Monk by Ivy Black

Chapter Five

Kasey

I pull the Range Rover to a stop in the driveway and sit for a moment, letting out a deep breath. When I left home, I really had no specific destination in mind. But as I sit in front of my dad’s place—my childhood home—I realize that maybe deep down, I’ve always known where I am headed all along.

I get out of the car and look around. The neighborhood is like a perfectly preserved time capsule. Everything is how I remember it. Almost nothing has changed. Of course, not much changed while I was growing up here either. It’s part of the charm—and monotony—of Blue Rock Bay.

The lights are burning downstairs and I know that my dad is sitting in his recliner, beer in hand, watching whatever game is on. It’s his natural state of being after a long day at work. Has been since I was a kid. It’s just one of those things that never change around here. It’s a sleepy town, and life here is often predictable. It’s one of the reasons I was so keen to get out of this place and start a life in a place that was more… vibrant.

That’s not to say that Blue Rock Bay isn’t without its charms. It’s a really nice place to live and raise a family. But the existence here is staid. Comfortable. There are never any real surprises around here. If I have to sum up life in this town in a word, it will be “idyllic”. But I want more than that.

“Yeah, that turned out really well,” I mutter.

The porch light that has just come on draws my attention. When I turn, I see my dad standing on the porch. He looks at me curiously for a moment, then breaks into a warm smile.

“What are you doin’ here, Kasey?” he asks.

I slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans and shuffle my feet, kicking at a small pebble near my shoe. I feel the pressure building up, and I try to fight it off. But it’s like now that I’m out from under Spencer’s thumb—now that I’m free—the weight that’s been lifted off my shoulders is so profound, I start to feel cracks forming in the wall of self-control I’ve built inside of myself.

I bury my face in my hands and erupt into hard sobs that shake my body from head to toe. My dad is suddenly there, pulling me into his large arms, and holds me close. I have to admit, the feeling of his burly body and the scent of his aftershave are warm, comforting reminders of my life before Spencer. The life I’ve walked away from.

Slowly, I’m able to shut off the waterworks and take a step back. I give myself a minute to wipe my eyes and gather my wits back. And when I’m composed enough, I look up and give him a quavering smile.

“Hi, Dad,” I say, my voice still trembling.

He takes me by the hand and without a word, leads me along the path, then up the steps to the porch and the front door. He closes it behind me, and I follow him into the kitchen. He gestures for me to take a seat at the counter on the center island while he turns on the Keurig machine and puts a pod in to brew.

As I sit there, my gaze falls upon the badge sitting on the island beside me. I run my fingertip over the embossed lettering, the metal cool beneath my touch, and I smile. I almost can’t seem to remember a time when my dad isn’t the sheriff around here. My smile slips as I think back. Sometimes I feel like his job came even before us. Pulling my hand back, I glance at the worn and cracked leather gun belt sitting on the counter and a small shiver passes through me.

I’ve never been comfortable around guns. My mom wasn’t crazy about them either—though she didn’t have quite the same aversion to them as I do—and when she was alive, she would always make my dad hang his gun belt in the closet. He’d grumble and complain, but he always did as she asked. I suppose without somebody here to nag him about it now, he doesn’t concern himself with leaving his gun lying about.

Tearing my eyes away from the gun belt, I look around and see that, like everything else in the neighborhood, the kitchen has almost been hermetically sealed. Locked in time. Not that I’ve ever expected him to, but the farmhouse motif my mother favored is still in place. The table and center island are done in a light oak that’s polished to a high, glossy shine, but the cabinets and drawers are all done in wood that’s been made to look weathered and distressed.

One wall is made of red brick, and there’s a large, stainless steel stove with a matching backsplash and oversized hood. The same knickknacks my mother had filled the shelves with are all still in place. To my eye, it doesn’t look like they’ve moved an inch. It’s almost as if my dad is keeping the kitchen—probably the entire house—as a shrine to her.

“You ever think about updating this place?” I ask.

He looks up at me. “Why would I?”

I shrug, struggling to find the right way to say what I mean. “Maybe make it something more… your own?”

He chuckles softly to himself, but it fades away, leaving an expression that’s caught somewhere between wistful and mournful on his face. The brew finishes, and he puts the mug of coffee and a bowl of sweetener packets down in front of me, then walks to the refrigerator and grabs a bottle of creamer.

He still doesn’t answer me as he sets the creamer on the island, then brews himself a mug of coffee. When his mug is ready, he sits down across from me and quietly fixes his coffee. His silences are unbearable. Always have been. They used to scare me when I was younger, because it was like waiting for the volcano to blow. As I’ve gotten older, they have simply become annoying.

Clearly, just like the neighborhood and this kitchen, nothing around here ever really changes. He takes a drink of his coffee and gently sets the mug down, his expression darkening. He finally raises his eyes to me, a frown pulling the corners of his mouth downward.

“You don’t set foot in this house for what, five years now, and the first thing you ask is why I haven’t torn down your mother’s kitchen?” he finally grumbles.

