The dream was always the same. I’m sinking in dark, silent water, the California sun a distant, shimmering coin far above me. I don’t struggle. I just sink, and the last thing I see before the blackness takes me is my father’s hand, reaching, always just out of reach.
“Sweetie, you should probably get up now. We have to leave for the courthouse in an hour.”
My dad’s voice, a lifeline from the real world, pierced the depths of the nightmare. My eyes snapped open. For one blissful, hazy second, I was just Tala, in my bed, in my home. Then memory, cold and sharp as a shard of glass, returned.
The courthouse. Today.
“I’m up,” I grumbled, the words a rough scrape in my throat. I didn’t just get out of bed; I rolled out, my bare feet hitting the floor with a thud that seemed to punctuate my dread. My arms stretched high above my head, tan limbs reaching for a ceiling that felt like it was pressing down on me. A yawn tore from my lungs, but it brought no relief.
Stupid. Everything was just so stupid. My mother’s choice. My brother’s betrayal. This life, this perfect, sun-drenched California life, twisting itself into something ugly and unrecognizable.
The cold white tile of my attached bathroom floor shocked my system, a stark contrast to the deep, forest-green walls I’d painted myself, sponging on swirls of silver glitter that were meant to look like constellations. A million bottles of body wash and shampoo stood like a silent, colorful army on the shelf above the Jacuzzi tub. None of them could wash this feeling away.
My iPhone. I’d forgotten it. I darted back to my bedside table, a groan escaping my lips. Music was the only armor I had left. Back in the bathroom, I docked the phone into its speaker, scrolling past dozens of songs until I found it. Maroon 5’s ‘One More Night’ flooded the space, the familiar beat a temporary shield against the silence in my own head.
I stepped into the glass-doored shower, letting the steaming water cascade over my stiff muscles. I leaned my forehead against the cool glass, letting the droplets mingle with the tears I refused to shed.
It has to go our way, I chanted internally, a desperate prayer. We’re the victims here. Dad and I. He was the best lawyer I knew; he was defending us himself. Let her, and the man who broke our family, try to beat him. They couldn’t. They wouldn’t.
After washing with a strawberry-scented soap that felt nauseatingly cheerful, I wrapped myself in a plush green towel and stalked into my walk-in closet. It was my sanctuary, everything organized, everything in its place. A black bra, matching underwear, a severe red pencil skirt, and a simple black dress top. A thick black belt to cinch the waist. I stared at my reflection, a stranger looking back at me. A girl dressed for war.
I swiped on eyeliner and mascara, a touch of gloss on my lips. Armor. It was all armor. A glance at the clock sent a new jolt of panic through me—almost eleven. No time for my hair, a wild mane of blonde curls that would explode into frizz in the humid air. I tamed it into a low ponytail over my right shoulder, a simple headband pinning back my bangs. Ready. As I’d ever be.
Grabbing my phone, I plunged the room back into silence and walked downstairs, each step a silent prayer that this wouldn’t be the last time I walked freely in this house.
“You look great, honey. And with five minutes to spare.” My dad sat at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in one hand, the morning paper in the other. His familiar, easy smile almost broke me.
“Morning, Dad.” I kissed his cheek, careful not to smudge my gloss. He was tan like me from all the hours we spent surfing and running together. But the resemblance ended there. His hair was straight and light brown; mine was a tempest of curls. His eyes were a warm brown with green flecks; mine were a bright, piercing blue, a trait I unfortunately shared with my mother.
“Wanna grab something to eat quick?” he asked, setting the paper down.
“Just an apple.” My eyes scanned the floor under the table. “Where’s Nadie?”
He chuckled, the sound a warm balm. “I let her outside.”
I jogged to the back door, and there she was, my black lab, waiting patiently. She greeted me with a happy whine, her body glued to my side as I walked back to the kitchen and grabbed a Red Delicious from the counter.
“Ready to go?” I tried to force a smile. It felt like my face was cracking.
Dad saw it. He always saw everything. He walked over, wrapping a strong arm around my shoulders and kissing my forehead. At over six feet, he always made my five-foot-seven feel small, protected. “It’ll be fine, kiddo. Come on now.”
He led me into the garage, into his silver Volvo. “Relax a little, Tala. Have a little faith in your old man.”
“You’re not old,” I retorted, leaning my head back against the cool leather, trying to breathe.
The next thing I knew, the engine was off. We were here. My dad was already out of the car, my door open, his hand held out for me. I took a deep breath that did nothing to calm the frantic hummingbird beating against my ribs, and stepped out into the parking lot.
The courthouse was a cold, imposing building. Dad squeezed my hand as we walked into the designated room. It was mostly empty. We chose our side.
“Tala,” he said, his voice low and serious. “Only say what you’re comfortable with, or what you’re asked. No more. Understand?”
