When he threw a tantrum, there was nothing else for it. Sometimes when he spoke to me like that, I wanted to cut him off by screaming continuously in his face. If I didn’t run out of breath for five whole minutes, it still wouldn’t equate to the many times I’d felt that man’s spittle on my cheeks.

I didn’t close my bedroom door the whole way in case he called for me again. The TV got louder. Much louder. Still not enough for me to walk back out there and ask him to turn it down.

Having gotten good at drowning him out, I turned and faced my sanctuary. My bedroom was small. There wasn’t a lot in it except a bed, a small writing desk, and a closet for the few clothes I had. There were a few books, not many. I got most of my reading material from the library.

Most.

Not all. Like the stuff hidden in my room.

I crouched down and pulled out the old shoebox I’d hidden under my bed and gently lifted it onto my bedspread. I savored opening it, like it was a treasure chest. Calm moved through me at the sight of my stash. I had a bunch of secondhand plays and poetry books in there, books I’d bought online and hidden so my mom wouldn’t see what I’d “wasted” my money on.

I didn’t think they were a waste. Far from it.

Pulling a pile out, I stroked the peeling cover of The Crucible. Underneath it was Dr. Faustus and Romeo & Juliet. Underneath those, Twelfth Night, Othello, Hamlet, and Macbeth. I had a thing for Shakespeare. He made even the most ordinary feelings, un-extraordinary thoughts, sound so grandiose. Better yet, he spoke of the most complex, dark emotions in a way that was beautiful and absorbing. I wanted so badly to see a live production of one of his plays.

I wanted so badly to be in a live production of one of his plays.

No one knew that. Not even Molly. No one knew I had wild dreams of being an actress on the stage. They’d laugh at me. And rightly so. When I was a kid, I’d been part of an amateur theater group, but had to stop when Dad couldn’t take care of himself anymore. That was the extent of my experience on the stage. I’d loved it, though. I loved disappearing into someone else’s life, another world, telling stories that held the audience enthralled. And the way they’d clap at the end. Just clap and clap. It was like a giant hug in place of all the hugs my mom had forgotten to give me.

I slumped against my bed, berating myself for that thought. Mom wasn’t a bad person. She kept a roof over my head, food in my belly, shoes on my feet. She didn’t have a lot of time for me. She worked hard. That was my mom’s life. I shouldn’t be angry at her for that.

A roar from the crowd at the game my dad was watching made me flinch.

Now, for him … I don’t know if what I felt was anger.

Maybe more like resentment.

It was horrible to resent him. I knew that. Sometimes I thought maybe I wasn’t a very nice person.

I put everything back in the box, closed it, and tried to shut out the ache in my chest and that horrible gnawing feeling I’d had in my stomach for a long time now. To help, I grabbed a book I’d checked out and got comfy on my bed.

For a while, I was lost in a story about another world and a girl who was in a prison that made mine look like a constant vacation. Finally, I glanced at my watch, and reluctantly put my book down.

Back in the living room, I found my dad with his head bowed, sleeping. When I switched off the TV, his head flew up and he looked around, disoriented. When he was like this, sleepy and confused, he seemed so vulnerable. It made me sad to remember how my dad used to be.

He’d never relied on anyone before the wheelchair. That’s why he was so pissed off all the time. He hated being dependent.

“Hey, Dad,” I gently touched his shoulder, and he blinked up at me. “Time for bed.”

Dad nodded, and I stepped out of the way. Walking behind him slowly, I followed him into my parents’ bedroom. Mom always helped him change into bottoms he could sleep in so I didn’t have to. Dad removed his shirt, leaving only his T-shirt. Once, his shoulders had been broad and his biceps strong from working construction. They’d lost a lot of definition over the years.

He was still strong enough to help me get him into bed.

“Warm enough, Dad?”

“Yeah.”

“Night, then.”

“Nora.” He grabbed my hand and I felt my stomach sink, sensing what was coming. “I’m sorry.”

“I know, Dad.”

His sad eyes pleaded with me to understand. “I get so hacked off and I don’t mean to take it out on you, baby girl. You know you’re the best thing your mom and I ever did, right?”

Tears threatened and my throat felt tight and hot. “I know,” I whispered.

“Do you, though?” His grip tightened. “Love you, baby girl.”

I fought back the sting in my nose and blew out a shaky breath. “Love you too, Dad.”

It wasn’t until I got back to my room and into bed that I pressed my mouth into my pillow and sobbed.

I hated the nights he reminded me of what I’d lost.

Life would’ve been so much easier if I didn’t have the memories of a dad who’d given me all the affection my mom hadn’t. He was free and easy with hugs and kisses, and he’d filled my ears with his grand plans for my future. I was going to college—I was going to take over the world.

And then everything changed.

For as long as I could remember, my dad worked his ass off, which was one of the reasons I didn’t understand why Mom worked so much. Dad owned the largest construction company in the county. He had lots of guys working for him, and we lived in a nice big house he’d built on the outskirts of Donovan. However, he had diabetes. As his company got more successful, Dad got more stressed. He stopped avoiding the wrong foods and alcohol until finally, he got gangrene in his leg and they had no choice but to amputate below the knee. I was eleven. Just a kid.

Dad lost work and Kyle Trent bought his company off him for a pittance and turned it into a success again. The Trents even bought our old house. I had to assume it was mortgaged up to my parents’ ears because there was no money from it as far as I knew.

Mom started working more. Somehow, I ended up being my dad’s caretaker. It wasn’t an easy job, but he was my dad. His life was hard and so was my mom’s, so I did what I had to do to help. It meant, however, that I was tired a lot and I didn’t have the same time to dedicate to school. Yet I was determined I was going to keep up my grades. Even when Dad became a different man and crushed my dreams of the future. He made it clear college was no longer an option for me. I reminded myself there was still community college.

Someday.

If I ever had time.

I muffled my cries against my pillow, gripping my thin duvet tight in my hand. I mourned my future. Dad had spent my first eleven years building it up into something amazing. But mostly, I mourned my dad. I grieved for my hero who’d kissed away my tears, hugged away my fears, and treated me like I was everything that was important to him.

When I was little, having a loving father in my life was fact, as how it should be. And when he was suddenly gone, replaced by someone bitter, sad, and vulnerable, I felt like I’d been untethered from my safety post, left to float up and away into the sky, unshielded from the storms ahead.

I cannot tell you how scary that feeling is. Sometimes I think it would’ve been better to never have had that.

Because I wouldn’t miss it so damn much.

Shuddering from the pain, I wrapped my arms tight around myself and tried to calm down.

I thought of the boy I’d met today and how he’d looked at me like I was something special.

Like the way my dad looked at me on days the man he used to be fought through.

Slowly, my shuddering eased and the guilt I felt over lying to my mom about tomorrow went with it. I needed a day outside of the norm. A day to breathe full and free. Just one day. Just one memory to carry me through the following days when breathing would be that little bit harder.

They were waiting for me the next morning, standing next to a new Mustang. I ran a hand over the hood. “Where did you get the car?”

Jim moved around to stand next to me, so I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “We rented it.”

“Nice.”