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chapter 18



I don’t go home that night.

Cat says her parents are away on another business trip and since we’re both too tired and smiley to want to leave each other’s side, she tells me to stay here for the night. With her. I don’t even think about it before agreeing.

She gets out a sleeping bag for me, spreads it out in the corner of her room, and I take off my shirt and stretch across it as she climbs into her own bed. I watch as she covers herself with an array of blankets, smiling a little. I imagine what it would be like to lie there with her, to feel her heat, her body, her skin against mine. To just hold her and never, ever let go.

One day, I tell myself, I will get there.

Cat and I stay up late, just lying in our respective beds and laughing and talking with each other. We don’t talk about what just happened, though. Not about the kiss, not about any of this. Instead, we spend our time discussing Switzerland politics, mostly about the political situation with Switzerland chocolate and how we might go about buying some more.

“Night, West,” Cat says after a while, when the conversation dies down.

“Night, Cat,” I say back. She winks at me. Then, she turns off the light and we’re flooded in darkness.

I close my eyes, but I don’t sleep. I mean, I try to, but all I can think about is the kiss and about Cat, now so close to me. She falls asleep quickly, and eventually I just lie there, listening to each of her soft breaths. I let myself smile. It’s so peaceful—warm and cozy and peaceful—knowing she’s at my side.

Even though we’re separated by five feet of space, the possibilities with Cat and me race through my brain all night long. And I don’t want them to stop, either.

The next morning, I get up early and make Cat an egg sandwich, which is complete with way too much bacon. I set it out for her, turn off the stove, sit on a chair in the kitchen, and wait for her to come down. She’s still wearing her pajamas when she finally stumbles down the stairs, yawning and smiling at the same time.

“Hey,” she says and slides into a seat at the table beside me. “Nice shirt,” she adds, and I glance down at my bare stomach. I’m wearing nothing but my red-checkered boxers.

“I thought you might like that.”

“Oh, believe me, I do,” she says, pouring herself an orange juice.

The morning air cools my body as I reheat the eggs, then scrape them back off the pan and onto a fresh plate. Then, I put halves of an English muffin on either side of the egg, wrap it in bacon and cheese, and slide the plate across the counter over to her.

She sniffs it and smiles. “Extra bacon?”

“Of course.”

“You know me so well.”

I grin. I grab the little remaining bits of egg, scoop it into my own plate, and join Cat at the table. She squeezes my hand, and another string of warmth goes through me. “Thanks for breakfast,” Cat says. “You’re almost a better cook than I am.”

“Always, Red Velvet,” I say. “Always.

We spend the rest of the morning gossiping, debating which food item is the most superior (ice cream, duh), and Cat makes a “why did the chicken cross the road?” joke that causes me to laugh before she even says the joke, because something about the fact that a chicken would cross a road for a real purpose in the first place is so hilarious to me. Eventually, when we’re both finished with breakfast and I’ve cleared the plates, the morning melts into turning on the local news and making fun of as many things about it as possible. It’s a perfect Saturday, really, and I don’t think I’ve ever smiled more.

She’s mine now, and I’m hers, and something about that makes me feel so utterly invincible.

“So Cat,” I say finally, standing on the other side of the counter and turning to her. “Today is your birthday, and we must celebrate it like true dorks. Besides, that is, talking to this hot shirtless stranger who has made you breakfast.”

She rolls her eyes. “And where is this hot stranger? I’m not seeing him…”

I snort at that, then proceed to shoot her a look. She holds up her hands in defense. “Hey man,” she says. “I’m just speaking the truth.”

“Hater.”

“Liar.”

“So,” I say, leaning toward her from across the counter. “Shall we celebrate your birthday with ice cream?”

“OH MY GOD YESSSS! ICE CREEEAAAM!” She stands up on the counter and starts shouting at me.

I hide my smile. “I take it you want ice cream?”

“Oh yes, West Ryder, I so do.”

“Then that’s where we’ll celebrate your birthday.”

“Good. Feel free to invite that hot shirtless stranger as well.”

“I will,” I say, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. I shiver at the touch of her skin, but it’s a good kind of shiver. A happy shiver. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” I say, and start heading upstairs to get a shirt and the rest of my things, “I should go. We’ll go later?”

“Yeah, okay,” she says, and I run up the stairs.

“Hey, West?” Cat calls when I come back down, opening the front door.

“Yeah?”

“You’re the best birthday present anyone can ask for,” she says.

I only smile at her, step through the door, and walk out. “I could say the same about you.”

***

Dad is waiting by the door when I come home. His arms are folded, and the instant I lay eyes on him, my grin fades. For a second, as I stop in front of him, I think he’s going to scream at me for leaving for the night. But he doesn’t.

