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The song ends and my father approaches when another begins. I start to shake my head, laughing when he catches my hand and drags me onto the dance floor. I’m not as smooth as my baby sister, but that’s okay. He pulls me into his arms and we gently sway to the soft song, the mood shifting. Becoming quieter.

Summer and Whit are dancing on the floor together, too, staring into each other’s eyes. I glance over at them with a wistful sigh, not trying to hide it as I usually would.

“I like her,” Father says, the approval clear in his voice. “She’s good for your brother.”

“She doesn’t put up with his shit,” I say, feeling bold.

He chuckles, swinging me around. “You’re right. She doesn’t. And that’s what he needs.”

“Is that why you and Mother divorced? Because she always tolerated your antics?” We never talk about their divorce. It’s still somewhat shrouded in mystery, what happened between them to end it for good.

I still believe it was our father who finally put his foot down and moved on. Mother clings—it’s a bad habit of hers.

It can be a bad habit of mine, too, thanks to her.

His mood goes somber, just like that. “I did some things I’m not proud of.”

“With Summer’s mom?” My brows lift in question, even though I already know the answer.

He barely nods. His past makes for some awkward family moments when we’re all together. “With other women too. It’s no secret I was unfaithful. Your mother was too. We weren’t a good fit.”

“Much like me and Earl?”

His expression turns stern. “I hope you know I never approved. Your marriage to that man was all your mother’s doing.”

His words infuriate me. “Really? Why didn’t you stop her?”

“You didn’t give me a chance, and neither did she. Why do you think you were married so quickly? I was out of the country, remember? Your mother made her move because I was gone.” We’re barely dancing anymore, too wrapped up in our conversation in the middle of the floor, couples shuffling past us. “He was older thanme,Sylvie. Why would I want you to marry someone like that?”

“Because he could take care of me, when I couldn’t take care of myself.” That was one of the lines my mother fed me.

An irritated sound leaves him. “That’s something your mother would say.”

Now I’m the irritated one. All these years, my mother has been doing—things to me. Poisoning me. Convincing everyone I was sick. That I was dying. And my father never did a damn thing about it. He never interfered, never said a single word to stop her. To help me.

Ever.

“You’ve always got an excuse, don’t you?” The annoyance is replaced with anger and I’m suddenly consumed with it. “I didn’t give you a chance. My mother always prevented you from helping me. Whatever. You knew that something wasn’t right, yet you didn’t interfere. You didn’t try to help.Ever. It’s like you don’t even care about me.”

“My God, how can you say that?” His face falls, and I know I’ve upset him. “I care, Sylvie. I always have. I love you. My God, you’re my child. How could I not—”

I shake my head, making him go quiet.

“No. You say you care. That you love me. You act like the doting father whenever you see fit, but for the most part, you’ve left me to the wolves my entire life.”

The wolves. More like one singular wolf.

He stiffens, his eyes flaring with unmistakable anger. “I take offense to that.”

“Good. You should. You also need to take a long look at your behavior over the years, and see if you’ve really come through for me. If you actually opened your eyes for once, you might realize how much you’ve disappointed me.”

“Now wait a minute…”

I pull out of his arms, abandoning him right there on the dance floor, my anger too big to pretend anymore. My father faintly calls my name—barely loud enough for anyone to hear—but I ignore him.

Most of the wedding guests have already left for the evening, yet the massive room is suddenly stifling. I head for the doors that lead onto the terrace, taking a big, gulping breath of cool air the moment I’m outside.

I go to the spot where I stood earlier, before the ceremony began. The gorgeous arbor laden with flowers still stands outside, but the rows of white chairs are gone, as well as the white aisle runner. I lean heavily against the railing, an idea forming in my mind and, as usual, I give in to my impulses.


Tags: Monica Murphy Romance