“Cass, the details, they’re what you say and what Paul Cotterman says,” my dad begins to explain, and I cut him off.
“You mean I could be lying, and maybe I came onto him and brought this trouble on myself. Just like I did with Kyle. That’s what you mean, isn’t it Dad?”
“Cass, I didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth,” he says, defending himself. He’s fucking defending himself.
“No, Dad. If I put words in your mouth, they could never be as hurtful as the thoughts you have about me.” I hang up before he can say another word, and I throw the phone on my bed.
I should be elated. This is what I wanted—the Cotterman issue put to bed. But somehow all I feel is worse. My phone buzzes from his call, and I silence it.
“I need to shower,” I say, unable to look at Ty. I feel embarrassed, and I think I’m going to cry. If I can just make it to the shower, I can do it under the powerful spray of the water, and it will be like it never happened.
“Go ahead,” Ty says. “I’ll wait here. As long as you need.”
I know he will. And even though I want to send him away, more of me needs him to stay, to wait…even though it could be hours.
Rowe left her small basket here, and I use it to carry my towel and pajamas, to have a place to set everything on the bench just outside of the shower stall. I see why Rowe likes to shower at night now; it’s quiet in here. The sense of being alone is both comforting and frightening. But when you feel like I do right now—ugly, angry—the dark is welcoming, like a blanket.
The water does it’s magic, washing away any sign of weakness to come from my eyes. The warmth pounds my back and my arms and my chest, working my muscles, the steam opening my lungs. After about thirty minutes, I almost feel right again.
And then my vision
slides
to
the
right.
Everything. Doubles.
My world slants, and I trail my body down the wall to sit under the water.
The water can’t erase this.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
I wait for it to stop. It’s temporary. This has to be temporary.
Everything will fix itself. It has to.
You can’t pay off MS.
Ty
I plan on answering her phone the next time it rings. I planned it the moment she said she was leaving to shower. It’s impulsive. I’m good when I’m impulsive. It’s never failed me.
I don’t even let the ring finish when I press on the call to answer. And I know her father is shocked as hell when he hears a man’s voice answer “Hello, Mr. Owens.”
“Oh, I…I’m sorry. I…this is Cassidy’s phone, right? Who…who is this?”
“It’s Tyson, sir. I’m sorry this is how I’m meeting you. I really prefer to make an in-person first impression. This feels rude, so I do apologize,” I say, letting my accent come out thick. The Southern thing—it’s helpful when you’re trying to work an angle, trying to make a point. For some reason, people let you talk just a little bit longer when you say things with a Louisiana accent.
“Tyson. While it’s nice to finally speak with you, if you don’t mind, I’d really like to talk to Cassidy,” he says. He’s a lawyer. My impulsivity might not work as well as I thought.
“I know, sir. She left. She was…upset. I’m waiting for her,” I say, leaving it vague. I want to see if he worries.
“Is she all right? It’s late there. Where did she go?”
This is the response I want.
“She’s fine. She just went to the women’s showers. She needed some time alone,” I say, suddenly aware that it’s late, and I’m with his daughter in her room. Ah well, fuck it. Let him think what he wants. “I was actually hoping…maybe you and I could talk? Cass, she’s confided in me, about everything. And I was here…when you called the last time.”
There’s a long silence on the phone. Her father—he isn’t as bad as she thinks he is. He’s human. And I think he’s trying to do the right thing. He’s just stuck and doesn’t know how. And Cass is so hurt that she can’t unbury herself.
“I’m sorry, Tyson. I don’t know if I’m comfortable talking about this private matter, with you. I hope you understand,” he says.
“Of course,” I say. “Just…if I may…I know we haven’t met, and I’m not sure how much Cass has told you about me.”
“Very little,” he says, curtly. Ouch. That was…not nice. I shake it off, because, well, I’m used to being insulted.