“That’s not what I meant, Dad,” I say, working hard to keep the frustration out of my voice. “All I meant was… never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“Matters enough that you said something.”

I look down into my mug and I can feel my dad’s eyes on me. Suddenly, I remember why it’s been years since I’ve been here, and why I’ve only ever spoken to him a couple of times a year—the required times, like birthdays and Christmases.

“Maybe this wasn’t a good idea,” I say and get to my feet.

“Kasey…”

I look up and meet his eyes and I see the pain and grief within him. He looks down for a moment and I can tell he’s struggling with the words. My dad has never been somebody who expresses his emotions well, unless that emotion is anger. That’s not to say he’s ever been abusive or anything like that. He’s always been a good father. We are just two very different people.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve missed you, Kasey. I’ve missed you a lot. Please… sit down.”

I collapse back into the tall bar chair out of shock more than anything. In all my twenty-seven years, I’ve never once heard him say he’s sorry. Not to me. Nor has he ever said he misses me. Not in all the years I’ve stayed away from Blue Rock Bay.

He looks at me and his expression is pained. It’s like saying those things is taking a heavy toll on him or something.

“I keep the house and the kitchen how they always were because they remind me of your mom,” he suddenly blurts out. “It brings me comfort.”

A small frown creases my lips. “I just hate thinking of you living all alone in this… shrine. Alone with all these old ghosts…”

His green eyes light up. “You’re right, it is a shrine. But it’s a shrine to all the good memories I’ve had in this life. Your mom’s here. You’re here,” he says. “Everything that’s ever made me happy, and this life we all built together is here within these walls. Why would I ever want to get rid of all that?”

I sit back and look at him silently for a long moment. I guess it has never occurred to me to see it from that perspective before. I’ve really only ever seen it shot through the prism of my grief and all of the frustrations I’ve had in this house. I suppose it’s my failing that I’ve never stopped to really think about all of the good things, the happy times, and cherished memories that are stored here as well.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “But can I ask why?”

I feel a hitch in my chest and have to fight off the waves of emotions that are battering me inside. My dad reaches across the table and takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. His smile is soft and warm and makes the dam inside me break. I wipe away the tears that spill from the corners of my eye and draw in a deep breath, taking a moment to gather myself.

“I left Spencer,” I tell him. “I just… I can’t do it anymore.”

He sits back, not saying anything for a long moment. I know my father’s views on marriage. He’s traditional. Conservative. He believes that marriage is a lifelong commitment, and not something that should be taken lightly… or given up on easily.

“What happened, honey?”

I take a drink of my coffee, staring deep into the dark brew, trying to put my thoughts into some semblance of order. Instinctively, I file away all mention of Spencer’s illicit business and the cartel itself. I also bury any thought of the bag of cash sitting in the back of my car. I’m still not ready to delve into those things just yet. And if I don’t know what to think about it yet, my dad sure as hell won’t either.

“I just… we grew apart, Dad. Our priorities are just so different now,” I explain. “He’s not the same man I met at Stanford. He’s… changed.”

“We all change, honey,” he says. “It’s just part of growing up.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s not that. It’s not part of the maturing process. It’s… like I said, he’s not the same man I met at school.”

“How is he different?”

“He’s just more into status and having all of these expensive things,” I tell him. “He’s just changed into this materialistic person. He’s gotten cold. Sarcastic. He’s just… mean-spirited sometimes.”

“Has he ever put his hands on you?” he asks, his voice hard.

“No, it’s nothing like that.” Unless you count him slamming me up against the bookcase by my throat. “It’s more the things he says. And just the way he is with me anymore.”

“All marriages go through rough patches. Times aren’t always sunshine and rainbows, honey,” he replies. “Your mom and I certainly had our fair share of them.”

“Dad, this isn’t an argument over the color of the drapes or about taking the trash out. There are just fundamental differences between us now that weren’t there before. We’re two different people and we’re not traveling the same road anymore,” I tell him.

“I know it can feel like that sometimes. And sometimes you have to dig deep to sort things out and get through them. But if you work at it, you can get through them,” he responds.

I bite back the sharp reply that’s sitting on the tip of my tongue. I really don’t want to fight with my dad. Part of me just wants to go to sleep and wake up tomorrow to find this has all been a bad dream.

“Some things can’t be worked through, Dad. Believe me on this one.”

He frowns and takes a long swallow of his coffee. He doesn’t even need to say anything to express his disappointment. It just radiates off him like heat from the sun. Like I said, he’s traditional and conservative when it comes to marriage. I ought to have known better than to expect that he’ll jump to my defense. But in his mind, if Spencer isn’t beating me up, it’s something I am supposed to be able to get over.

Part of me wants to drop the whole cartel bomb on him just to see how he’ll react to that bit of news. To see if it will change his opinion of things, and if this is something that he thinks I can get over, and that Spencer and I can work out. But I won’t do that. Partly because I’m still coming to grips with it myself, but also—probably mostly—because I don’t want to drag my dad into this mess. Miguel Zavala is not somebody to mess around with, and I don’t want my dad caught up in this.

