I nibble on my nail. At least focusing on the Center's problems keeps my mind from straying to this past weekend. Garrett's called several times since I left him back at the Cunningham estate, but I let all of them go to voicemail. Calder hasn't tried to contact me at all.
But why do I care if he contacts me, anyway? We were just fucking. Nothing more. He lied to me and he used me, and that's not something I can forgive easily.
His accusations still haunt me. The Center is just an excuse. You’ve buried yourself in this little mission of yours so you don’t have to think about how you really feel or what you really want.
Is that true? I’ve sacrificed a lot for this place—a social life, a decent income, and no small amount of sanity—but I have genuine personal stakes in its fate. And an even deeper interest in the emotional well-being of my dad. True, I’ve thrown myself even deeper into the Center’s affairs since Garrett and I broke up, but it seemed like a healthy thing to do at the time. It gave me a distraction, a purpose, an emotional anchor. It’s my passion, but that doesn’t mean I can’t emotionally invest in other things, too.
Except when it comes to Calder. How could I even consider it when he was actively responsible for the Center’s current situation? I think that’s a fair reason to hold back from him.
But I’m not supposed to be thinking about him. I need to focus on the Center right now.
"Lily?"
When I glance up, my dad is standing in the doorway.
"Is everything okay?" he asks, pulling up a chair beside me. "You've seemed a little preoccupied since you've been back."
I force a smile. "I'm fine, Dad. Just trying to figure out a way to get us out of this."
He watches me for a moment. "No. I think it's something else."
I look down at my lap. He was always really good at reading me. It must be some super-parent sense or something. I’ve been rather closed-mouthed since my return. When I confessed to him that I hadn’t been able to secure any more money, he was so completely crestfallen that I couldn’t bear telling him the rest of the truth.
I mean, what was I supposed to say? Oh, by the way, Dad, I lied to you about where I was going this weekend. I went to see Calder Cunningham, even though you asked me not to. And oh yeah, I slept with him a few times. Oh, and while I'm making confessions, I don't think Garrett will be helping us out after all.
I’m ashamed even now of my behavior. Just seeing the hope and trust in my dad’s eyes makes me sick to my stomach.
"What's going on?" he prompts. "You can tell me."
That's just it, though. I'm not sure I can. There's no way I'm telling my dad about everything that went on this weekend. There is one thing I can talk to him about, though.
"Dad, I don't want Garrett helping us. I know he found us some money, and I’m grateful for that, but I can’t do it. And I promise I’m not being petty. If it were just old feelings I’d suck it up for the sake of the Center. But he’s…" How much can I say without worrying him? “He’s done some things this past week that have made me very uncomfortable.”
My dad considers this a moment.
"I understand," he says finally. "I knew it would be hard on you. It wasn't fair of me to ask that in the first place.” He glances around the room. “Sometimes I get so caught up in this place that I forget the important things.”
“It’s not—you had no way of knowing,” I say quickly, trying to drive that guilty look from his eyes. “If it were anyone else, I’d just deal with it. But Garrett…”
“What has he done? Something I should know about?”
I take a deep breath. “He thought me asking him to help was an invitation to come fully back into my life. If you knew how many times he’s called me, what he’s said…”
"He's been harassing you?"
Harassing. I remember how Calder accused me of that very thing after all of my calls and letters and emails. I freaking broke onto his property, for crying out loud. Am I really any better than Garrett, in the end?
"It's just caused more problems than it will help," I reply diplomatically.
“I’ll call him and tell him we won’t be needing his assistance,” my dad says.
It only makes me feel a little better. I haven’t seen him here at the Center since I’ve returned, but I know this isn’t over yet. But I don’t tell my dad how uneasy I am, how I’ve been a jumble of nerves these past few days.
“Thank you,” I say simply.
My dad nods and turns back to watching the children. For a moment, neither of us speaks. We just watch our charges laugh and chatter and create.
When my dad does speak, his voice is so soft that I hardly hear the question at all.
"When do we give up?"
I look at Ben, who's adding a Pterodactyl to his dinosaur picture, and Erin beside him, who's painting a princess next to her explosion of flowers. I reach over and grab Dad’s hand.
"Never," I answer, just as quietly. "Not until the very end. Not until they make us."
* * *
It's a week before I get the letter. At my apartment, not the Center, same as the last one. I find it among my other mail when I get home, and I read it as I sip the tea I've been using to help me sleep.
Dearest Ms. Frazer,
I am deeply sorry for the events of last weekend. It was never my intention to mislead you—if you recall, I was adamant from the first that I had no intention of giving you the money. I'll admit I would have been in a bind had our wagers come out the other way, but as they did not, this issue is of far less significance. I owe you nothing, and whether or not I actually have the means in my possession is of little consequence in that matter.
As for the other events of this weekend, I never had any reason, I thought, to doubt your own desires. If at any point I believed you were not enjoying our little games, I would have ceased them immediately. I'm deeply sorry if I misread the situation.
Regarding your friend who arrived just before your departure—I highly recommend that you acquire a restraining order, for your own protection. I had him detained on charges of trespassing, but that will not keep him, I suspect, from contacting you in the future. Please be safe and take wise course in this situation.
Sincerely,
Calder Cunningham
There's no lawyer's signature on this one, but that makes it no less impersonal. He's just trying to cover his ass. This is an entire letter of excuses.
I crumple it into a ball and throw it in the garbage. Did he really believe this was an acceptable apology?