Forbidden

A Confession

Van

Van snarled as she threw her backpack on the couch. Stupid Principal Logan and his stupid, unneeded concern. What kind of high school principal caught a student smoking in the bathroom and didn't offer any punishment, much less a suspension?

"Vanessa, I know that you're dealing with a lot," he said, handing her a pamphlet. "Please consider talking to your father about therapy. Cedar Lake is one of the finest clinics in the state, and I know they would be happy to help you find peace."

She picked at the black polish on her fingernails, wondering if there was some law against advising a pupil to seek professional help. The fleck of paint drifted to the cream carpet, and Van left it there. A blemish in her father's perfect home. Just like she was.

"Vanessa."

Speak of the devil. Van didn't answer, going so far as to consider slipping out the back, but father dearest had an uncanny knack for knowing where she was. She opted for sprawling across the white linen sofa, her muddy combat boots propped on the arm.

"Vanessa, please get your feet off the furniture."

"I'm comfortable," she replied, narrowing her eyes in challenge. Not many would challenge her father. A tall, imposing man with black hair and green eyes. Green eyes she'd once loved seeing in the mirror staring back at her. Green eyes she now covered up with garish contacts because she couldn't stomach the fact she'd inherited them from him.

Father glared down his long nose. "Take them off."

Van did as instructed, but only after she ground her heels into the fabric. The brown smeared across the fabric gave her great joy until she remembered Paula would now have to waste time scrubbing it out.

Loosening his tie, he walked into the living room and poured amber liquid into a crystal glass. "Mind telling me when you started smoking?"

"Where's Gabriella?" Van countered. Father's simpering wife was always underfoot.

"She went upstate for a spa retreat with her sister."

"Time for new facelift?"

The glass came down hard on the polished bar. "Damnit Vanessa."

"I've told you to stop calling me that," Van shouted, unperturbed by her father's display of temper. Let him do his worst to her. She wanted him to put his hands on her. Things would be so much easier if she could report him for abuse.

"That is your name, and I will call you that."

"You didn't even know my name until a few months ago."

Father's chest expanded and contracted rapidly. His tan skin flushed, and his irises swallowed his pupils. "How many times must I tell you I cannot be held accountable for that? Your mother never even let on that you existed."

"And yet, you found me easily enough." Van refused to believe her mother had kept her existence a secret from her father. Too many times she'd begged to know about the man responsible for her birth only to have her mother grow teary eyed and promise she'd tell her one day.

He dropped in the armchair beside Van. His head fell against the high back, and he stared up at the ceiling. This argument was not new, but he typically closed down at this point. Tonight, she didn't expect any different. And then he spoke again, his deep voice cracking.

"You don't know what it did to me, hearing the news of her passing. When I found out they were bringing her back home for burial, I did not know if I could attend her funeral. The emotion- it would be disrespectful to Gabriella."

Van's breath caught in her throat, a bubble formed in her chest. She hated herself for wanting to know what he was going to say next. It would change nothing.

He drew a hand across his face. The gesture aged him, and when he drew his eyes from the ceiling they landed on her. The haunted look in the mossy depths made her ache.

"I only found out when I arrived at the visitation that she'd had children. Your brother's casket, so small, broke my heart, and I am not ashamed to admit it saddened me she'd found another she loved enough to have his child. I knew he couldn't be mine. He was too young."

Caustic words burned her tongue. How could this man expect her to pity him? He did not lament her brother's death, only his existence. Walker was proof her father was not everything to her mother. Walker, with his chubby cheeks and curly red hair. The curly red hair he'd shared with Van. Another inheritance she hid because it hurt to see it.

"And then I saw you. Dry faced, mad at the world, and looking so much like her I nearly called out her name." Van stopped breathing. "When you looked at me, I knew. Punched in the gut knew."

"So you destroyed my life even more? I didn't need you to swoop in and play daddy. I needed- no, I need- to go back to my home. Please. If you want to do father, daughter bonding, we can do that during the summer."

Father tossed back the liquor, using one thumb to erase the single drop glistening on his lip before setting the glass down. He fixed his gaze on Van, the emotion from just moments before, gone. Replaced by ice.

"You are my daughter. To be part of this family is to be part of a legacy. There is much to teach you, and you're only going to make it harder on yourself."

Van hissed and clenched her fists. "The only person who has anything to learn is you."

He laughed. A deep, full-bodied laugh that rumbled in his chest and around the room. But Van found nothing amusing in the sound. "If those eyes and the DNA test didn't confirm who you belong to, that temper and obstinance would prove it. You're every inch a Helsing."

"No, I'm an Anderson," she shouted, clomping out of the house, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame. Father didn't chase after her. He wouldn't. No part of him could fathom the idea that someone might disobey him.

Van walked three blocks before her anger faded enough to make her regret leaving without her coat. The hoodie she wore did little to cut the sting from the icy breeze, and the tips of her fingers grew numb despite being shoved deep in her pockets. She arranged her hair over her ears, hoping it would help. It didn't.

"Shit," she fussed, quickening her pace. Her destination was only another block away- a local fifties themed diner she'd normally avoid like the plague because it was a hotspot for the teens in this town. But it was close, warm, and had the best burgers in town.

The purple gleam of the diner's neon lights beckoned as she topped the hill. The giant arrow affixed to its side proclaiming the name, Wanda's, flashed and buzzed as if trying to go out. It was always buzzing, but not once had she seen a single letter go dim. An Elvis song pumped through the speakers, and waitresses on roller blades zoomed along the concrete floors.

A bell above the door jingled when Van stepped inside. It wasn't loud enough to make any of the customers look up, but the woman behind the bar smiled and waved, her ears trained to pick out the sound over the chaos. Van foisted a smile onto her face, but the corners didn't turn all the way up like they used to.

"What'll it be, Van?" Wanda herself asked as Van climbed onto a vinyl booth. The woman was far older than her mother, but there was a kindly air about her that soothed Van's ragged edges.

"A chocolate malt, burger, and fries."

Wanda popped a towel at her. "Ooh, I love a girl who appreciates a good malt. Most kids these days don't even know what they are. I'll get right on that."

"Can you please make that two, Wanda?"

Van groaned. She knew that voice without looking up. Bad enough that his cousin had ruined her plans earlier. Now he had to show up and interrupt her well-earned pout.

"There are open tables in this room," she growled.

"I can see that," Luca replied. "But they're all lacking."

"Lacking what?" she asked, rising to the bait. She spun on her stool and looked at him.

His cinnamon eyes flashed, and a dimple grew in his right cheek as he grinned. "You."