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My heart thumps painfully against my ribs. Why the hell would the door be unlocked?

The porch light blasts on, retina-searing and blue hued,and black spots dance in front of my eyes before the door is wrenched open.

My father lets out a breath. “Gillian.”

The passing years imposed more wrinkles, and a bald spot took up residence where I remember there being hair.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I blurt out.

His furry brows knit together as I gawk. “Neither are you.” But he thrusts the door open and holds it, stepping aside to give me space to go inside. “Sometimes I need to get the hell away from myself,” he calls after me.

I haven’t seen the man in years. He popped in and out of our lives before the divorce and once it finalized, the ax came down and severed whatever familial responsibilities Bill Kerrigan might have felt. He devoted his life to the road and sent cards for Christmas, but never remembered our individual birthdays.

The trailer was in his name, I guess, otherwise he wouldn’t be around.

When I glance back, he’s running a hand through the slender strands of hair clinging desperately to the top of his head.

“I’m surprised you remembered the address,” I mutter.

He grunts out something adjacent to a laugh. “Just couldn’t remember where the key was hidden.”

“Seems your hearing is still as good as ever.”

My fingers clench around the strap of my shoulder bag, my stomach doing a free dive right into my toes. The air tenses in the room but Bill doesn’t seem to give a shit.

He pushes past me, our shoulders brushing in the tight space, and he drops his body into the recliner against the opposite wall. The television belches out some kind of joke that makes the stage audience hoot in laughter. His eyes are glued back to the screen.

I hadn’t seen the tv light from outside. Curtains hid the muted glow of the television.

“There are other places for you to go if you want to get away from yourself,” I tell him.

I should just leave. The trailer is there as a reminder of what we all fought to leave behind. Tonight, it was going to be my safe space and landing pad.

I hadn’t counted on it being infiltrated by the man who gave me daddy issues.

Fuck, not just daddy issues. I’ve got mommy issues too.

“Were you expecting someone else?” Bill asks with a hastily covered belch. “Your mom doesn’t come anymore.”

My lips round, exhaling slowly like air leaking from a balloon. “You have no idea what she does or doesn’t do.”And neither do I.

Her flimsy attempts to make amends with the kids she abandoned always fell flat. Being the untrustworthy bitch I am, I decided not answering her texts was the best course of action and she hasn’t been able to forgive me for my bad behavior.

“If you want to can the attitude, Gilli Girl, there’s beer in the fridge. You’re welcome to one.”

I drop my bag. “It’s three in the morning.”And please don’t call me that.

It’s like some quaint version of Sonny Boy.

Bill gave me the nickname “Gilli” in the first place. Gave me the ridiculous full name Gillian Kerrigan that left me with no choice but to adopt the nickname. The rhymes on the playground were obnoxious. And hurtful.

Despite the chill, the walls of the trailer hold in heat, and I’m sweating again. Rather than join Bill in his drinking, I head to the loveseat crammed beside the lounge chair and fall into the hole in the center of the cushion.

This was always Lorie’s seat, my younger sister. Suzanne took the chair, and I perched on the edge, too restless to stop moving for long.

For half a heartbeat, I consider telling Bill the truth about why I’m here.

He’ll be no help.