21 | Sinking Vehicle

JUEVES

7:01 PM

Dahlia Gray

I felt jealousy.

I know I shouldn't feel such despicable emotions—my mother taught me better—but I couldn't stop them. It was an automatic response: one that roots from the pit of my stomach, suffocates my lungs, and when it's done, leaving behind a stag of guilt no one could destroy.

I hear laughter entering the atmosphere, echoing through the hollow mansion. It grows louder—more cheerful—as we enter through the hallways, passing the enormous marble-topped kitchen, and reaching the backyard to Hannah's home.

Her backyard is luxurious; the ground is completely covered in concrete pavers, a large asymmetric pool in the center, and a couple of tanning beds laid around the pool. There's no fence, just open land, and a forest of trees acting as a barrier from this home to the next.

But that's not why I'm jealous.

Hannah and Josie were barefoot, piggybacking off their fathers who were racing around the pool. Hannah had her arms wrapped around her father's neck, laughter spilling from her lips with every sharp turn he makes. Josie smiles, but clutches onto her father with a firm grip, afraid of being dropped. Her father notices, holding her comfortably, slowing down his pace to minimizing her fear. I faintly remember her telling us she was afraid of heights.

"Miss Coulter," their maid, Penelope, announces. "Your guests arrived."

This causes the families to abruptly stop. Their attention snaps to the exit, seeing my father and I standing in front of the door. The air grows stale, and I shift uncomfortably under the weight of their stare—the sudden urge to turn around and race back home was brazing my fingertips. So close.

"Dahlia!" Hannah jumps off her father's back, racing across the concrete pavers, nearly tipping into the pool at her obliviousness. She jumps onto me, tackling me into a hug that almost tips me backwards. Her curly auburn hair pushes into my face, finding its way to my lips. I return the hug. "You're here!"

I hear my father release a couple of chuckles from behind me, and my mood instantly sours at the reminder. He's the last person that deserves to be smiling. My mother is at home, alone, because of him.

"I'm here," I say softly, patting her back and pulling myself out of the hug. I grace on a forced smile, just as Hannah slips her hands to the side of my arms, keeping me in her grasp. "I thought you said to come at seven."

"I did!" Hannah nods, beaming. Josie joins her by her side, offering me an empathic smile at Hannah's behavior. "Josie came early because it's tradition to play a couple of games before the family starts cooking."

Even when I decide to make an effort, I somehow feel left out.

Josie jabs an elbow into Hannah's side, catching her attention. The blonde nods her head to my father behind me, and realization dawns on the curly-haired girl.

"Oh, right!" Hannah drops her hands, turning to my father. She pulls her auburn hair back, holding a hand, "Hi, Mr Gray. You remember me, right?"

"Of course," my father nods, pulling his hand back. "You and Josie were the girls Dahlia always hung out with."

Not really.

"Absolutely!" Hannah beams, "let me introduce you to the rest. My mother over there is Liana Coulter. The beautiful woman beside her is Nya Hartfield."

My father nods his head to greeting, offering a friendly wave. The two older women do the same.

"Are you forgetting about me, Fawn?" Hannah's father, a dirty-blond haired man, queries behind her. She jumps in surprise, but turns around and grins.

"I was getting there," Hannah rebuttals, hooking her arms around her father's waist. She turns back to my father. "Mr Gray, this is my dad, Finn Coulter. He and Josie's dad, Jake Hartfield, will be helping with the roasting for tonight's dinner."

"Hey, how are you?" my father says, stepping forward. He offers a hand and one of his charming smiles. "You need any help? I could work well around a grill."

"That's great. We accept all the help we can get." Finn replies, accepting his handshake. "I'm happy to have y'all. Hannah was telling me about how much she wanted Dahlia to come, but she was always busy."

I stiffen.

My father pauses, hesitating to answer. "She's always in her room," my father excuses, "doing some sort of homework. She's a smart one, my girl. I think she gets it from me."

The room laughs.

No, I don't. Mom raised me. I get it from her.

"I heard." Finn nods, with an easy smile. "Hannah said Dahlia got an internship. At some big company. You must be really proud."

My eyes widen and I turn to Hannah. She doesn't see the fear brewing behind my eyes, and instead, just offers an honest smile and puts two thumbs up at my achievement. Normally, I would have blushed and accepted the compliment, but I couldn't. My father didn't know.

I pull my lips together, looking down to the floor. I can practically feel the argument we'll get into when we get back home, which will end in nothing but tears and screams. I can feel my father's hot gaze on me.

"It's great," he answers stiffly. "She's a intelligent girl."

Finn hums in reply, and I'm counting down the minutes till we have to go home. "Where's your wife? She couldn't make it?"

"She couldn't." My father brushed away easily, shaking his head. "It's for the better. She doesn't know that much English and wouldn't contribute much to the conversation. Unless, you have a translator on the line?"

