Angry God

I could tell he was being genuine, but just because he regretted hurting me didn’t mean he was excused.

“Maybe I got bored of being good.” I hitched up one shoulder, thinking about Vaughn’s pet name for me. “Maybe my eighteenth birthday resolution was to be myself. And I don’t like you right now. You disgraced Mum, me, and Poppy. I know it was very convenient for you when I walked around in black clothes and piercings. I got the grades, did my volunteer work, steered clear of trouble. But know what, Papa? It didn’t work for me. You didn’t work for me.”

He stared at me, shocked. “What on Earth are you on about?”

His question only riled me further. I couldn’t help myself. I gave him a little shove toward the door. He was huge, yes, but he also knew social clues when they were thrown in his face. He took a step back.

“I’m talking about how you never asked me about my art. About my life. Mum died, and you did nothing to make us feel like we had someone to talk to. I was lucky Poppy took the role of a mother. But what if she hadn’t? You were always too bloody busy for me. Still are.” I shook my head, finding the first thing in my sight—Poppy’s poster, still wrapped—and throwing it like an arrow. He dodged it, taking another step back.

“You don’t understand—”

“Oh, but I do.” I smiled, feeling lighter somehow, now that everything was out in the open.

Sure, I’d always felt timid and embarrassed about asking for my father’s time. I didn’t want to bother him. But I never quite realized the extent of the anger I’d harbored toward him until now.

I picked up another wrapped gift and aimed it at him. “I understand everything so perfectly clear. Vaughn is more important than me. Arabella is more important than me—”

“They are not more important than you,” he cried desperately, flinging his arms in the air. “Vaughn got his internship because he deserved it.”

“And Arabella?” I raised an eyebrow, cocking my head, waiting for his explanation. “The affair,” I enunciated meaningfully.

“Arabella…” He drew a deep breath, his cheeks staining red. “I made a mistake. I cannot undo it right now.”

Of course you can’t, Papa.

But this was a full-blown confession. I’d said the word affair, and he hadn’t contradicted it.

I closed my eyes, begging the tears not to fall. I didn’t want him to see what he did to me, what his despicable behavior stirred inside me.

“Leave,” I whispered, for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

I didn’t have Vaughn. I didn’t have Papa. Apparently, I was officially at odds with the opposite sex. Well, there was Pope, but he was hardly male as far as I was concerned.

“Lenny…”

I threw the second gift at him, and this time, I hit his chest. Before he could gather his wits, I took one of my sculpting tools and boomeranged it at him, too. Knowing he was a living target, he turned around, stalked to the door, and slammed it behind him.

I collapsed on the floor, the sobs ripping from my mouth.

I didn’t stop until night fell.

Vaughn didn’t come to see me that night, or the night after.

But Pope did, just as he’d promised.

We played board games and drank cheap, boxed wine and talked about philosophy and art and celebrities we’d like to shag (he said Rooney Mara was his dream girl, while I fancied Machine Gun Kelly). He told me about the progress he was making with his piece. He also admitted, albeit reluctantly, that he’d seen Arabella sneaking into my father’s office again.

Funny, my father was perfectly content leaving me alone, but he was still seeing Arabella.

Brilliant.

On the sixth night of not talking to Vaughn and Papa, I showed Pope my sculpture and he, too, flashed me a weird look, like I’d done something wrong. Apparently, something about the statue threw people off, but both men kept mum about it.

“Why the face?” I scowled. “If it’s bad, just tell me.”

He shook his head vehemently. “Oh, it’s the opposite of bad. I mean, in terms of skill and technique, it is absolutely spectacular, Lenny.”

“Then what’s the problem?” I frowned.

“Uh…” He rubbed at his cheek, his ears pinking. “I mean…do you really not see it?”

“No!” I threw my hands in the air, exasperated.

He gave me a pitying look. “Darling, it is Vaughn Spencer. It looks exactly like him. I mean, not really,” he amended, cocking his head to examine the piece more closely. “Your sculpture has more life in it than Vaughn does. It is substantially more humane, and I’d probably trust it before Vaughn with babies and weapons of mass destruction. But other than that, spot-on.”

I glanced at my statue, my eyes widening as I choked on my saliva.

Motherforker.

It was him. Of course it was. The sharp-as-razor cheekbones. Dead eyes. Permanent scowl. Heart pouring out of his chest like a fountain. I did this. I’d immortalized Vaughn Spencer with my own hands. The idea had come to me while I was still in Todos Santos, the day Arabella sucked him off, the day Poppy started sending me chocolate. He’d humiliated me, and I, in return, had somewhat worshipped him.