Chapter 33

Iran my hands over my skirt, smoothing out another stupid wrinkle. It was mostly wrinkle-free. All but one. And that one stupid wrinkle would matter to him. Phillip Goodwin—my father—wasn’t a perfectionist. Not really. He was, however, demanding in all things related to his family. We were an extension of his image.

Image and perception were very important things. Which honestly confused me, considering he was a man of God, a pastor. I thought other things should’ve been more important, but I knew better than to voice that opinion.

My parents’ house was a modest little house on the corner of one of the busier sections in Cedar Harbor. Nice, small homes with nicer cars and friendly neighbors. Their house always had visitors. Why wouldn’t they? The town’s pastor living on the corner where everyone could come and go as they pleased was quite the commodity.

Not that I’d thought so growing up.

Sighing, I stood taller like he liked and straightened my shoulders as I was supposed to before letting myself inside. My dad sat in his reading chair with a newspaper in hand and the Bible open on his lap. He was dressed up—he was always dressed up—in perfectly pressed dark slacks and a crisp blue shirt. Mom got up early every day to make sure his clothes were ready. Looking well-put-together was important when letting people into your life. His dark gaze drifted over the edge of his glasses when I closed the front door. From the way his brows furrowed, I knew he was annoyed. And I knew why.

“There’s a wrinkle in your skirt,” my dad snapped before I could brace myself for it.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I whispered and flattened my palm over that one stupid wrinkle. I’d tried to get rid of the dang thing. I really had.

“When are you going to fix your hair?” he continued as he gestured to my hair. Once he got started, there was no stopping him. I wrung my fingers together and waited. Waiting it out was the best option. The easiest option. The safer option. “That hair isn’t respectable. It’s unruly. Undistinguished.”

“I’ll make an appointment to have it straightened,” I told him. I wouldn’t, but I’d say it just so I could make it through another family breakfast with him and Mom. It wasn’t that I didn’t love my parents. I did and helped them out however I could. They were just difficult to please people. That part was hard for me. I wanted them to be happy.

He hummed, an indecisive sound as if he wasn’t sure I’d do it. How many times would he tell me I needed to fix my curls before I actually did it? Probably sooner than I wanted to admit aloud.

“Go help your mother in the kitchen,” he ordered dismissively. “The Clarks brought over cider and donuts. They left extras for you to take with you. I said you’d go over and thank them later.”

I bit back a sigh. I hated the Clarks. Maybe hate was a strong word. They bored the ever-living daylights out of me. And that was when they weren’t trying to poke me for information on what had happened between Killian and myself. Three years of silence had yet to deter them.

“Of course,” I said and quickly made my way to the back of the house where my mother was. Gail Goodwin was a shell of a woman, demure and shrunken—a fact it’d taken me years to realize about her. Everything about her was drawn and severe from the pinch between her brows to the deep frown lines around her mouth. Her posture, her style, her attitude. All of it. Her hair was always perfection, her dresses pristine, and her make-up subtly on par.

The one thing she wasn’t, was happy. But she’d never say that.

“Your hair, Genevieve, dear,” Mom began softly when she faced me. The disappointment in her expression cut right through me. “Why haven’t you straightened it? That look suited you so much better than this wild one.”

“I know,” I replied. “Daddy said the same thing.”

“You know he’s bothered by it.” She put her back to me, going back to cooking while gesturing to the cabinets. “Set the table, will you, dear?”

“Yes, Mother,” I whispered. Honestly, the woman probably hadn’t heard me as she continued to prattle on about my hair and everything else wrong with me.

“I don’t know why you insist on upsetting your father the way you do. He’s only looking out for you. That hair... you should have more respect for yourself. For you father. Your image is his image, you know. People talk in this town. We have to look our best at all times.”

“I know—”

“And that skirt.” She clicked her tongue. “Did you even press it this morning? Like I taught you? You know what? After breakfast, I’ll take you upstairs and show you how to do it the right way. We don’t want you getting it wrong again next week.”

“Of course not,” I grumbled.

“Speak up, Genevieve, if you have something to say,” she clipped. “Speak clearly and with intention.”

“Thank you for offering to show me how to press my skirt, Mother,” I said loud enough for her to hear and forced a smile. This was the easiest. Appease and get through it. I could do that. “That’s very kind of you to take time out of your day to do so. I appreciate it.”

“Of course, you do, dear. You’re just so pretty, Genevieve. If you just tried a little more and put a little more in your presentation, other people could see that. They’d see how warm and inviting being around you can be.”

Lips pressed together tightly, I simply nodded. There was no point in engaging her commentary. I just had to keep reminding myself of that.

Perfectly set table? Check.

Breakfast perfectly cooked? Check.

Perfectly arranged on the table? Check.