The room laughs once more, but I couldn't find myself sparing a couple of chuckles. To ease the crowd. I don't know if it was racist—but it made me uncomfortable. Making fun of my mother to grab a couple of laughs is not how I imagine a joke should be made.

"Alright," Hannah claps her hands together, "now that we've done the introductions and you two are getting along. Josie, me and Dahlia are going to head upstairs. We'll come down later for dinner!"

Finn nods, and Hannah tip-toes to give her father a kiss on the cheek as a goodbye. Josie gives her father a hug before departing, and Hannah takes both our hands before proceeding inside. I don't do either.

We head upstairs, reaching Hannah's bedroom. Hannah closes the door behind her, locking it for security. I look around her room, something I've been in before, and try to absorb the energy it radiates. It was homey, safe, and most of all, in her control.

"Dahlia," Josie calls out, snapping me out of my thoughts. I turn to her. "You okay? You're looking kind of pale."

I suck in a deep breath, before nodding my head. "I'm okay. I guess I'm just trying to get used to Hannah's room. It's been a while since I've been here."

"I know," Hannah said, coming around and sitting on her bed. She throws a water bottle to me. "This is why we need to hang out more. We can always try to schedule dinners around your work schedule—since you're an independent woman now—so you could have time to hang with us."

I reluctantly nod, but don't say anything else. I don't feel comfortable enough to sit on her bed, which occupies both Josie and Hannah at this point, and decided to take the floor.

"You know you can take the bed, right, Dahlia?" Hannah offers, patting to the empty spot beside her.

"It's okay," I said softly. "I'm comfortable here."

She nods and the conversation falls flat. The air began to stretch to an awkward silence, and I found myself thinking elsewhere. The images replaying in my head, of Josie and Hannah on the backs of their fathers, having fun around the pool. It was such a simple act, something so small and trivial, but I feel so jealous.

"What's this, Hannah?" Josie perks, pointing to a velvet box sitting on the nightstand. She picks it up. "You got a lover we don't know about?"

Hannah smiles, but shakes her head. "No," she takes the box from Josie's hand, propping it open. It reveals a gold necklace with Hannah in cursive, and a diamond-encrusted fawn. "My dad gave it to me when he was coming home from one of his work trips. He said he misses his little fawn when he was away and got me and my mom a gift. Mine's the best, obviously."

"Wow, Hannah," Josie gushes, silently asking for the box for closer examination. I found myself leaning closer. "It's so beautiful. Your dad knows how to make a girl happy."

"I love it, honestly, but I'm so afraid of wearing it. I feel like I'm going to lose it, and I don't want that to happen. My dad said he made the fawn custom-made at some jewelry store in Milan."

"Italy?" I query quietly, catching Hannah's attention. She turns to me with a humble nod.

"Yeah. He said he likes how they craft jewelry over there so he asked them for a custom. Do you want one? I'm pretty sure my dad could send over the info to your parents."

I shake my head, declining. "No, thanks. I don't wear that much jewelry anyways."

And it returns.

The feeling in my stomach.

Envy gnaws at my chest, begging to be released. I don't know what I wanted to do—cry, scream, spat at them—but in the end, I stayed silent. I bury the emotion along the resentment, the despair, the shame.

They have perfect families.

They receive little gifts from their fathers.

They could never understand.

"...Josie, shut up," Hannah jokes, spilling laughter from her lips. "Your dad loves you. Remember that time when you were sick at the hospital and you complained to your dad that you hated the food there. He went out and bought all of your favorite foods—he even asked me to help—and when you got discharged, you had leftovers for weeks!"

Josie rolls her eyes, a smile playing on her lips. "I was sick of sushi for a whole year. He bought way too much. You should've stopped him!"

"I didn't know he was going to buy ten different plates!" Hannah rebuttals, clutching her stomach from laughter. "Be grateful. I wish I had a fridge full of sushi."

"Not if your mom is allergic to fish and has to leave everything you eat," she scolds, shaking her head. Her shoulder-length blonde hair caress her shoulders. "But, nonetheless, you're right. Our dads love us in different ways. I got sushi for three months, you got a necklace from Italy. It's equivalent."

It's equivalent.

No, it's not.

━━━━━

JUEVES

9:23 PM

Dahlia Gray

Everyone absolutely loves him.

My father is the life of the party, cracking jokes left and right, getting a room full of laughs that extends to the maids tending around the kitchen, and entertaining tales that seems to cause an enchantment across the table. Everyone loves it. Everyone wanted more.

He was always a people-person. He loves to socialize among the crowd and enjoys the moment with glory. I'm betting he loves the spotlight everyone bestowed on him, soaking in the moment like a memory for the stars.

I, on the other hand, felt suffocated.

I wish I had my mother with me. She would find a way to soothe the burn in my throat and the daggers I'm sending his way every time he spoke. After all, it was his fault she didn't join. She was ready—all glammed up and beautiful—but he had to make a comment about her and it absolutely diminished every worth of self-confidence she owns.

