Page 20 of Undone

“It’s going to be good, I think. I already feel better at Waterfell.” A flash of golden eyes blinds me momentarily, but I shake my head to clear the dreamy vision. My spoon dances through the creamy wild rice soup, dodging the mushrooms as best I can. “Dad?”

He raises his eyes to mine, tipping his chin for me to continue.

“Did you . . . did you know that he was here?” My voice is too quiet, I think, but he doesn’t ask me to speak up.

He doesn’t ask who, either, because he knows. He touches his napkin to his lips again before resting it on the side of the table. I drop my spoon a little too loudly this time.

“Did he speak to you?” he asks, a disapproving tilt to his brow. “I wasn’t aware you saw him.”

I clear my throat, sitting more upright as I decide how much to say. It’s not that I don’t trust my dad—I do. But I also know that Toren didn’t. That he and my father have always had harsh opinions of each other, rarely getting along off the ice.

It seemed deeper than even that. But every time I’d pushed, Toren had pushed back, never letting me peek behind the veil of his hockey-themed relationship with my father.

“I . . . I only saw him passing by. I don’t think he is happy that I’m here.” My stomach sinks, because of course he wasn’t happy to see me. Toren never wanted to see me again; he signed a legal document proclaiming that, and now I’m here. In his space.

“Am I allowed to be here?”

“You can be wherever you want, Lillian.”

I nod. I don’t say that it doesn’t make sense. That my father was very clear in explaining to me what a restraining order was and now, suddenly, I’m allowed to be near Toren again? Why?

I want to ask Toren. I wanted to ask him so many times over the last several years why he filed the order, but I didn’t want to get either of us into any more trouble.

Instead, I shove it all back down.

My stomach hurts. I push the half-eaten bowl away from me slowly, careful not to spill the liquid.

“Maybe I shouldn’t go to the away games,” I mumble, even as the alternative haunts me.

“Speak up, Lillian,” my dad says, a little gruffly. “You are allowed to be wherever you want. Stop acting like a child.”

He lets out another gruff noise and sloshes his wine as he tilts the cup back, almost spilling it as he finishes off his glass.

“I thought you might have moved on from this by now,” he continues. “You’re an adult.”

I bite my lip. “Yes,” I say, but I’m not sure it’s the correct response.

“I’d prefer you keep your distance from him anyway.” He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face and slumping against his cushioned dining chair. “Toren Kane has become even more of a psychotic menace since the last time you saw him.”

Asking me to keep my distance from Toren when he’s this close is akin to asking an alcoholic to keep away from the whiskey after dropping them in a liquor store. But I nod anyway.

Staying on track is important. I tried to do this on my own and failed. My dad, Carson, graduation—and then, I’ll be free. At least, something close to it. Free to paint, to make more art, to find something that makes everything better.

“You had to know he was playing here,” I start, heart thumping faster. “Why did you take this job?”

Why bring me here? is the question I want to ask. If I shouldn’t be around him and he doesn’t want me here, why bring me this close?

“I’ve already answered this, Lillian. Because I respect Coach Harris and he’s the one who asked for me, specifically.” His eyes scan over me once more. His voice drops, the softer tone he uses scarcely. “And because Toren was once the best defensive player I’d ever coached. One of my best legacies. You knew that. And you still managed to wrangle yourself into the middle of it.”

A rock lodged in my throat as I tilt my chin down away from his searing gaze.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are, Lillian.” He clears his throat. “You are my daughter. And I am going to do what’s best for you. But I put my entire life on pause for the last year and a half trying to help you and nothing has changed. So, we’re going to do this my way now. Do you understand?”

Every word is like a kick to my stomach.

For a moment, an image flashed in my head, murky and dim, like a photo still being developed. A darkened room. A painting on the wall, of my father—younger but just as severe, and my mother, seated with me in her lap. Matching auburn hair. And the man with my blue eyes in a chair across from me, nothing but anger across his face.