Elbows on the table, he smiled. “Because it means I’m not crazy.”
My brief smile faded. “I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to remember anything. It must have been awful, having a memory like that when everything is telling you it’s a dream. Is it bad? I think my dad remembers stuff too.” Me in the morgue, the call never completed to my mom. The guilt, the loss…boxes to be filled, taped up, and put in the attic.
His eyes down, Josh nodded. I heard a car pull into the drive and got up. It was my dad, and after seeing Josh’s truck, he backed out and parked in the street so he didn’t block him in. “What’s my dad doing home?” My attention shifted to the clock on the stove. It was only one thirty.
Wiping the chip crumbs off himself, Josh shifted in his seat. “You don’t think he heard about what happened, do you? I probably shouldn’t have driven off like that.”
My dad was eyeing Josh’s truck as he came up the walk, squinting until he found the shade. His khakis and dress shirt made him look professional, but he was still wearing his lab coat—which meant I was in trouble. He never forgot to take it off unless he was upset. His work ID dangled from around his neck, and he tucked it into the lab coat’s breast pocket when he reached the drive.
“We didn’t do anything wrong by leaving,” I said, suddenly nervous. “It wasn’t your fault Kairos hit a traffic light. You didn’t hit anything.”
“It was my fault!” Grace chimed out, and the light fixture she was in glowed brighter.
“I was a witness.” Josh pulled a phone from his pocket and looked at it.
“How would he find out, though?” I muttered, pulling back from the window when my dad looked up at the house.
Josh shifted his glass so it was perfectly situated with his plate. “It’s a small town,” he said, his brow pinched in worry. “I should call my mom.”
We both stiffened when the front door opened. “Madison?” my dad’s voice echoed in the silent house.
“Are you home?”
I gave Josh a nervous look. “We’re in the kitchen, Dad.”
His shoes thumped on the hardwood floor, and he appeared in the archway to the hall. Josh stood, and my dad’s eyebrows rose as he took him in. “Hello, sir,” Josh said, extending his hand. “I’m Josh Daniels.”
My dad’s puzzled expression eased and turned into one of acceptance. “Oh! Mark’s son. You look just like him. It’s good to meet you.” His grip pulled away. “You’re the one who left Madison at the prom,”
he accused in a defensive-dad sort of way.
“Dad!” I protested, embarrassed. “He didn’t leave me. I ran out on him after I realized you set us up.
Josh was a perfect gentleman. I asked him over to lunch to try to make up for it.”
Josh was shifting from foot to foot, but my dad had found his usual good humor, and his face showed a smile again. “I thought maybe it was because your bike had a flat and you needed a ride somewhere,” he said, his eyebrows arched.
I blinked. “H-how did you know?” I stammered.
My dad put a hand on my shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze before he went to the message machine.
“I got a call from the bike shop.”
My mouth opened into an O as I remembered I’d left it there. “Oh. Yeah. About that—”
“They ran the registration number and came up with my name,” my dad said as he turned away from the machine and frowned. “Why didn’t you answer your phone? I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour.
Even called the Flower Bower to see if you went in on your day off. I finally had to leave work.”
Embarrassed, I shrugged. I hadn’t checked my phone in all the commotion today. “Uh. Sorry. I ran out of minutes,” I lied. “Josh gave me a ride.” My dad’s frown was making me nervous. “So I asked him for lunch.” Crap, I was babbling, and I shut my mouth.
A soft sound of disapproval escaped him. “Can I talk to you for a moment?” he said dryly, passing through the second archway to the never-used dining room.
I sighed. “Excuse me,” I said to Josh, then glumly followed my dad. He had gone all the way through the dining room and was standing in the patch of sun that made it into the living room, shining on the wall where he’d hung some of the photos I’d taken at the balloon festival with him last month. He’d sprung for a ride in one, and you could see the entire old downtown in one shot, the rivers outlining its confines.
The living room, like the kitchen, held whispers of my mom, from the glass-topped tables to the suede furniture to the Art Deco statue in the corner. Either my parents had very similar decorating ideas, or my dad was still living in the past, surrounding himself with reminders of her. No pictures of her, though.
“Dad—” I started, but he didn’t give me a chance to explain.