She didn't want to leave the house.

She refused to come.

I wanted to stay behind as well, but my mother practically shoved me out the door.

I hated it.

I hated him.

My father has a talent of charming the crowd. Everyone I've ever met —that knows my father—spoke highly of him. They gifted him with compliments and praised every wisdom that left his lips. To everyone he meets, he was placed on a pedestal for all to see. All to worship.

No one knows what happens when he steps down.

Another round of laughter escapes the table and the glass trembles. Everyone around me, including Hannah and Josie, were soaking in my father's presence like he was a gift from God. He made them laugh, he told fascinating tales—what was there not to like?

Someone grabs my shoulder, causing me to jump. I turn to my right, spotting Hannah grinning ear-to-ear, trying to catch her breath. She clutch onto my shoulder, her nails digging into my skin, relapsing on oxygen.

"Dahlia–Dahlia," she chokes, her free hand resting on her chest. "Your dad. He's so...he's so funny!"

I don't say anything, placing a hand on hers. "Are you alright? Do you need some water?"

She shakes her head frantically, "no, no." She said, stabilizing. She looks up to meet my gaze, her brown eyes meet mine. "I just—I just think your dad is great. He's so funny, I'm betting y'all have a lot of jokes at home."

I grimace, offering a tight shrug. "Sure," I said, dropping my hand by my side. I glance back down at my dinner, which is barely touched. It's not that the food wasn't great—from what I've tasted, it is—I just wasn't in the mood to eat.

Josie perks up from beside Hannah, her green eyes meeting mine with a delicate smile. Her cheeks were flustered, her eyes were bright. "You must be so happy to have him home now. I can't imagine being separated from my dad that long. I would cry myself to sleep every night."

I stay silent, biting my bottom lip. My fingers itching to touch my chest, hearing the steady beats of my heart.

"Dahlia, Dahlia," Hannah shakes my shoulders, forcing my attention to snap back to her. She looks like a curious child, starry eyes with a beaming smile. "Tell me: are you a mama's girl or a daddy's girl? You have to love your dad, right? How can you not?"

I clench my jaw, biting down my tongue. Hannah watches me with curiosity, awaiting an answer. Josie turns to her, lightly slapping her on the arm and giving her a small scold. "Hannah! You can't just ask people to pick if they have a favorite parent!" She whisper-yells, "everyone obviously loves their parents equally."

Hannah turns away from me, and I release a heavy breath. The pair mumbles something back and forth—probably on the topic of favoring a parent over the other—and my fingers slips back upward to my chest.

One, two, three.

I'm alive.

I turn to my two friends, who continue to have their trivial debate, and I open my mouth. I wanted to say: no, you do not love your parents equally. Sometimes you hate them. Sometimes they hate you.

I wanted to explain.

I wanted someone to hear the story behind the scenes, before they idolize a false image of him. To concoct tales made on assumptions and appearances.

"I—"

A clink silences the entire room, and my attention draws away from the girls sitting beside me. I turn to the head of the table, seeing Hannah's father, Finn, standing up from his chair with a wine glass in one hand and a fork in the other.

"I want to say a few words," Finn said, meeting our gazes equally. "I want to say thank you, for all the families that joined us today. I want to welcome Clayton Gray, and his daughter, Dahlia Gray, to this dinner, and I wish for more to come."

The table cheers, bringing their glass in salute. Finn continues. "Many families don't get the opportunities we have. They don't have a table to eat around, or have time with their children. Some even have strained relationships with their kids—with the kids even despising their parents. Imagine that?"

To the side, I hear Hannah mumbling to Josie in a discreet manner, "I can't imagine some kids hating their parents," Hannah mumbles, just as Josie nods in agreement. "I mean, how can you hate someone who gave birth to you? Who gave you life?"

I'm quiet.

I look down to my hands, noticing the lines running down my palms and the red blotches that infiltrated my skin. My heart sinks with every passing moment.

I feel myself slipping deeper and deeper into a hole, with no way out. I'm bound by my hands and I struggle to free myself. Water is leaking from every corner of the room, and it rises vigorously to the surface. It touches my toes, then my calves, then my hips. I'm wiggling out of the ropes but nothing is working.

It feels like I'm going to die.

You cling on the desperation that you're alive.

But you're sinking, not swimming.

And in that exact moment, that precise realization, you just stop.

You stop trying to break free from the rope, because they're burning your wrists. You stop trying to scream for help because your voice is raw. You stop trying to kick your way to the surface because you don't know how to swim.

It's in that exact moment, you just give in.

And the water rises, and rises, and before long, it touches the nape of your neck. You're shivering, clothes clamps to your skin, but you don't do anything. You don't say anything. You don't see anything.

And finally, you just close your eyes.