July 20, 1926

Scratch whatever I said back on the 14th—Dad's not Sherlock. Not even close. He's goddamned Moriarty! On a smaller scale, though, because he's not out to destroy the entire world. Just mine.

And Indiana! That ambitious, self-serving, commitment-phobic son of a bitch is going along for the ride like it's the Coney Island Cyclone. It's all fun and games and no one ever gets hurt or at least they don't tell you when people get hurt, because Coney Island is too good and happy and lucrative for that to ever happen!

Distress is clearly not conducive to proper grammar, and proper grammar (or at least intelligible writing) is necessary for me to record today's events as clearly as possible. I need clarity in my head, and I need to be able to come back and read this one day. You know, as a reminder of the horrible things that can, and apparently do, happen to people stupid enough to fall in love, and as a warning to never make that mistake again.

In spite of a late and, um, active night, I found myself barely able to sleep and out of bed as soon as light through the window indicated that rising was socially acceptable. The sun was up, and I was out for blood. Seriously, patricide may seem heinous and horrible in Elizabethan literature, but this morning it seemed like a distinct possibility.

"What did you do?" I practically shrieked as I raced down the stairs towards the kitchen, where I somehow knew that Abner would be waiting for me. Obviously, he didn't know about the events of the night/early morning previous, but something just told me that's where he'd be. Waiting. Circling the emotional wagons and locking me out, like always.

I must've been a terrifying sight, standing in the kitchen door with mussed hair, bags under my eyes, and goodbyes caught in my throat where "see you tomorrow" had left them in the dust.

The intense sadness in Abner's eyes stopped me dead in my tracks.

"What did you do?" I repeated, this time in a near-whimper.

"All I did was to catalyze a decision that he surely would have had to make sooner or later."

"You made him leave."

"I made him choose."

"Between?"

"Us."

I'm sorry, WHAT?

"Why would you do that?" my voice began to gather back its strength, and I took a few more steps towards the drawn, world-weary man at the table.

"Marion, my dear," he began almost too calmly, as if forcing himself to remain rational in the presence of this wild, distraught being in front of him. Just like I had with Indy the night before. "How daft do you think I am, really? Or blind? That I could entirely miss what's been going on in my own home for over a month between the two people I care most about in the world?"

The people you care most about? I wanted to scream at him. I would NEVER do… whatever you did… to anyone I gave more than a rat's ass about! But I didn't, because I couldn't.

"I told Henry that I could not approve of a fellow of his – reputation and wanderlust, shall we say – carrying about with my daughter. It would only end in misery for you." Um, good call. "So I gave him a choice: my tutelage, or you, and…"

"And he chose me, so you kicked him out?" I cut in, fury helping me find my voice, but the heartbroken look that covered my father's face just then told me everything.

No. No, no, no, no, NO.

Before I even knew what was happening, my legs had turned to gelatin and Dad was gently guiding me into the nearest chair. How he'd gotten up and halfway across the room in time to catch me, I have no idea. Parental adrenaline, maybe. That'd be a first for him.

"He chose archaeology," I choked out through the giant lump in my throat, feeling sick.

"It was a test," said Abner quietly, tucking my hair behind my ears and trying as best he could to comfort the crying girl he knew better than I'd ever thought he could. "I… I wanted to know how much he cared for you. What he would give or sacrifice. He made his choice, and…" Abner sighed, pulling over another chair and scooting into it so that he could hug me properly, like I'd needed him to for so damn long. "…he chose poorly."

Tomorrow, we leave, though whereto and for how long I have no idea. It seems there actually is a lead on the Ark, and there has been for a while, but Abner couldn't bring himself to tear me once again from this little home we've made in Chicago. Now he sees it's time to be torn away, and I couldn't agree more. Libya or Brazil or Australia or Japan… I couldn't care less where we go, and chances are we'll hit all four and then some. I've just got to get away and be with the one person on the planet who I know still cares about me, however terrible he is at showing it.

I won't say that nothing could have prepared me for this. I could easily have prepared myself with just a little more emotional restraint and a little less recklessness, desperation and self-destructive rebellion.

But really, how do I know that? What do I even know? I'm just a child. A ridiculous, self-absorbed little child who can't tell love from fascination from lust and no, that's a lie. I loved him. I love him, and in the spirit of full diary disclosure, I probably will for a long time.

But I will hate him. If it takes a year, five years, ten goddamn years, I will learn to hate Indiana Jones.

Today, I lost everything: my freedom, my father (at least, the father I've been imagining and projecting for so long), and my Indy.

Oh, bullshit. We all know he was never mine.

Always,

Marion