“Grace, we’re not poor.” He pierced a piece of meat with his fork and brought it to his mouth. “And you don’t hate her.”

“I do,” I screamed. “And I hate you.” I shoved my plate with both hands and it hit the floor, shattering.

My father kept his eyes on me the entire time. “That’s it, go to your room.”

Hate became my new favourite word. I said it all the time at school, to my friends, to my siblings. I hate that, I hate her, I hate him, I hate it. I felt like it had more meaning because I wasn’t allowed to say it. It was an act of rebellion. At seven years old, I didn’t yet know the power of hatred.

I hated Jessica. I hated her face. I hated her teeth and her skin. I hated the freckles on her chest. I hated her red hair and her stupid brown eyes. I hated her voice. I hated that she was successful and had money. I hated that she was helping Jack. I hated that I let her touch him in front of me without saying anything.

Jack had loved me once and now he didn’t. And it was all her fault.

As I sat there, blaming Jessica, I wished my father was there to tell me I didn’t hate her, that hate was too strong a word, and that everything was going to be all right.

Chapter 71

Haunted by what Jack had done, I was always angry, and so was he. He blamed me for killing the baby; I blamed him for abandoning me. He wanted to leave; I guilted him into staying. I told him I’d ruin him. I’d tell everyone everything. I’d do whatever was necessary to destroy his reputation and burgeoning career. He knew how resolute I could be when I put my mind to something, and I’m sure he was afraid.

I was afraid, too. Those days, I felt possessed and indomitable. If I’d been honest with myself—if my mind had been clearer—I would have known I didn’t even want him to stay. I just didn’t want him to want to leave. I wanted him to be miserable just like me. It wasn’t fair for him to move on while I suffered. And so we stayed together, torturing one another in familiar discomfort. The trust was gone, we both knew it, and without trust there would be no reconciliation.

Jack would tell me he was going to the studio, but spend his days at the bar. I knew he hadn’t been painting. There were no longer any signs of art in our lives. No paint or charcoal present on his skin; his usual smell of oil paint and turpentine had been replaced with booze and weed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d written anything. Our old dynamic—that unbounded, mirror-like ardour—was gone. We were no longer interested in the cyclicality of inspiration and creation.

One evening, I was sitting in the dark living room, sipping my fourth glass of whiskey and smoking a cigarette, letting the ash carelessly fall to the floor. The curtains were still open, and I watched as fluffy flakes of snow floated, almost in stillness, kindled beneath the street lamps.