“Dad, look, I’m sorry—” I mumble as I step inside, preparing for another drunken rage. “I should’ve told you I was leaving, but please don’t—”

He stops me, holds up a finger, and shakes his head. “It’s okay,” he says softly, in a way that almost sounds like he... cares?

I freeze, surprised. This is totally strange. But he has to be pretending again, because my father does not care. Not anymore.

“I didn’t come here to yell at you,” he continues. “I came to give you this.”

I watch him carefully as he holds out his hand, offering me a glass bird of some sort.

I frown at him, trying to determine what exactly he’s trying to pull on me this time. “What is this?” I don’t mean to say it so bluntly, but it comes out of my mouth before I can stop it. I’m not used to having much of a filter around my dad, I guess.

He smiles vaguely. “This,” he says, “is a phoenix pendant. It was your mother’s. I gave it to her on our first date.”

“Oh,” I say. My heart sinks a little, and I feel suddenly uncomfortable talking to him, like I have to get the hell out of there right now. I don’t want to talk to my dad, especially not about Mom, especially not after all this time. So I sigh and look past him into the hallway, debating whether it would be worth it to slip under his arm and run straight to my room without responding. I decide to wait it through.

“‘Oh’ is right,” Dad says, taking a breath. “I even remember when I first gave that to her. It was our fifth or sixth date, then, and I said something entirely cheesy and stupid when I handed it to her. I think I told her that phoenixes matter because they rise from the ashes, so when time gets tough I wanted her to wear this to remind herself to be the phoenix—and to rise above the ashes. I know, I was such a geek, but you know what she did when I told her that?”

“What?” I say, not really caring. Whatever gets me away from here and back to my room thinking about Cat fastest works for me.

“She laughed at me,” Dad says. He sighs at the memory, a glimmer of happiness flickering across his lips. “But she still took it. She wore it as a necklace but tucked it under her shirt, and it was like a secret glass bird only the two of us knew about. It was nice, I guess. Nice to have something between us.” He hands me the phoenix. “Take it, West. It’s yours.”

I hesitate. “Why are you giving me this?” I say, knowing there’s got to be a catch, especially because it’s Dad. And anyway, what father gives his son jewelry? Maybe this phoenix has the world’s tiniest bomb or something attached to it? I wouldn’t be surprised, honestly.

“To give to that special someone, of course.”

My stomach clenches. “What are you talking about?”

“If I can’t tell when my own son is in love, I’m a horrible father.” He laughs to himself, and I feel the heat creep into my cheeks. Vaguely, I wonder if he knows about Cat, if even he has known how in love with her I was even before I did. We’re silent for a long while, though, and I don’t know what to say. This is all too weird.

Finally, I pocket the phoenix.

“Thanks,” I mumble and start to head to the stairs, to just get away from this strangeness, but his voice, echoing through the hall, stops me. “I watched your vlog,” he says quietly, not meeting my gaze. His eyes look sad, his face worn and empty of emotion.

My legs freeze up. “What?” Dad isn’t supposed to know about my vlog. No one but Mom is supposed to know.

“I watch all your vlogs, West.”

“But how… how do you know about those?”

He shakes his head. “I’m a bad father, West, but I’m not an idiot.”

I blush. Hard.

“And,” he continues, “I’m sorry. I was an a*shole. I’ve been an a*shole for a year now, and I wasn’t there for you when you needed it most.” He takes a step closer to me, and I feel oddly light-headed. He sounds so sincere, so much that it hurts. I swallow hard, choking back a tear. “I’m… trying to quit, quit drinking and being so horrible,” he says. “I want to change. To work. To be a dad again. A good dad. A real dad. Your dad, West. I want to be your dad.” He takes a deep breath, his gray eyes studying me. “And I want to know… will you ever forgive me?”

My skin crawls, and my heart starts racing all over again. He sounds so serious, so genuine, so unlike himself… He isn’t making this all up, and I know it instantly by the way his eyes watch me. He’s being serious. For once, he wants to change. “You’re… you’re for real?” I ask, realizing it’s true but not wanting to face the inevitable.

“I am,” Dad says, nodding.

I clench my jaw. Then, I look at him, at his small smile, his sober expression. He looks so cleaned up, like a whole new person now, like he really is ready to change.

I look into his eyes, which glimmer with the faintest shreds of hope. Hope. He has hope. Maybe hope that he’ll get better, maybe that he’ll fix his mistakes and become a decent person, or maybe hope that I’ll let him back in. For an instant, I am tempted to do it—to forgive him. It would be so easy and it might even lift a weight off my chest. But as I study him, his jaw tightening harder and harder, I know I won’t. I can’t. I don’t care whether he is ready to change. He’s still the same father who killed my mother and who treated me, and her, like shit for a year. I can’t ever forgive him for that.

“No,” I finally whisper, my hands shaking. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”