Never Again

Chapter Eight

"Eleanor, I do not understand," my father says, obviously confused.

"Will, it's perfectly clear," my mother spits. "She's running away from her problems." She takes a sip of her coffee, almost grinning. "Again." My anger flares up and Peter knows it, considering he puts his hand on my knee and gives me a warning squeeze.

"I am not running away, I am looking for a change," I say.

"But Ireland? Why not somewhere around here?" He says it like, "Why not somewhere where we can keep an eye one you?", and as much as I appreciate his gesture, I do not need it.

"Dad, you've always known I wanted to go to Ireland, and—"

"And what, Eleanor, huh?" My mother laughs. "Where do you plan on living, hmm? And to pay for all of this? You are not getting a dime from us." She crosses her arms and sets her lips in a think line. I glance at my dad, who looks so uncomfortable that I almost laugh. Holding my tongue, I take a deep breath and calmly explain:

"Peter," I look at him. "Has a friend who has a flat in Dublin, Olivia..."

"Octavia Brantley," Peter jumps in helpfully.

"Right, Octavia Brantley. And she said that I could live with her if I help pay rent and pitch in for food." My father nods his head.

"And just where do you think you are getting the money for this?" Another deep breath.

"I have almost ten grand, Mother." I see her eyebrows raise up and before she can open her mouth again, I quickly continue. "I have saved every birthday present form Gram and Gramps, I sold my debutante gown," my mother gasps, "and you add in the pity-money from friends and family that—"

"That is not your money to take Eleanor, and—"

"Like hell it isn't my money!" I yell. "He was my fiancé, not yours!"

"He was part of this family—" she starts.

"Oh, oh I'm sure you thought that."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Her tone is icy.

"You always loved him more than me!" I scream. Part of me wants to take it back, but most of me is so relieved that I finally said it.

"How dare you," she snarls.

"How dare I? How dare you!" She stands up and I do the same, the both of us seething with anger.

"You have no right—"

"I have every right, dammit! You—" I'm cut off by a blinding pain ripping across my cheek. I stumble into my chair and Peter catches me. Holding my cheek in my hand, I see my mother red-faced, seething hatred.

"Laura..." My father whispers, shocked. She doesn't seem fazed at all, making it even worse.

That was the last straw.

Standing up, I wipe the blood from the corner of my mouth. Shaking, whether it be from the nerves or from the pain, I say, "I'm going to Ireland." I look between my parents, both of their faces completely opposite from the other's: my father's is full of confusion and hurt, while my mother's is twisted in triumph and outrage. "I have a flight waiting for me tomorrow afternoon, a one-way trip to Ireland that leaves in," I check my watch, quickly calculating. "Less than ten hours. If you don't mind, I'd like to finish packing and get a decent night's sleep." And with that, I cross over to my father and give him a kiss on the cheek, and then walk straight past my mother. Peter seems to have disappeared, so I make my way up to my room.