"Ashley...? What are you doing in here?"
"Looking for something."
"Such as?"
"The keys to the beach house."
"Why?"
"Because I am going there."
"With that friend of yours I guess?"
Her eyes flicker over, just the once, and her shoulders tense, just a bit. But she does not answer and returns her focused gaze to the desk drawers.
The contents of her father's life against her fingers - address books and old receipts and random notes, photographs that mean nothing, pencils and pens and letters still sealed - the contents of her father's reality and of her father's lies.
This is where she found out about her mother.
The real one, that is.
"And I suppose you weren't going to ask myself or your mother for permission, hmm?"
But she just ignores him.
Because she isn't going to ask for permission. She hasn't asked for permission in a long time, not for the drinks stolen and not for the sex had and not for the nights where she doesn't come home at all.
And the words he speaks are right, as if they were written in a script, but they come too late and they come with not enough honesty to back them up.
If he cared, he would be wanting her to ask for permission all the time.
If he cared, he would lock the doors and bar the windows.
If he cared, he would plead for her to tell him what is wrong.
And then he'd have to apologize, over and over, until she could believe him.
But she finds what she is looking for, three silver keys upon a ring, and stuffs them into her jeans pocket. She barely spares him a glance as she passes by him.
And that could have been it, you know? That could have been just another moment in a long list of moments, where a father fails - again - and a daughter stays silent - again.
His grip is firm, though, snaking around her wrist. And the way she seizes up is telling, torn between wanting to struggle and strike out at him... and wanting to tremble, wanting to crumble.
Always there, beyond the anger, is the sorrow.
Always there, beyond the present, is the past.
"You can't keep doing this, Ashley. You can't keep taking off and not telling anyone, not telling me."
She keeps her face turned away. She closes her eyes. She shakes from the inside and it feels like the air is overwhelming her lungs, too much and too quick.
But she forces the words out, feels them cut along her throat and wound her tongue.
"Why does it matter to you?"
"It has always mattered."
"Then you have a funny way of showing it."
That's when her eyes flash in his direction and his grip tightens in response.
It is not to hurt, she knows this much, it is the hold of fear.
As if he knows the source of her agony, as if he has found out without asking, as if he knows why they cannot find one another anymore.
"I'm showing it now."
And she jerks her arm away at that statement, storming off as fast as she can, but he follows. And his voice gets louder in the foyer, bouncing off these pricey walls, drawing the attention of Christine from the living room.
And Ashley looks briefly at the woman, the woman who lost faith in Raife Davies as well, but they cannot seem to find solace in each other.
Ashley is the reminder of infidelity and, for Christine, that is all the girl will ever be.
And all Christine can ever be for Ashley is a remembrance of that unreal childhood, of deception wrapped up in pretty paper.
"You can't keep shutting me out, Ashley! I do love you, I love you so much... I wanted you to have it all and never know-"
That's when she snaps. That's when the hammer in her hand decides to come down, heavy with all she does know and all that she has learned and all that she cannot deny.
"Never know about my mother, is that it? Is that what you tried so hard to keep from me? The both of you, you fucking liars-"
"Ashley, please, listen to me-"
"No! No listening and no talking and no more of this bull-shit! You lied to me, all this time, and you would have kept it from me for the rest of my life if I hadn't found out. But I know everything now and I don't give a fuck what you have to say."
"Ashley... Ashley, please-"
She wants to break-down. She can feel it building up inside of her, a tidal wave of tears, but she forces them back. She wants to bolt out the door and she probably would, if not for Spencer upstairs in her room.
She wants to call Aiden and he'd offer a drink, offer his arm, offer his smile.
Or they'd have a party and she'd fuck all night and wake up with a headache and sore limbs.
It wouldn't make her forget.
It would just distract her for a while longer.
But there are keys in her pocket and there is a girl up in her room, a girl who needs her and who Ashley needs as well. And Aiden cannot save her this time, cannot be the rock for her to lean on. Ashley has to learn how to stand on her own.
All this time, thinking of how strong she was to suffer the coldness and thinking how tough she was to know the truth and not reveal it, but that was just her own version of reality.
She wasn't strong. She was hiding.
Ashley doesn't want to hide anymore.
/ /
You are not impervious, though.
Because to stop hiding means that you can be found. No more shadows for you. No more nameless girls and strobe-light faces. No more ghosts drowning in a bottle of beer.
And that wave creeps up on you, sitting here in the relative silence of this gravel driveway and the ocean just over the dunes, that wave surrounds you in the seat of your car.
And you look at Spencer, eyes shut and body tuck in, asleep with blonde hair strewn over her face. And you stare at the girl, stare until it is hard to see because you are crying.
You are sobbing as quietly as you can, falling apart with no one to see you, wanting to keep those personal burdens only on your shoulders. Still trying to cover up the cracks. Still trying to hide.
You are not impervious, though.
You are not an island and, truth is, you never wanted to be.
That's why you love Aiden, why you needed his friendship, why you were willing to rush in and pick the boy up.
He needed a family and so did you. Neither of you wanted to be alone.
Spencer doesn't want to be alone.
No one wants to be alone.
And you cry harder, because you've been so alone and so hurt and so fucking sad.
And you cry harder, because you hear Spencer shift in her seat and you don't know how to stop these tears, you don't know what she'll make of you now.
You are not impervious, though.
Because all it takes to give that pain a voice is a pair of arms slipping around you and you are found. Spencer has found you just as you once found her.
And you wail into her chest and she holds you more firmly and, somewhere inside your heart, you know that this is the strongest you have ever been.
/ /
TBC
