do I have? Nothing. “It’s my money.”
Silence. It’s worse than the expected yelling. The anticipation of the storm to come—I stab at the mute button. The tears make everything more difficult as I drag in breaths so thin they slice my chest open. I can’t let him hear me fall apart. I manage to swallow back the contents of my stomach, but barely.
But my gasps for air aren’t enough to drown out my father’s disapproving voice. “Your trust fund was put in place for your future. Not so you can throw money away on a joyride to California.”
Just hang up, Vivian.But I don’t. Can’t.
“You know the conditions of your trust fund, Vivian,” my father continues, not needing or wanting input from me. “Prove you’re a responsible adult, and I will release the money. Until then, do not bother me. Are we clear?”
I swallow the emotion clogging my throat. “Yes, sir.”
He ends the call, and I’m left with more silence.
I rush to the bathroom—it’s thankfully empty—and this time, I do throw up. As I wash my face and brush my teeth, the reflection in the mirror taunts me. My skin looks paler than normal. My eyes, still wide with the horror of my actions, are red-rimmed with dark circles from lack of sleep. Gripping the sides of the cold sink, I fight the urge to smash the mirror and my face into tiny pieces. I despise the way I look. It has nothing to do with vanity and not looking my best, no matter what Jonah thinks.
The face staring back at me is a reflection of my weakness. My failure. Not because my father refused. But because I asked for help in the first place.