I could only nod, my throat tight.
“No matter what happens,” he whispered, his eyes locking onto mine, “I love you. Always remember that.”
“I love you too,” I managed, my own smile now as forced as his.
The next thirty minutes were torture. People filed in. Then, she arrived, holding his hand. Behind them was my brother, Barron. His eyes—my eyes—found mine across the room. I looked away, a hot, bitter wave of betrayal washing over me. I turned my gaze forward and steeled myself.
“All rise for Judge Samson.”
The words echoed in the cavernous room. We stood. We sat. The trial began. The other lawyer, a man with a slick smile named Mr. Graver, called on me first.
“May I call you Tala?”
I shook my head. No. You may not.
“Very well, Miss Taylors. Would you care to share which parent you would like to stay with?” His voice was deceptively gentle.
I gripped my dad’s hand under the table. “I want to stay with my father.”
“And why is that?” he challenged.
“He’s never lied to me,” I said, my voice clear and steady, my gaze flicking to my mother. She flinched. Good. “He cares for me like a father should. I’ll admit that I’m a daddy’s girl, and I love it.”
“Your mother never lied to you, though,” the lawyer countered smoothly. “No one ever asked her if she loved someone else, a question to which an honest answer would have saved all of your feelings.”
“That’s a lie!” The words exploded out of me. I shot up from my seat, but my dad’s hand on my wrist was an anchor, pulling me back down.
And so it went. He twisted my words, painted me as a spoiled child, my father as a manipulator. I hated him. I hated all of them. When it was my dad’s turn, he was magnificent. Calm, logical, and full of a quiet, powerful love. He dismantled their case with surgical precision. When he sat back down, I squeezed his hand, my eyes screaming what my mouth couldn’t: You were brilliant.
“I call for a five-minute recess,” the judge announced.
“You did great, Dad,” I whispered, pulling him into a fierce hug.
“Thanks, kiddo.” He pulled away, his gaze shifting to someone behind me. I turned.
Barron.
My face hardened into a mask of hate. “What are you doing over here?” I spat.
He flinched. “Tala, please… I will never stop being your brother.” His eyes pleaded with me, the same blue as mine, swimming with a sorrow I refused to acknowledge.
“Just walk back to Mom like the good little boy you are,” I said, my voice dripping with ice, “and never speak to me again.”
Defeated, he turned and walked away, just as Judge Samson re-entered the room.
“Order!” He held up a manila envelope. My breath caught in my throat. This was it. “Both sides have stated their cases, and the custody of the children goes to…” He paused, opening the folder. The silence stretched, thin and suffocating. My heart hammered against my ribs. “…Custody goes to Mrs. Taylor and her soon-to-be husband.”
The world stopped.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t move. Dad’s hand tightened on mine, his own shock a palpable thing. I heard my mother break into sobs of joy, but the sound was distant, distorted, as if coming from underwater.
“Tala, you will pack your bags after leaving here and go with your mother. Case dismissed.”
“No!” The word ripped from me, raw and animalistic. I jumped from my seat, hot tears finally breaking free, streaming down my face. “I will not go with them! I hate them! I want to stay here!”
“Please calm down,” Judge Samson stated, his face an impassive mask. “The court has made a special exception. This decision is final.”
“Do something!” I begged, turning to my dad. His eyes were filled with a terrifying helplessness.
“There’s nothing I can do, sweetie.”
Those six words shattered what was left of my heart. A hand touched my arm. Barron. I spun, my own hand flying, the crack of it connecting with his cheek echoing in the silent room.
“Let me go!” I shrieked, struggling against his grip. I broke free for a second, throwing myself back into my dad’s arms. He hugged me tightly, his body trembling.
“Remember that I love you, kiddo.”
“No, Dad, you can’t give up!”
Barron grabbed me again, his grip iron-clad this time. “Please!” I cried, my struggles useless.
“DADDY!” The yell was torn from my soul as the courtroom doors shut, a heavy, final thud that severed my world in two.
The next few hours were a blur. A truck. The drive back to my house—no, not my house, never again. Packing my things under my mother’s tearful gaze. Driving away, watching my home, my life, shrink in the distance, Nadie a sad, black shape at the front door.
I said nothing. I put my headphones in, blasting the music until my ears rang, building a wall of sound around me. I slept.
“Tala. We’re here.”
Barron’s voice woke me. I ignored his offered hand, jumping down from the truck into the driveway of a place I would never call home. The air was different here. The silence was wrong.
Okay, God. You want to play hardball?
I’m going to hit the ball back harder.
They want me here? Fine. I’m here. But just because I’m here against my will doesn’t mean I’ll cooperate. They are not happy. They are my enemies. And I will make them regret the day they ever thought they could win.
The games have just begun.