Page 27 of This for That (The Edge of Retaliation 1)
Maybe it is.
Maybe it isn’t.
Either way, I thought my nightmare was finally over.
Seems like it’s only just beginning.
11
THEN – CALLIE
“Are you okay, Callie?” my father says, staring at me across the table.
He came to visit. How very noble of him. Outside of when I was in the hospital, and through some of the legal proceedings, my father hasn’t been there for me like he should have. He has made a point of avoiding me. I don’t know if it’s him or his new wife, but I know that it’s like the man I once adored has gone, and in his place is a man who is no longer proud of me.
He’s embarrassed to call me his daughter. His new wife doesn’t want me in her precious daughters’ worlds.
I’m the newest monster in their closet.
“No,” I say, my voice low and shaky. “I have two broken fingers.”
I noticed he looked at my hand when he came in, but he didn’t ask what happened; he just acted like he didn’t see it. Like it didn’t matter.
I don’t even know why he’s here. I don’t care.
“What’s going on?” he asks, staring down at my hand. “Did someone hurt you?”
“What do you think, Dad? It’s a detention center. It’s not a walk in the park.”
He exhales. “Callie, I know you’re having a hard time. I wish there was something I could do . . .”
“You could believe me,” I say. “You could have helped. I could have taken that plea deal if you fought Mom, but you were too scared to face her so you let her call the shots. So now, instead of three years, I’m in here for six. Do you have any idea how that feels? Do you have any idea what it’s like?”
He has the common decency to at least look a little guilty. “I tried to talk to your mother; she didn’t want my help. I’m sorry. She still hates me. There was nothing I could do . . .”
I shake my head, horrified. “There is always something you can do. You chose not to have my back. I didn’t do anything intentionally; nobody believed me. Not even you.”
“Callie . . .”
“Don’t bother, Dad. I have nothing more to say to you. I don’t know why you’re bothering to visit, to be honest.”
“Because you’re my daughter,” he argues. “And I love you.”
I snort, shaking my head. “You don’t love me. If you loved me, you would have fought for me. You know what? Don’t bother coming back. I don’t need you. I don’t need any of you.” I stand and turn to the guard. “I’m ready to leave now.”
He nods and asks someone to escort my father out.
“Callie!” my dad cries as they usher him out the door.
I don’t look at him as he leaves. Why should I? I have nothing further to say. He let me down, more than he’ll ever know.
I’m taken back to my room and once the door is closed, I turn and face Madeline, who is sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at me. “How did it go?” she asks.
“My father couldn’t give a crap about me. I don’t know why he came.”
Madeline nods. “Been there, done that. You’ll learn to have your own back soon. You don’t need anyone else.”
She’s right about that. I don’t.
“Have you seen Trisha since the incident?” she continues.
I shake my head. “No. I got a few days break because of my fingers, but I’m going back tonight to help in the kitchen. I can only hope she isn’t anywhere close by.”
“I wish you had listened to me,” Madeline sighs.
“I didn’t tell them about my fingers.”
“No, but it’s too late. You already got her back up, and she isn’t the sort to just back down. She has a thing against you now.”
I nod, sitting on the bed. “So what do I do? I can’t avoid her forever.”
“You keep your head down, and try to stay out of her way. Until she’s bored with you, she’s not going to go anywhere. You can only hope she finds some new meat to play with soon.”
Great. Just perfect.
“Yeah,” I murmur.
“Chin up. At least you got out of the yardwork.”
At what cost? My fingers—that was the worst pain I’ve ever felt. Officer Corel isn’t back until tomorrow, or possibly even the next day. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do. My hand is in a bad way, and I’m alone.
I’m fucked. Truly fucked.
I just want to go home.
I’d do anything, anything in the world, to take back what happened.
That’s the worst feeling to have—wanting so desperately to go back and change things, and knowing you can’t.
No matter what you do, no matter how many tears you shed, you can’t change it.
You can’t go back.
“PUT THESE PLATES AWAY,” the chef orders me, and I do as she says, taking the stack of clean plates, balancing as best I can with my casted hand, and put them away.
