Page 17 of Enemy of Ours #1

“Okay, that’s enough. First, you scattered around me like a mouse if I got too close to you this morning, like you were guilty of something, and you didn’t even mention my hangover.

This dress, you know, brings me comfort, and you went all out for breakfast that I couldn’t even finish half of the food.

Now you want to go to the art museum…” I trail off, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring at her through my silk ribbon as the pieces start to fall into place.

“Now, don’t be mad, lass,” she starts, but I raise my hand, palm out, to cut her off.

“Absolutely not.” My tone comes out harsh, my breathing speeding up because she deceived me yet again.

“He wants to see you. And you know I can’t say no to Mr. O’Connor,” she whispers, her voice pleading, making me even more mad.

I already know she won’t deny my father anything because he’s her boss. She may always claim that she holds me dear in her heart, but I’m second to her. Like I’ve been with everyone else my whole life.

“I’m sick of being used and can’t say I’m not surprised where your priorities lie. Let’s get this over with,” I say stiffly, stepping cautiously towards the curb with Sofia staying tight by my side. I lift my hand out above my head and whistle with my fingers between my lips.

Inga sighs heavily, deciding not to say anything as a New York City cab stops and the cab driver jumps out to help with the door, probably noticing I’m blind even though my face is covered with the ribbon and my sunglasses.

Sofia does have a harness for walks, and the vest does have a logo for a guide dog for the partially blind.

I slip into the seat with a quiet thank you, Sofia jumps in next to me, and Inga decides to sit up front once she notices I don’t make room for her in the back seat.

“The Metropolitan Museum of Art, please.” She gives the driver the instructions from the front seat.

The rest of the ride is spent in awkward silence, the driver no doubt sensing the tension between Inga and me.

I know she feels guilty and really does care for me, but I’m not number one for her, even though she’s been like a mother to me my whole life since my real mother died in childbirth.

In the end, she’ll always choose her boss over me. It just hurts.

When will someone be on my side?

Within ten minutes, we arrive at the museum, pay the cab driver, and climb the stairs leading to the grand doors that were once my happy place.

I could spend hours here, studying the art, one painting at a time, and always find something different each visit.

Now, it just makes me sad, like a piece of me is missing.

I can no longer sit in front of artwork with my breath catching from the emotions it evokes.

I don’t bother asking Inga where to go; I always meet him in the same place where I used to feel safe.

It’s a public place, with hundreds of people coming and going throughout the day.

My father is the last person I want to be around, but at least it’s here.

He can’t cause me any more pain than he has here.

I’m untouchable, so no one will kidnap me in broad daylight; he would just allow it to happen, as he did in the privacy of our old home.

I can hear school tours, the guide describing artwork in incredible detail, and the gasps from people when their eyes land on a masterpiece. I used to understand that feeling; now it’s just a past emotion I’ll never experience again.

Fuck. I almost hate this place.

As I stroll into the Renaissance gallery, I hear Inga’s heels tapping against the marble flooring ahead of me, while Sofia is pressed against my side with each step.

I count under my breath the formative paintings we pass until I reach the number twelve.

Without a word, I walk slowly towards the painting by El Greco.

His work is exquisite; the colors and lighting always made me feel as if I could step into the painting itself, back to the fifteenth century.

I take a few moments to myself before inhaling deeply and turning around to sit on the bench right in the middle of the room, which happens to be facing one of my favorite paintings.

I don’t say a word, only listening to those viewing the gallery and the quiet clearing of Inga’s throat before she walks away to give us privacy.

“My rose,” Danny O’Connor, the man I used to call my Da, says in a quiet, gruff voice next to me on the bench.

I don’t respond. My throat is going tight at the display of emotions in his voice, but I don’t care if I can hear the regret, guilt, and sadness. I’m so fucking furious with him still for letting my life change almost three years ago.

“Wasn’t sure you were going to show. It’s been a year since I last saw you, my Rose. I miss you very much.” He speaks in a deep brogue that is thick with emotion.

“Well, being tricked every single time to be in your presence has become a habit. You miss me, do you? Funny, I almost died, and you did nothing to stop it. You're lucky even to be seeing me in person instead of my grave,” I reply back sharply, a little too loudly as my anger gets ahold of me, and I take a deep breath to calm down. “What do you want, O’Connor?” My tone is icy, and I can literally feel him flinch from right next to me as he clears his throat.

“I wanted to see you. Do you need or want anything? I know you hate me; I deserve it, but you’re still my daughter, and I’ll always love you.” He puts his hand over mine, squeezing for a second and quickly jerking it away before I can even flinch at the touch.

I can’t speak. He does this every time, and I wonder to myself why I keep showing up. I almost feel guilty hearing the sadness in his voice, but I have to remind myself that he did this. He left me to die. He may be my father, but he lost the privilege of ever knowing the real me.

“I want nothing from you. You made your bed; now lie in it. Stop setting Inga up against me, or I’ll have to fire her.

How will you learn anything about me if your employee is no longer around to feed you information?

” I say sarcastically, standing up before he can say anything else. “Goodbye, O’Connor.”

He grunts as I turn away and walk past the El Greco painting for the last time, knowing that I will never return here again.

“Be safe, my Rose,” he whispers, and I almost don’t catch it, so I pause for a second before continuing to walk out of the gallery with a shake of my head in disappointment. I can hear Inga running to catch up.

I told him this would be my last time seeing him. I want that to be true; I really do deep down. But I’m scared I’ll cave because then I’ll really be alone.

Only the man I've dreamed about nearly every night for the past two and a half years will be left.

Romeo.