doesn't remember

Harley.

Thud!

"Oh shit," Rebecca murmured, eyes wide.

I blinked up at her, my vision swimming.

"Becky? Is the world tilting?" My voice sounded distant even to me. Why was she upside down? I reached for her, but my fingers only brushed air.

She stepped closer and squatted beside me.

"No, it's not," she said, inspecting me. "But you should get up before you get cold." A pause, then she added, "Also, call your mom back before she has a full-blown panic attack. All she heard was a loud thud and screeching—she might think you died."

I groaned, dragging a hand through my hair. The floor was cold, grounding. "Wouldn't that be better? First, my resume is in his hands. Now, I have to babysit him the entire trip, playing hostess?"

Rebecca hesitated.

I rolled my eyes. "That's what my father wants. Trust me, otherwise they wouldn't have sent me to him."

"Do you want to refuse?" she asked carefully.

Hell yeah, I did. If I had known it would be Clad, of all people, I never would have agreed. Why would I stay now? Why would I keep playing along?

My phone blared again.

"Harley? Harley, honey? Are you okay? What was that sound? Did you get hurt?" My mom's voice cut through the tension.

Rebecca groaned, standing up. "Well, tell her that," she said, gesturing toward my phone, which lay peacefully on my couch.

I sat up. "Tell her what?"

"I see it in your eyes—that glazed look you get whenever you're thinking of an escape plan. Instead of running, just tell them no. Say you're busy. Say you can't make it. Let them be mad for another three years. It's better than facing the music you're not ready to deal with."

I crawled toward the couch and grabbed a cushion.

"Ouch!" Rebecca squirmed as I tossed it at her.

"That music you're talking about? You had a hand in it too!" I scoffed.

She picked up the cushion and lightly placed it back on the couch. "It was my assistant."

"You and your assistant both."

"And why did you even have that resume? It's old!" I shrieked.

Before she could answer, my mom's voice cut through again.

"Honey, I think something happened to Harley. What should we do?"

"What? What could possibly happen to that wild girl?" My father scoffed in the background. "She has better survival instincts than any wild animal."

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Then heaving.

"This is serious! What if something happened to our daughter? I think we should call 911—"

My father burst into laughter. "911? With an international number? Who do you think you are, the president? They'll dismiss it as a scam."

I rolled my eyes and snatched up the phone.

"Mom."

She exhaled sharply. "Oh, Harley!"

In the background, my father muttered, "Told you. One of her antics again." Then louder, "You better not play tricks on Mr. Storm, Harley, or you'll ruin this family!"

I pulled the phone away from my ear, irritation flaring.

"Then ask Erin to do it," I said quietly.

Silence.

I continued. "She's the perfect daughter now. Tell her to do it. I'm sure Mr. Storm will be satisfied with her behavior. He might even give you a bonus." My voice dripped with bitterness, the taste of resentment thick on my tongue.

"What? What did you say? Do you think I love this arrangement? I would have sent her if she didn't have an exhibition coming up." My father scoffed, his footsteps retreating.

My mother's voice softened. "Harley, honey, I'm sorry about your father. He's just irritated because Erin passed down her stress. Everyone in the house is on edge. The artwork she's supposed to display is giving her a hard time. She hasn't even eaten in days."

I clenched my jaw. "What about me, Mom?"

"Huh? What about you, dear?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Do you even know the last time I ate? Or when I was in school, if I ate at all?"

Silence.

Tears burned my eyes, hot and stinging. I blinked rapidly.

"Oh, don't be silly, dear. I sent you money to take care of yourself. Even now, I still send you money every month. It's enough to cover groceries."

"Money isn't food, Mom. You have to buy food with it." My voice was barely above a whisper.

Rebecca froze. "What do you mean?" Her alarm was evident.

"Nothing," I muttered.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow." I ended the call before my emotions spilled over.

"Damn it." I pulled my knees to my chest, hugging myself.

Rebecca rushed to my side. "Are you okay?"

"Yes... No... I don't know." I buried my face between my knees.

"I swore they'd never know anything about law school," I mumbled, "and just now, I almost told them."

Rebecca's hand moved soothingly along my back. "It's okay."

"I wish it were." I exhaled shakily. "I survived four years of hell in there. But even with everything that happened back then, nothing hurts more than my father calling Clad 'Mr. Storm.'"

The bastard doesn't even remember, does he? That he separated us. Doesn't he recognize his name at all?

Tears slipped down my cheeks, unchecked. I was failing—failing at keeping everything bottled up. Years-old wounds threatened to burst open. Before they did, Rebecca wrapped her arms around me in a warm, grounding embrace.

Comforting. Safe.

But I knew i couldn't hide anymore.

I couldn't run either.

Ha! What a shit life I've been living.

Maybe I should face the music?