If I Fall by Anna Cruise Page A

full each one was. Best to be careful, I thought. I started to my left and unscrewed the cap to a bottle of tequila. I took a swig and grimaced; it tasted awful. I moved slowly, methodically through the front row of bottles. The Captain Morgan's was good and I probably drank more of that that I should have. The despair began to disappear and I relaxed a little bit. For the first time since I'd arrived, I thought I might be able to get through the evening that loomed before me.
    I had just turned on the TV when the door opened. Dad stood there, his hair wet and tousled, a white towel looped around his tanned shoulders. My heart fluttered just a little, in that “Wow, you're my dad” sort of way.
    And then she walked in.
    Her black hair was wet, slicked back. Water droplets glistened on her shoulders and between her breasts.
    Her voice was cool. “Hi, Megan.”
    I mumbled a hello back and looked away, away from her red bikini top and the matching red sarong tied loosely around her too-tiny waist. God, she was beautiful. And my dad had chosen her over me.
    I held the remote between both hands, gripping it as if it were a fifty pound weight that required all of my strength to lift. I did this because I wasn't sure what my hands would do otherwise. Would I claw out her eyes and tear out her hair? Would I rip her clothing to shreds? I tried to swallow the hate back down, to keep it under control.
    “ Cheri picked up dinner. Caesar salad. French bread from the bakery, too. Right, hon?”
    He put his hand on her shoulder and I cringed as I gripped the remote tighter. She had to pick up a salad—she couldn't wash a head of lettuce, tear up the leaves and add some croutons?
    “ We're going to go change,” he told me. “Then we'll eat.”
    With his hand on the small of her back, he guided her down the hallway. The bedroom door closed shut and I didn't want to think about what was happening in their room. I was sure he was on her all the time.
    I squeezed my eyes shut. I was wrong, I realized. I wasn't going to make it through.
    I crossed back to the dining room and fumbled with one of the bottles, taking another quick swig.
    They came out a few minutes later, my dad wearing khaki shorts and a navy blue polo, Cheri in a black tube-top dress. I looked for signs of a quick tryst, of matted hair and red, swollen lips. There were none. She went into the kitchen and Dad sat down next to me on the couch. I was glad I'd thought to pop a piece of gum in my mouth.
    Dad smiled. “You smell good. Minty.”
    I swallowed a laugh. Better he smelled peppermint than rum. “Thanks.”
    He put his arm around me and ruffled my hair, just like old times. I tried not to think about what our lives had been like before. When we'd been the ones to go swimming together, when sitting with him on the couch was a daily occurrence and not some rare, monumental event.
    “Dinner's almost ready,” Cheri said from the kitchen. “Greg, would you come in here and slice the bread?”
    He stood immediately. My heart deflated and filled back up with anger. I glared at my dad's retreating back. Cupboards opened and dishes and glasses clinked against each other as they finished getting dinner ready.
    “Why don't you help with the table?”
    He was talking to me. I sighed and stood up. Dad met me at the table with a stack of red plates, gorgeous plates with scalloped edges, and a handful of silverware. I took the dishes from him and slammed them down, smiling at the sound of the pottery crashing into the table.
    “Be careful.”
    I pretended not to hear him. I finished too quickly and wished there were more than three places to set. I plunked the silverware down but the sound of metal hitting the glass tabletop wasn't quite as satisfying.
    Dad brought in a basket of bread, sourdough, by the smell of it, and a dish of butter. Cheri followed with a huge wooden bowl heaped high with salad.
    She motioned to the chair closest to me. “Sit.”
    I waited just a minute