Ecstasy

Alex

Dad is pissed.

“You’re back for the party? You should’ve just stayed. We need you here.” His tone is even, his voice low, but I know him. He’s staring at me from the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against it, one foot crossed over the other, hands in the pockets of his khaki pants. They’re rolled up at the ankle, showing off his year-round tan.

He’s got a white golf shirt on. This is his standard pastor uniform. Beachy, to help make him “one of the people.” In this palatial house, nearly ten thousand square feet, French doors leading out from the kitchen to the inground, Olympic-sized pool at his back, it’s unlikely my father remembers what it’s like to be one of the people.

Grove Community has thousands of congregants year-round, a one-off in a beach town known for its tourist seasons. My father didn’t exactly come from nothing, my grandfather had his hand in some Wall Street shit and all of that money passed down to his three sons. But this? The high ceilings, commercial stove, three full-time staff members and four-car garage? Yeah, I guess this all came down from God.

I also happen to know my parents are nearly drowning in debt and with this fucking divorce that is bound to be coming, it’s all about to get really messy. But that’s God and Preacher Cardi’s problem, not mine.

“Sorry,” I say, dropping down into a stool at the marble kitchen island. “Forgot I was here at your beck and call for your mistakes and not living my own life. My bad.”

“You know after the latest scandal, I needed you here,” he goes on, turning to track my movements, still leaning against the doorway. He runs a hand over his dark blonde hair, his blue eyes flashing.

I look like my mother’s child.

Which reminds me. “I was here most of the week,” I say through gritted teeth. “Besides, I didn’t stop by for you. How is Mom? Any more bombs hit?” I clasp my hands together on the table, refusing to look away from him. We don’t fight exactly, but this secret that’s been between us since I was fifteen has put a considerable strain on any chance of a good relationship between us both. I guess now it’s not really a secret.

I think of Mom this past week, sleeping most of the day away. I think of her wanting a divorce. She told me, a quiet confession one night.

My father doesn’t know.

Just like he doesn’t know about me and Zara.

I clench my fists on the table, thinking about her in my car right now.

She didn’t come for me. I know that much. She came for an escape. For something to do. Not me. But I didn’t want her to show up on someone else’s arm, and besides that, I didn’t want to be alone either. I need an escape, too.

And before she tries to escape my car, which would be just like her, I’ve got to make this shit quick.

Dad rolls his eyes. “This isn’t that, Alex.” He’s in fucking denial.

“There were pictures, Dad.”

He grinds his teeth together, eyes narrowing. I see lines in his tan face and his eyes are a little red, too. Nothing like Zara’s, but still. I guess he’s been trying to drown his pain, too. Soon I’ll have two parents who are addicts.

Lovely.

“Pictures of me helping a member in need?”

“You needed to take her to Saks to help her? Couldn’t have a driver do that for you? Couldn’t just make a donation—”

“Being the hands and feet of Jesus requires being the hands and feet, Alex. Not hiring paid servants to do the hard stuff for you.”

I grit my teeth. He should tell that to the hired help that scrubs his fucking toilets. But there’s no use fighting over this. Besides that, if Mom isn’t here, I’m not staying long. Unbeknownst to my father, I’ve already contacted a lawyer and he’s working with her in secret. I’m footing the bill with my own inheritance from my grandfather.

I unclasp my hands, make one into a fist that I knock softly on the island in the kitchen. “Where’s Mom?” I’m not debating the hands and fucking feet of Jesus Christ with my father.

He shrugs. “She was upset you left.”

I know that’s bullshit. She was upset that she’s still married to my dirtbag of a father. She’s miserable that she spends most of her time in a Xanax-induced fog, so she doesn’t have to deal with this shit he’s brought upon us.

Besides, she already knows my dad and his love of Jesus haven’t meant shit to me for a long time.

“Did you offer your congregation an explanation in person?” I ask him, feigning i

“I gave them the truth.” There’s venom in that word.

“Right.” We glare at each other a second and then he seems to deflate, as he sometimes does when the guilt weighs him down.

His shoulders sag, and he approaches the island, places both palms flat atop it. “I’m telling the truth, son.”

I swallow down the lump in my throat. I hate when he does this almost as much as I hate when he lies to my and Mom’s fucking face. I like his cool, detached tone better. The hint of anger lying beneath the surface, but dormant.

Something we have in common.

“Where’s Mom?” I ask again, forcing back that emotion he stirs up. I need to get back to Zara.

“At the spa.”

Little late for the goddamn spa. I wonder where she really is, but then again, the spa is her home away from home. I don’t really blame her for wanting to hide out from Dad.

“How are you doing? With everything with Riha

I wave away his concern. I spent most of the week with Mom, and I guess he’s trying to take advantage of her not being here by forming some sort of co

His eyes narrow. “I tried to get away but—”

“Don’t finish that.” I don’t want to hear his bullshit anymore.

He glares at me and I glare right back.

He takes a breath, hangs his head. He’s not looking at me when he says, “I would think you of all people would understand that sometimes honest men make mistakes.”

His words are a fucking cheap shot and I know he knows it. That’s why he can’t pick up his head and look at me right now. He’s a pussy.

“I never said I was an honest person.”

He looks up at that, a scowl on his weathered face. “Son, we both know—”

I stand to my feet, the chair scratching along the floor as I step back, throwing up my hands. “What do we know, Dad, hmm?” I ask him. I drop my hands, but don’t drop his gaze. “What do we really know? For all I know, I did hurt that girl. You ever fucking think about—”

“She knew you were popular, well-liked, and wealthy, Alex. Don’t you dare think that she—”

“Fuck that,” I tell my father, clenching my fists. “I didn’t know her from shit. I’d never seen her before in my life. You think she actually scoped me out, tempted me to that empty room and then cried rape so she could, what, exactly? Get paid off?”

My father raises a brow. “Well, she did, didn’t she?”

I bite my tongue, taking a deep breath in. Out. This is why I play football. For a fucking outlet for this temper. One more week and I’m back on the field.

One more fucking week.

“Are you still messing around with that girl from rehab?” my dad continues, as if he doesn’t know her name.

I freeze, holding my breath this time as I stare at my father.

“Zara?” he prompts me, pretending to remember, and asking me as if I don’t know it. As if I don’t have her body memorized. Burned in my brain. He rubs his hands together and I see his stupid gold wedding band gleam under the lights strung in the high ceiling. “Don’t you think you need to take a break from girls?” He levels me with his gaze. “They’ve caused you nothing but trouble.”