Chapter Thirty

Julia

"SO WHAT YOU'RE REALLY SAYING is, I won't be getting any sleep this weekend?" 

We're in bed, on our sides, facing each other like usual. Somehow, the space between us has shrunk by the millimeter with each passing night, as we get more and more comfortable with our arrangement.

"Don't be dramatic, Giles."

"I'll get bags under my eyes," he says, that familiar playfulness twinkling in his eyes. "I'll be ragged and hideous by the time you get back. You won't even want to look at me."

I doubt that will ever be the case.

"If you're complaining about two nights of sleeping alone, what will you do when I get thrown in jail?"

"For what? Jaywalking?"

"For murdering my ex-boyfriend on sight."

His whole body stiffens, his lips gather into a flat line.

"I'm kidding," I rush to assure him, surprised by his reaction. 

"You're going to see him?"

"Don't look at me like that. I don't want to, but there's too much I need to get off my chest. So yes, I'll go find him on my way out. Things feel unresolved and it's just going to eat away at me, all the things I haven't said. I need closure."

I can tell Giles doesn't like the idea, but he doesn't push the subject. Instead, he asks me about my family. 

Whether I've talked to my mother. Yes, I have. A very tense conversation where she told me she's pleased I am coming to her birthday party. 

Whether I've talked to my father. No, I have not, and I'm very nervous to see him again. I'm almost certain he blames me for what happened. Even if he believes I didn't know about the footage, as far as he's concerned, I'm at fault for having sex in the first place. 

That's my dad. His world crumbled when he realized his daughter was sexually active. Never mind it was my very first time. Though, I don't think either of my parents knows that. I didn't exactly fill them in on that detail. I couldn't really get a word in edgewise between their angry tirades.

Saturday morning comes and my eyes fly open before the alarm I set on my phone even sounds. I leave Giles in bed, careful not to wake him, and get ready for my short road trip north to Orange County.

I take Pacific Coast Highway the whole way, basking in the sights of the ocean whenever the road winds in its direction for miles at a time. The silvery, overcast skies set a gloomy tone on the morning and I'm trying to not take it as an omen. The words Giles spoke on that Ferris wheel a few weeks ago, still resonate with me. 

A leopard is more ferocious and dangerous when wounded.

It's such a simple fact, yet an incredibly powerful idea. To fight even harder when you're hurt takes a type of courage not often seen in any animal. But it's not over until it's over. Getting hurt, being knocked down, is only the beginning of an even fiercer fight.

It's what I should've done to begin with, but better late than never. Just the idea of driving back to face the fight fills me with adrenaline. It's refreshing, having made the decision to take the first step in reconciling the relationship with my parents. 

My relationship with my family was the biggest casualty of this experience. It left me so isolated from them during a time in my life when I needed someone to lean on so badly. So I moved away, to lick my wounds, not knowing what else to do and not being brave enough to look any of them in the eye any longer. I'm trying to be brave now. I'm trying to move past it all by moving right back through it. 

As I pull into my parents' driveway, nerves swoop in, slushing around in my stomach as I squeeze my eyes shut in dread. I take a deep breath.

This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been whoring yourself around like a cheap piece of meat.

That's one of the things my father said to me. He'd never spoken to me that way before. I could see the anger contorting his face when he spat out those words and I knew, on some level, that he didn't mean it. That his anger wasn't really meant for me. But I was there, the only one he could scold. 

What he said slashed at me and made me bleed the way only words can. That slow, internal hemorrhaging that floods you with resentment so bitter, it tastes almost exactly like hatred. I hated my father for making me feel so small, when I'd already been leveled to the ground. 

He's never been a sensitive man. My father's parenting style has always been stern and harsh and, I realize now, all the things fathers tend to be when they are terrified for their daughters. All his worst fears were probably realized when everyone we knew had access to his daughter in her most vulnerable state. 

That's what I try to remind myself of as I muster the will to leave my car. I try to remember that my father loves me, that he was furious in a way he's never been before, and said things that, maybe, he didn't mean to say. Things he likely regrets.

He's too proud to take the first step in making things right. I understand that. Pride is what kept me from facing him or the rest of my family after my ego had been so badly wounded. We're a proud bunch, my family. We're always so concerned with appearing strong that we fail to realize pride is just an imitation of strength. 

Today, I'll press on my bleeding wound and make the leap, anyway. With no guarantees on the outcome, with no guarantees I'll survive.

Today, I'll be the leopard.