When it poured in Huntsville (BWWM)

18

Jayde's POV

The TV flickered in front of me, but I didn't see it. My dad's voice kept ringing in my ears: "This isn't just about you." And maybe that was the problem—maybe it never had been about me.

The door slammed open with a fury that matched my own thoughts. I heard the heavy thud of his bag hitting the counter, the creak of the floorboards as he stepped into the living room. I knew what was coming. I had known it the second I walked through the door earlier.

"Jayde," my dad called, his voice tense, filled with something that had me on edge immediately. "We need to talk."

I didn't move. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. "So talk," I shot back, my voice flat, but I could feel the anger stirring under the surface.

He entered the room, his tall frame towering over me like some kind of threat. Ready for whatever he was about to say I didn't care. "You think this is a game? Sneaking around with Logan behind my back?"

"I wasn't sneaking around," I said , but the words felt like a lie the second they left my mouth. Wasn't I? Wasn't I doing exactly that? Hiding things, keeping him in the dark? I was used to being invisible to him, but it still stung.

"Don't lie to me!" he barked, and I could hear the anger in his voice, each word sharper than the last. "Do you even understand what's at stake here? For him? For this team?"

"Of course I understand!" I shot back, standing up so quickly that my breath caught. "But what about me? Don't I matter? When is it ever about me?"

His face twisted, frustration pouring from him "This isn't about you, Jayde. It's about Logan—"

"Exactly!" I screamed, my voice rising, the anger and hurt mixing together  "It's always about Logan! Or the team! Or football! But when is it ever about me, Dad? When?"

"You don't get it," he said, his voice dropping low, dark. "You didn't know him at his lowest. I did! He was a broken mess when I found him—drowning in anger, in pain. Football was the only thing that kept him from falling apart completely."

I felt a flash of something guilt, maybe, or just the sudden weight of his words crashing into me. But the anger was still there, burning hot. "But when is it ever about me, Dad?" I bit back, my voice cracking under the pressure. "I've been low, too. You think this family's perfect? You think everything's fine with Mom? You don't see it, do you? You don't see me."

His face stiffened at the mention of Mom, and I could almost feel the shift, the tightening in the air between us. But I wasn't done. I wasn't going to let him push me down like this, not anymore.

"No," I pressed, stepping toward him, my words coming faster, sharper now. "You never think about me. You're too busy coaching everyone else's lives to notice what's going on right in front of you. I'm right here, Dad. I'm still your daughter. But you don't care, do you? You act like I'm some troubled teenager all because I liked a boy"

His jaw clenched, and for a second, I thought he might explode. But then his eyes softened for just a flicker, before hardening again, and I saw it—the control he was fighting to keep, the walls he was building. "You think I don't care?" he said, his voice low, but I could hear the edge. "You think I don't want what's best for you?"

I scoffed, shaking my head. "You care, but you don't listen. You don't see me." My voice trembled, despite myself. "All you see is football. It's all you ever see."

He was quiet for a long time. The silence between us stretched until it felt suffocating. His fists clenched at his sides, like he was holding back from saying something that could break everything apart. Then he sighed heavily, as if the weight of this conversation had finally sunk in.

"This isn't about love or trust, Jayde," he said, his voice heavy with something I couldn't quite place. "It's about protecting you. Protecting him."

"Protecting him from what?" I demanded, my chest tightening. "From me? We are good for each other I don't know where that fake narrative came from" The words tasted bitter as they left my mouth. "Is that what I am to you? Just some distraction to him? To you?"

He looked at me for a moment, and I saw the exhaustion in his eyes. His shoulders dropped slightly, and his voice softened, just a little. "You're my daughter, Jayde," he said, the words careful, like he was walking on eggshells. "But I'm trying to save you both. From yourselves."

I could feel the weight of his words pressing on me, but I refused to back down. "Maybe I don't need saving, Dad."

The look he gave me then was unreadable. He stared at me for a moment, like he was seeing me for the first time—or maybe for the first time in a long while. But he didn't say anything. He just turned, walking out of the room, leaving me standing there, breathless.

I sank back onto the couch, feeling every bit of the emptiness inside me. The tears that had been threatening to fall finally came, and I let them—too overwhelmed to stop them, too drained to fight anymore.

Was he right? Was I just a distraction? Was I messing everything up? Was I really that selfish? No don't listen to him he's just trying to control you.

I didn't know anymore. I didn't know what was real and what was just me spinning out of control. Maybe I was just tired of always being in the background, of always being the last thought in my dad's mind. Maybe I was tired of feeling invisible.

But somewhere deep down, I wondered if he was right.