“Look, Dad, it’s really… complicated,” I say softly. “There’s a lot going on that I can’t share with you right now. I just want you to know this isn’t a decision I made lightly or quickly. And it’s about a lot more than just hurt feelings. I just need you to trust me. This had to happen.”

“I do trust you. I just hate to see it come to this,” he tells me.

“Yeah. Me, too.”

We both fall silent for a moment, each of us sipping our coffee. My mind is awash with a million different thoughts. Though the burden I’ve been carrying on my back for a long time now hasn’t disappeared completely, I feel like it’s lessened. Getting out of that house and away from Spencer and all of the bullshit that entailed, has lightened the load. More so than I have ever expected.

Suddenly, I feel exhausted. Wrung out. Totally and completely emotionally spent.

“Your room is right where you left it,” he says with a smile on his face.

“Thanks, Dad. I just need to get my bags.”

“I’ll help.”

My mind flashes to the bag of cash in the back seat and a jolt of adrenaline shoots through me, pushing that feeling of exhaustion aside once more.

“It’s okay. I can handle it,” I tell him.

“I haven’t done a lot of things right in life where you’re concerned, honey,” he says quietly. “At least lugging stuff around is something I know I won’t screw up.”

The expression on his face is that of guilt mixed with sorrow, and I feel like the world’s biggest asshole. I get to my feet and come around the island, then throw my arms around him, holding him tight. Though my vision shimmers, I manage to keep any tears from falling this time.

“Come on, let’s go get your things,” he says.

I nod and lead him out of the kitchen. I get to the bags first and make sure I grab the bag with the money in it, slinging it over my shoulder, and grimace as I feel my knees start to buckle under the weight.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah, just tweaked my knee running a couple of weeks back. No biggie.”

I give him a smile and walk back into the house, feeling guilty about the lie. Technically speaking, it’s not a lie. I did tweak my knee on a run a couple of weeks ago. It just hasn’t actually bothered me in a week or so. What bothers me the most is how easily that lie has come to my lips.

I’ve always prided myself on being an honest person. But the fact of the matter is that I’ve had to hide so much from Spencer and be less than forthcoming so often over the last couple of years that it’s become second nature to me. And honestly, I hate that about myself. Honesty. Integrity. Forthrightness. Those are qualities my father has in spades and traits I was always proud of having myself. But Spencer changed me… and not for the better.

I walk up the stairs and into my old room, and I can’t stop the waves of nostalgia washing over me. Stepping into my room is like stepping into my past. I drop my bags and look around. Just like everything else in the house, my room is like a museum display, a moment perfectly frozen in time. Nothing has changed and everything is exactly how I remember leaving it.

“I was going hang all of my hunting trophies in here. I thought the deer heads would look good mounted on that wall over there,” my dad says as he walks into the room.

“Glad you held off,” I reply with a small laugh.

He drops my bags next to those I’ve carried in, then turns and looks at me. Without a word, he pulls me into an embrace so tight, I feel like he’s about to crack my ribs. As it is, I’m having trouble breathing. Despite that, it feels nice. Even though he was never very touchy-feely when I was younger, it still somehow feels like home. I take a step back and look up at him.

“You’re getting soft and sentimental on me, old man?”

“I can still turn this into my trophy room, you know. Maybe make it my skinning room, too.”

I laugh and shake my head at him. “That’s really gross.”

“Teach you to call me soft.”

He pauses for a moment, his gaze fixed on mine, and in his eyes, I see such a complicated tangle of thoughts and emotions. But more than anything, I see that he still loves me. And for that, I’m grateful. Given the tumult and acrimony between us the last few years, he ought to have turned me away. Frankly, part of me is surprised he hasn’t. But I’m thankful for it.

“This is your home, too. Always has been, and you’re always welcome here,” he says. “You know that, right?”

I feel the emotions rising in me like the tide, threatening to pull me under. My eyes burn and my cheeks flush with warmth, and all I seem able to do is stand there, doing my best to not start blubbering like an idiot.

“You stay here as long as you need to figure out—well—everything you need to figure out. You’re safe here, honey.”

I give him another long hug, squeezing him as tight as I can. “Thanks, Dad.”

He leans forward and kisses me on the forehead before turning and walking out of my room, closing the door softly behind him. The feeling of being safe—of being home—is overwhelming. But not nearly as much as the exhaustion that’s crept up on me again. That feeling of being drained latches onto me, and my entire body feels weak.

I look at my bags—at the bag of cash in particular—and decide that I’m going to deal with it in the morning. It’ll be safe until then. That decided, I stagger over to the queen-sized four-poster bed I got way back in high school and collapse onto it. The mattress is so soft, I feel like I’m lying on a cloud.

I pull the pillows over to me and give brief thought to getting undressed and ready for bed. But it’s nothing more than a thought as the darkness of exhaustion reaches up and pulls me under.