“Hi, Dad,” I say, standing a little bit taller. Hopefully this will prevent him from also yelling at me for slouching.

“Where the hell have you been? Allison told me you didn’t come back until the con was over.”

Of course she ratted me out. Of course. I look at the ground to the right of him, hoping this will end quicker if I don’t make eye contact.

“Did you think it didn’t matter? You flip her off and disappear, and you think that’s fine? After you left the goddamn prom last night too? What do you think I bring you here for? You’re a brand ambassador, Ridley. I bring you here to work.”

“I thought—”

“Thought what?” He takes a step closer. “You’re on my time here, and I expect you to do as you’re told.” Each word he says is punctuated by the stab of his finger against my chest, and I flinch away from the smell of the alcohol on his breath.

itsokayevenifitsnotokayitsokayevenifitsnotokay

But that’s not quite true, is it? Not when your dad is slurring insults in your ear. And it shouldn’t sting when he calls me useless, and it shouldn’t crack me in places I’d never say. And I’m not crying—I’m not—I’m just staring at the ground near his shoe, studying it because I want to and not because I’m scared.

imnotscared

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he says, and I shoot my eyes to his, taking it in—the disheveled hair, the crumpled clothes, his skin wrinkled in places I’ve never noticed before. I don’t think he’s stood this close to me since I was little.

And I shouldn’t still hope he’ll catch himself, apologize, and hug me. I shouldn’t. And even Allison—Allison, who is nearly the same age as my sister—is tugging at his shoulders and telling him to quit it now, and the guys at the loading dock have all walked away, some shooting sad glances behind them. But he doesn’t stop, and I’m just standing there, pressed against the van with wide eyes, nodding while he calls me a piece of shit, like yes, sir, you’re correct.

itsfineitsfineitsfineitsfineitsfine

Even Allison’s looking at me with pity now, and good, because this is all her fault, and I rub my eyes with the palms of my hands, every word he spits a sliver shooting straight to my heart and—

icant

I want it to stop; I need it to stop. My phone buzzes in my pocket, the sensation overwhelming against my leg, and I slide it out without thinking, because, god, if ever I needed a lifeline, it’s now. I hope it’s Gray, but I don’t even care who it is. And I realize too late that it’s the exact wrong thing to do.