Everything looked like something out of a magazine as we took our respective seats. Gabby’s seat was left open with her table settings as we always did. Mom and Dad were holding a spot for her on the off-chance she came home. They believed her on-a-whim excursion to Seattle was rebellious child behavior and that she’d come home. It was the entire reason Dad called her every day to remind her of why she needed to return home. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that she wasn’t coming back. Gabby was happy—finally. I wanted her to keep that.

“Will you say grace, Genevieve?” Dad asked as he held his hand out for me to take. I did and Mom’s too.

“Yes, Daddy,” I said. Drawing in a deep breath, I closed my eyes and prayed as I was taught, “Father of mercy, we praise you and give you glory for the wonderful gifts you have bestowed upon us. We thank you for this life and our health, for our neverending faith and for your unconditional love. We thank you for this meal we are fortunate enough to share. In your name, we pray… amen.”

“Amen,” Mom echoed.

“Well done,” he said.

“Thank you, Daddy,” I replied with a small smile. It took a lot for him to say those words, and I loved hearing them when he did.

Mom pushed out of her chair and busied herself with serving him a little bit of everything from the table before sitting down in her seat. I waited my turn. First him, then her, and then I was free to serve myself.

“Did you prepare the music for tomorrow?” Dad asked when we were settled in. A small knot formed in my stomach.

“I didn’t have time this week. I was gone, remember?” I told him.

“To where?” he demanded.

“I went on a road trip with Nolan to see the Stones and the Ironwoods,” I explained, careful to leave out a few of the more unsavory details. There were things they never needed to be made aware of.

“The Fall Games,” Dad scoffed. “Ridiculous child’s play. You don’t belong attending such nonsense.”

“I mostly spent time with Nolan—”

“You spend too much time with that boy,” he snapped.

“I just—”

“People talk,” Dad said over me. “They have questions about what you’re doing with him. Always following him around like a lovesick puppy.”

“I don’t—”

“You will not be the girl who sleeps around!” He slammed his fist onto the table.

“Nolan and I aren’t sleeping together, Daddy,” I assured him like I always had to. This wasn’t the first time we’d had this conversation. He didn’t like the Byrnes—any of them. But I wasn’t willing to give them up. “Him and his brothers are family—

“No!” he interrupted angrily, his temper escalating. “Those boys aren’t your family! They’re a bad influence on you!”

“They’re my family—

“You are not a Byrne!” he shouted.

“Sweetheart,” Mom began as her hand covered mine, “you’re upsetting your father. You and I both know the Byrnes boys are no good. I don’t know why you insist on being around them when you know they offer no value in your life. You don’t need that job at the bookstore. Come back to the church with us full-time. There are plenty of things we need your help with.”

“I like my job at The Treehouse,” I said. “I like spending time with Nolan and Raven.”

“That woman,” Dad scoffed. “She’s a harlot. Living with two men and doing God only knows what else with who else. I don’t want you around her. She’s a bad influence.”

“She’s my friend.”

“You need better friends. Respectable friends.”

My stomach rolled unsteadily. I drew in a deep breath in an attempt to calm it. I’d never convince him about how good any of the people I filled my life with were. It was a pointless fight. If he didn’t like them, nothing would change his mind.

Unfortunately, who I spent my time with wasn’t the big issue at hand. I chewed on my bottom lip as I pushed the food around on my plate. The idea of eating made me nauseous. I had to bring it up. I knew I did. But God, even the thought of it scared the crap out of me. My dad was going to lose it. Absolutely lose it. But it’d be so much worse if it happened and I didn’t tell him first.

“So…” I cleared my throat as I set my fork down. I stared at my hands in my lap, unable to look at my parents. “Killian is coming home.”

Dad’s fork hit the table. Hard.

Mom gasped—a little too dramatically. Her hand flew to her chest as her eyes widened and her brows nearly hit her hairline.

“No!” Dad snapped. “He’s not! You tell him he’s not welcome.”

“I’m not going to tell him that,” I whispered. “He’s coming back to Cedar Harbor. Not home… to me. He’s coming back because of the pack.”

“We don’t want him!”

“Genevieve, dear,” Mom began, “the Byrnes can’t honestly think that after what he… what he did to you… that he can just come back and run the pack. How can we trust him?”

“We can’t,” he cut in. “He’s not welcome here. You stay away from that boy, Genevieve, you understand me? I’ll handle this. The pack doesn’t want him back. He doesn’t belong here. He belongs in a jail cell! Mark my words, when I’m done with him, Killian Byrne won’t be welcome in this town.”

I said nothing like I always did when it came to the topic of Killian. My marriage was my own. The choices I’d made… they couldn’t understand.

They wouldn’t.

And so, I remained silent because I knew nothing I had to say would matter anyway.