Page 64

A LITTLE BIT RIGHT

Sabrina

Two questions prick at me as I stand in the front entrance.

Why is he here and how does he know where I live? Not…how are you? Not…how is Mom?

But as soon as that last thought lands, worry crawls up my throat, turning into dread. That has to be it. “Is Mom okay?” I ask, some ancient, primal concern jostling to the front of the line.

I don’t want her to be sick. I don’t want her to be gone. Why else would he be here? Or could it be…for me?

He strides up the steps, pressing his hands down, as if to say don’t make a scene. “She’s fine, Sabrina. Of course she’s fine,” he says, dismissing me. “Don’t raise your voice.”

I jerk my head back, then hold my arms out wide. “I didn’t! That was a normal tone.”

“She’s fine,” he says again, crisply. “How are you?”

Wait. My head spins. Did he actually ask that? Does he…care how I am? For a second, I relax my shoulders. Maybe th is is a détente. Maybe he came to say he’s sorry. A kernel of hope lodges in my heart. “I’m fine.”

“Good. I’m glad,” he says, then stops a few steps down and looks around, as if he’s assessing the steps and the front porch with its flowerpots, filled with native plants. “This is a nice place,” he observes.

“Thanks,” I say, but if this is an olive branch, call me wary. There’s something in his tone, like he’s laying a trap.

I cross my arms. “How did you know where my home is?”

His lip curls. “You want to know how I figured out where you live? It’s not your house .”

Why is my father so mean? “How is that relevant?”

But what I really want to say is— why are you so awful ? Was his father like this to him? Is that where he learned this behavior? Well, if that’s the case, it stops with me. I will never be like him. I will never treat people the way he does.

“Because it’s not accurate,” he says. “And I would think as an accounting major, you’d care about accuracy. But you’ve proven accuracy isn’t important to you.”

I grit my teeth, anger lashing at me, hurt storming my chest. “Dad,” I begin, but fuck him. He doesn’t deserve to be called a father. “David, how did you figure out where I live?” I ask again.

“Chad gave me the address,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Chad?” That doesn’t compute.

“Yes, Chad, the man you were supposed to marry but instead threw a childish fit about in front of two hundred and fifty people.”

Oh. So we’re still mad about that. Got it. “You’re going there again?”

“Sabrina, I’ll be going there for a while,” he bites out, as I try to figure out how Chad has the address but then it hits me—Elphaba. I wanted my sewing machine so I could make a costume for Luna, and he needed to ship it to me. And naturally, when my dad needed to find me, he asked his minion.

Trying to hold my own once again, I speak as evenly as I can to this man. “Well, you found me. What do you want?”

“I’ve been texting you and asking you. Is it really that hard to send me the report? We need it for our year-end accounting. I’d have thought you’d know that.”

That treacherous ball of hurt rolls faster down my veins, presses harder against my insides.

Of course he came here for business. Of course that’s all he cares about.

“I sent it to you,” I say, and I can’t believe I ever thought he’d show up just…

for me . “Like I told you when you first asked for it.”

“Well, the file is corrupt. Is it so much trouble to send it again? Especially since I came all the way down here.”

Like that was hard. He has meetings in the city all the time. “You could have told me that over text,” I say, then whip my phone from my back pocket.

“You don’t answer my texts.”

“I wonder why.” I stab my finger against the email search bar, find it in fifteen seconds, and resend. “There. Check your email.”

He glares at me. Then, like it pains him to the soul, opens his email and clicks on the file. With an aggrieved sigh, he says, “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

My jaw ticks. “Nope. And now you have it,” I say, my eyes swinging pointedly to the curb. Time to go.

But he doesn’t leave. Instead, he stares at Tyler’s house curiously.

Studying it. It’s a nice home of course, by any standards.

It’s a modern Scandinavian style, slate and beige, with big windows and a sleek design, and it’s located in one of the fanciest sections of the city. “So, looks like you leveled up.”

What did he just say? I tilt my head. “Excuse me?”

“Traded up,” he says, like I didn’t understand his meaning when it was crystal clear.

He waves a hand toward the home. “ I saw you kiss that man just now. You live with him. Is this why you fabricated that whole nonsensical story about a cat and a voicemail? Because you were really sleeping with someone else?”

Something in me snaps. Like a branch breaking off a tree in a windstorm. One loud crack and it’s crashed on the ground. I point to his car on the street. “Go away. Now. Just get off my property.”

He laughs. “Oh, Sabrina. You’re still making things up.

It’s not yours. It belongs to the rich hockey player you’re”—he stops to sketch air quotes—“ working for .” He shakes his head, like he’s tsking me.

“I should have reached out to you to get VIP tickets for the game I’m taking clients to next weekend instead of buying them for face value.

You really tried to play us all for fools.

But when Chad gave me the address, I did some searching, saw who rented this home, and then learned Tyler Falcon also just so happened to be in Cozy Valley for a charity golf tournament the same weekend as your wedding.

Only ten minutes away from the venue. Cozy Valley, where you like to use the rink.

Tyler, who you met more than a year ago when you skated for the Sea Dogs.

You two looked awfully cozy in that photo you posted that night while you were engaged.

It’s all incredibly convenient, isn’t it? ”

I’m reeling, a boxer slammed in all my soft spots, stumbling, slumping against the ropes as he hits me every place it hurts.

“That’s not what happened,” I choke out.

“Sure. Of course it’s not. You got close with him quickly, didn’t you? Moving in with him. Doing face masks with his kids,” my father continues, leveling his lowest blow yet, and I didn’t think he could hit lower.

But when the person who was supposed to love you unconditionally slams you into the wall, your knees give out. I grab the post next to the railing, my breath coming fast and hard, my heart exploding.

My father never loved me.

I’ve never been good enough for him. “Go away,” I seethe, but it fast becomes a sob, wrenched up from the depths of my trying-too-hard-for-him soul.

I spin around, grab the door handle, and yank it open in a tear-streaked haze, then slam it shut as big, gasping breaths wrack me.

I feel like I can’t get any air.

Like I’ve been crushed as I cry and crumple to the ground.

He’s an awful, cruel man.

But as I drop my face into my hands, one thought keeps shoving its way to the front of my mind—what if he’s also a little bit…right?

I am sleeping with my boss, and that’s what hurts too. That shard of truth, jagged and sharp, cuts me.