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She wears white sneakers on her feet—probably ready to run.
Her long hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, and the hairstyle makes her look even younger. The girl is already barely legal. Guilt pricks at my conscience, but only for a moment.
I remind myself that I’m owed this. She is my retribution. My revenge.
I go to her small closet, surprised to find every item carefully stored in small plastic bins labeled with her perfect handwriting. I grab an empty duffle bag from a hook in the back of the closet and toss it onto her bed. “Pack your things. You’re going home with me.”
Her eyes travel to the water stain over her head. “This is my home.”
I shake my head. “Not anymore.”
“Home is where your family is,” she argues. Jutting out a stubborn chin, she says, “Wherever you take me, I won’t call it home.”
“Stop talking and pack,” I demand. “Now.”
My words cause her to visibly tremble.
I step away from the closet, moving to the window to give her space to pack her things. She retrieves the bag, turning her back to me as she pulls open the small dresser beside her bed. From the top of the dresser, she takes out neat stacks of underclothes, the teen wardrobe staple of hooded sweatshirts, and a soft cloth toiletry bag, putting it all in the bag.
She moves to the closet with the grace of a dancer. Eying the bins, she chooses a few items, crosses the room, puts them in the bag, and zips the top closed. She stands there, taking in the room for a moment. Then she stares down at the duffle and heaves a sigh.
Finally, she looks at me. “I’m ready.”
“Where’s your coat?” I ask. “It’s late November.”
She shrugs. “I never wear a coat.”
“Get one,” I say.
She eyes me. “You’re not wearing one.”
Lord, give me patience. Is this what fatherhood feels like? I raise one brow to the high heavens.
Returning to the closet, she grabs a dark green bomber-style jacket off the back of the closet door. She shrugs her arms into the sleeves and shoves her hands into her pockets.
Standing in the center of the room, she stares at me. “Happy?”
“Never,” I say. “But at least you’ll be warm.” We’re running out of time. Her family will be returning soon. “Let’s get going.”
She doesn’t move. Instead, she stays firmly planted where she stands, interrogating me. “What about school? I still have asemester left ‘till I graduate. And my job. I’m on the afternoon shift the rest of the week. They’ll be expecting me.”
“You’re already set up to finish school online.”
“That might not be so bad,” she murmurs. “What about work?”
“My wife will only work if she wants, and it won’t be at a fast-food chain. I’ll take care of it.”
She stares at the tops of her sneakers for a moment. Finally, she says, “You’ve made so many demands.” She meets my eyes, her voice steadier now. “I have one for you.”
Holding her gaze, I lower my tone. “You don’t get to make demands.”
CHAPTER 5
Haze
Are all teenagers this problematic?Does she not understand hierarchy?
She dares even to say the word “demand” to me…