Everything- Oliver Wood

𝟛𝟡. 𝕋𝕙𝕦𝕞𝕓𝕤

------

AN: everyone go listen to Thumbs by Lucy Dacus (not sabrina carpenter) and listen to the lyrics IM BEGGING YOU

(also while you're there listen to her whole discography if you have time because ohhh my god she deserves so much more recognition) 

------

CW: - alcoholism - implications of domestic violence -

------

"Laurie, say hello to your father." 

"What?" I ask, stepping backwards. 

"Let me take your bags-" he steps towards me. 

I step back again, pulling my luggage away. "What are you doing here?" 

"I just-" 

"Why is he here?" I turn to my mum. 

"He needs a place to stay." 

"No. He's not staying here." 

"Laurie, please-"

I shake my head and run up the stairs with my bags. 

What the hell is he doing here? Who does he think he is? 

I barely recognized him. There isn't much to recognize; he left when I was really young. 

A million thoughts race around my head. It's a lot to take in all at once. 

Why did he leave? 

Mum never gave a specific reason.

But, even though I never knew for sure, I've come up with a couple of theories over the years. They all seem like a bit of a stretch. 

I grab my backpack and start tossing clothes into it. I falter in my packing when I remember Joyce. 

I can't just leave her here. 

What if my dad is actually a nice guy?

What if him being here will be better? 

I decide to hear him out. 

Leaving my packed bag on my bed, I go back downstairs. My father is sitting at the kitchen table, clutching a beer bottle. 

I stand in the doorway, staring at him. He stares right back at me. 

"Look at you," he says, softly. "You've grown into a lovely woman." 

"Why're you here?" 

"You look just like your mum," he smiles, taking a swig from his bottle. 

"I asked you a question," I say, refusing to break eye contact. 

"She used to be fiery like that, too." 

"Where is she?"

"She and your sister decided to give us some time to talk." 

I glance around, wondering where they went. "Anything you have to say to me, you can say to them, too." 

"You don't trust me," he frowns, taking another swig. 

"Of course I don't bloody trust you! I haven't seen you in 12 years!"

"Just come over here and sit down and we can talk about it." 

"I'm staying right here," I say, planting my feet in the doorway. 

"You've always been stubborn like this," he chuckles. 

"Stop it!" 

"What?"