The Girls I've Been(64)

But sometimes, his schedule is different, and that day, he comes with us down to the sand. When I trot past him, he frowns, and I catch it, but he doesn’t say anything, so I keep going. Maybe it’ll be okay.

Mom settles under her umbrella and spears fruit from the glass container she brought, and I try not to roll my eyes when they feed each other. I lie out on my towel with my book, but it’s hot out already, so I peel off my shirt and toss it to the side.

“You want some fruit, honey?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

My face is buried in my book, so I don’t see them at first, but I hear it, breaking through the hum of the beach and curl of the waves: a sharp whistle and lookitthat, three words smashed into a laughing, skin-pricking drawl as three teenage guys walk down the beach past us. I don’t even look up—this shit’s been happening since I was nine—I just flip to the next page.

But Raymond’s head snaps up. “Did they just . . . ?”

“Oh, love, don’t worry about it,” Mom says. “It’s part of being a woman.”

I glance over my shoulder at the two of them before going back to my book.

“Ashley,” he barks suddenly.

“Yes?” I learned early he doesn’t like being asked what. He thinks young ladies should be positive. Yes is so much more affirmative and positive.

“Cover up, honey,” he tells me.

I don’t even hesitate. I just play dumb. “Don’t worry, I put sunscreen on before I left the house.”

My mom’s eyes narrow. She knows exactly what I’m doing.

“Ashley, put on your shirt,” he says, in the kind of tone that tells me bad things will happen if I don’t.

I should obey. I should say yes. It’s what he likes.

But it’s hot, and it’s not my fault the boys whistled at me.

“No.”

“Baby,” Mom says. “Do what your father says.”

I turn back to my book, ignoring both of them.

When he yanks me up off the sand, it’s from underneath my arm, right at the armpit, and I flinch under his hold.

“We’re going to have a little talk,” he says, and Mom makes a noise of protest that dies under the look he gives her.

He marches me up the beach and to the house, and right to my room.

“Sit at your desk,” he directs, before swinging my closet doors open. “Christ,” he mutters, like the clothes Mom bought me are an affront to him.

“What are you doing?” I ask as he starts pulling clothes out of the closet and throwing them on the bed.

“Making your wardrobe appropriate.”

“Mom picks out my clothes,” I say, almost numbly, because I don’t get this. He hits me, but he keeps talking and acting like some other guy whistling at me is bad. I don’t understand how he can’t see.

He’s the one I’m afraid of. I’ve struggled through everyone and everything else. But I don’t know how to struggle through him. I can’t defeat him. She’d never forgive me. She still hasn’t forgiven me for last time.

“Your mother knows how to dress for one thing and one thing only,” he says.

“Hey!”

“Do not talk back to me.” He shakes his finger at me. It makes my mouth snap, because once the finger is out, it’s almost impossible to keep him from hitting, and my hip is just healed from where he kicked me; there’s a scar now. I hate seeing it in the mirror.

I watch as he gets rid of half of my clothes. All my tennis dresses and shorts, all my skinny jeans and leggings, every sundress in my closet.

He contemplates the pile, like he’s deciding if he wants to set it on fire or something. I lick my lips, glancing toward the door. Is she still sitting on the beach? Did she really just let him drag me up here and not worry what he might do to me?

“Can I—” God, my lips are dry. “Can I ask what’s wrong with them?”

The approval in his eyes makes the nerves uncurl a little inside. Okay. This is the way to play this.

“You’re not part of one of your mother’s little cons anymore,” he tells me, almost patiently. “You’re my daughter, and you should be dressed appropriately and doing appropriate activities. Lying out on a beach barely dressed or bouncing around a tennis court right when you start growing up is just going to do one thing: draw every boy toward you. I’ll buy you a horse and you can start riding instead.” He smiles at the thought. “That’s much better.” He praises himself. “I should’ve thought of this before. Stables are full of girls, and horse girls only have time for one thing: their horses. It’ll be a much healthier environment for a girl who’s been through what you have.”

He’s planning my life out loud so casually, it takes me half a second after he’s finished talking to fully process everything he’s said. He’s still picking through my clothes on the bed and I’m staring at his hands, tripping into the horrible realization that are his words.

“What?” I have no hope to get around it, but I still say it, even though he doesn’t like it, and oh God, wait, I was supposed to say yes instead. He likes yes better, but yes doesn’t make sense here, it doesn’t, because what is the only response. It’s the only thing I can say other than screaming because she told him, she told him about Seattle.