Page 19 of Ice Cold Heart
He sighed. “What happened to us? You used to tell me everything.”
Icy rage built, slow and steady, curling my hands into fists and melting my restraint. “You happened to us. I was eight—I didn’t have any choice in the way things played out.” I clawed back enough control to stop myself from outright accusing him of abandonment, but he seemed to get the gist.
“You don’t understand,” he grumbled quietly.
Fair enough. I wasn’t interested in understanding, and I was done having this useless conversation. “Thank you for letting me stay, but I think I’m going to start looking for a job so I can move out.”
He frowned so hard I thought he’d sprain his eyebrows. “That’s not necessary.”
“I think it is. I operate better in my own space.”
“Avery, this is your space. Every inch of it.”
I pressed my lips together to keep my disagreement silent. The house was nice enough. Not decorated within an inch of its life like the condo I’d shared with Mom, but I liked his casual style better anyway. It wasn’t the space I hated—it was the uncertainty.
He had pictures of me on the walls, but he hadn’t tried to contact me once after the divorce. What was I supposed to do with that kind of contradiction? Nothing. The answer was nothing. I was going to bide my time until I graduated, then move on. Just like he did.
When all I did was stare at him, he rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t know how to talk to you.”
It was a common complaint. Scott always blamed me for our broken communication, ostensibly because he didn’t like it when I refused to tell him my thoughts. He’d said something similar the day before he’d decided he liked older women. An unbidden image of Scott’s naked ass between my mom’s legs made my stomach turn.
Not going there.
“You don’t need to talk to me. We don’t have anything to say to each other.” I’d stopped hoping for him to show up years ago. I wasn’t looking for a daddy figure. Cole flashed into my mind, and a flush crept up my cheeks. Not that kind of daddy either.
As if he knew I was thinking about him, my phone dinged with a new message. It had to be Cole. The only other person who texted me was glowering at his red sauce. I was grateful for the excuse to break the moment.
Cole: I’m home and safe. Don’t forget to tell your dad you changed your mind about tutoring me.
Me: When do you want to start?
Cole: Monday?
Me: [thumbs up] Not sure when I’ll be free, but I’ll text you. Your place?
Cole: Yeah.
Relief made me slump over the counter where I’d been leaning. He sent the address, surprisingly close to Dad’s house for a college student, and I looked up in time to see Dad slide a steaming plate of spaghetti and meatballs in front of me.
My favorite meal. Did he remember or was it just dumb luck?
When I glanced up, he quickly became hyper focused on his food. “Can you at least reassure me I don’t have to drive out there and crush some asshole’s skull into dust?”
My brows rose at his language. So far, he’d avoided anything more salty than darn. I was starting to wonder if a doppelganger had replaced the man my mom blamed at least once a week for every minor inconvenience. My memories were somewhat fuzzy after the vivid picture Mom painted, but I didn’t remember him being soft-spoken.
Looking back, I probably should have realized her opinion of Dad was as skewed as everything else, but it had been easier to accept her vision as the truth when the alternative left me questioning why he’d leave me without so much as a goodbye. The familiar jab of pain wasn’t as pronounced as usual, eased by the reality standing in front of me.
When I didn’t respond, Dad’s jaw clenched. “Avery?—”
“No,” I interrupted. “It’s fine. I wasn’t assaulted or anything. My ex-boyfriend was an asshole, but if you’re going to defend me against every asshole, you should start with your hockey team.”
His brows drew together, and I struggled to maintain my disinterested expression. I hadn’t meant to reveal so much, but the jerk in the locker room hadn’t even bothered to hide his come on. It said a lot for Dad’s coaching style if his first line players weren’t worried about making asses of themselves in front of him.
Dad waited until I shoved a big bite of pasta in my mouth to ask his next question. “Has someone been bothering you?”
I took my time chewing and swallowing, trying to decide if he was worried I’d get his star center in trouble. “No, and I can handle college athletes.”
“I know,” he mumbled.