Page 93 of Come Take Me Now

She restores her composure and laughs. “Because he likes them barely legal?”

“Fuck off,” I say under my breath.

Dad walks in from the garage. “Oh, good, you’re up.” He’s dressed in rich man golf couture this morning, per usual.

Imagine being a retired millionaire but all you do is golf.

Clarissa stands from the couch, and he joins her at her side. “We wanted to talk to you,” Clarissa says with her usual inflated, fake voice. This summer, I’ve noticed how she only seems to use this tone whenever my dad is near. She’s a real-life Meredith Blake, and I wish I could lose her while camping.

“Great,” I say sarcastically. “What’s up?”

“We found out that we’re expecting,” Clarissa says in that candy-sweet voice of hers.

I can’t stifle the laugh that escapes my lips. “Give me a damn break,” I mutter and dart my eyes to the other side of the room.

“It’s true. She’s eight weeks,” Dad adds.

“I hope for that kid’s sake, it’s not yours,” I say. I didn’t think before I spoke. I was bad at that, admittedly, and between my period and the breakup, my psyche wasn’t in the best place.

“I’m so fucking tired of your attitude, Matilda!” he snaps.

I should have seen it coming. Dad would never change. I’d always be a scared six-year-old around him. His obnoxious metal wedding ring hits my cheek as he backhands the shit out of me, and as the sting lingers, I know it’ll leave a mark. My coffee splashes out of my mug, staining my favorite sky-blue top.

“Fuck you,” I hiss under my breath.

I brush past them, straight to my bedroom. It’s time to go home. To Sacramento. Mom isn’t home since she’s on her anniversary cruise with Rick, but that didn’t matter. I had a key. I could send her a message to say I tried my best, but I’ll never be able to be within a one-mile radius of my dad. I lock the bedroom door and pause, using the doorframe to stabilize myself.

Enzo.

That’s the only thing racing through my mind.

Stop it, Tilly. He’s…immoral.

But always meant well.

I shake my head and force his name to the back of my brain. I need to get the fuck out of Napa. I’ve been overdue for this and should have left last week, but no, I had to see if fucking Enzo would grovel. And I got the brutal truth.

Alas, it’s time to move on.

I throw my two suitcases onto my bed and hastily scoop my clothes from the dresser drawers, tossing them randomly into the suitcases. I throw anything dirty into the front zipper pocket, including my stained shirt. I’ll stain-treat it when I’m home. My hair sticks to my chest from the coffee, so I turn for my en-suite bathroom. I clear the drawers and cabinet of just my things, barely checking if the lids on my toiletries were tight.

Problem for future me.

I try rinsing the coffee from my hair but give up quickly from my impatience and adrenaline to leave. I brush my hair up into a high ponytail and toss my brush on top of my clothes. I yank out an oversized white T-shirt from the pile inside my suitcase and pull it over my head. It lands well below my bottom, the sleeves go past my elbows.

Which shirt is this?

I pull my arms through the holes and twist it around, so I can see the tag at the back of the neck.

Calvin Klein.

It’s Enzo’s.

It must have gotten mixed in with my laundry. He’s always here when I need him. I cross my arms over my chest and place my hands on my shoulders like I’m getting a hug from him. He didn’t feel the need to apologize because he must believe he was right, and he’s been annoyingly right the whole time. I could get ‘Enzo knows best’ tattooed after my summer with him.

But he’s crazy, too. And not in a hot way.

I squint as I rethink that.