More Than Lies (More Than #1)(57)

I interviewed a potential piercer for Adam a while back, but he didn’t show up with a portfolio that would have given me a glimpse at what he would bring to the studio. I’m still learning the ins and outs of the tattoo and piercing world, but one thing I know for sure is that an artist—a real artist that’s serious about his or her profession—would never show up without a display of their previous work. If you take pride in something, you show it. At least that’s what I’ve heard from both Shawn and my brother’s buddy Chance Manning in Vegas.

“Taralynn.” My dad’s whisper of my name brings me out of my thoughts as he enters my bedroom. I’m not asleep, obviously, but he doesn’t know that. It’s early Christmas morning—real early—and I’m lying in my bed at my parents’ house. “Wake up, sweetheart.”

I’ve been waiting on his arrival for about half an hour. We have a tradition that I look forward to every year. Ever since I was a little kid, he’s always woken me up before anyone else gets up to give me a Christmas present that’s just from him and him alone. It’s our secret. I’ve never breathed a word of this even to my brother. I don’t know why my dad does this and I’ve never asked. Once a year, every Christmas morning between three and four I get my daddy the way I’ve always wanted him. Needed him. In these moments, I feel like a kid loved.

“I’m awake, Daddy.” This is another rare moment when I call him that particular word. It’s usually Dad. At least it is in front of my mother. Her rule.

He sits down on the edge of my bed. I rise, pulling myself into a sitting position. He’s holding a box, resting on his leg. I can see the outlines of the sharpness in the dark. Excitement spurs within me, making me feel like a small child.

He reaches over to the bedside table and turns on the lamp. Thankfully, the lamp is dimly lit, so the brightness doesn’t sting my eyes.

“Merry Christmas, baby girl.” He places the wrapped present onto my lap.

“Merry Christmas to you too.” I smile, looking at him expectantly. He knows what’s coming. I can’t help myself. “What is it?” I’m way too giddy for a twenty-one-year-old, but I don’t give a crap.

“Child, every year since you learned to speak, you’ve asked that same question.” He laughs lightly. “I’ve never told you before, and I’m not telling you now. Open it, Taralynn, if you want to find out.”

It’s heavy and several inches thick. When I pick it up, it feels solid so I give it a shake. Nothing rattles. My dad laughs again. The wrapping paper is the same every year—Santa Claus. I don’t know how he manages to pull that one off, but he does. I lay it back on my lap and proceed to tear into it, quickly learning that it isn’t a present inside a box. The present itself is wrapped. It’s a book, and a thick book at that. Flipping it over to the front, I read the title. It’s a thesaurus for writers.

I’m floored—maybe even shocked. I was not expecting him to give me something like this. I look up confused. Not because I don’t like it, and not because I’m ungrateful. I’m both. In fact, I think I love this. It’s the best gift he’s ever given me, but coming from him it doesn’t make sense.

“You don’t like it?” His question is full of disappointment. That’s the last thing I want my dad to feel, so I quickly dispel that assumption.

“Yes, sir, I like it a lot; a lot a lot even. It’s just . . . I don’t get why you would give me something like this. I’m confused, but I love it.”

“Confused how? You love to write, so I thought it would be something useful for you.”

“It is. It will be very useful, but you hate that I want to be a writer.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t hate it. You enjoy it, and I get that, but I’m your dad. I want what’s best for you. I know you don’t like to have been forced to graduate with two majors, but it’s my job to make sure if one option doesn’t pan out that you’ll have a second option to pursue.”

“That doesn’t make any sense to me. And it’s contradicting the ultimatum you gave me just a week ago.” Why would he have her tell me I have to give up writing and settle down if he doesn’t disagree with my passion to write?

“What are you talking about? I haven’t given you any sort of ultimatum. Ever.”

“That’s not true.” My voice falters allowing the hurt inside to filter out. “Mother said that if I don’t give up writing after graduation and marry someone worthy of this family that I wouldn’t be a welcome member of it any longer.” Who does that to their children? Aren’t you supposed to love them unconditionally? Accept them for who they are, the good and the bad?

He stares at me. It’s as though I’ve rendered Jacob Evans speechless.

I haven’t given any thought to what my mother said after I told Shawn. I wouldn’t allow myself to dwell on it; I knew the moment I did that the emotions would overcome me. I was right. The tears come and fall from my eyes before I’m able to keep them at bay. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to cry in front of him. I didn’t want to ruin the one moment I get to enjoy my dad the way I’ve always dreamed.

I turn my face to look away, but he grabs my jaw firmly between his thumb and index fingers pulling my head back around to face him. He’s angry.