“So…when will you be back?” he asks.
There’s an eager edge to his question that sets off those goose bumps again. A big part of me wants to go back, but another part of me knows that the flood of hormones Marcus unleashes in me has made me very not invisible, and I need to figure out how to contain them before I see him again.
“Not sure,” I answer honestly.
“Well, your spot’s here for you…whenever you’re ready.”
“As captain.”
He must hear the resignation in my tone, because there’s a pause before he says, “We can talk about that.”
“Okay. We’ll talk.”
“Get some rest,” he says, his voice softening to a caress and making muscles in parts of me I didn’t know had muscles in contract. “I’ll look for you at practice when you’re back at school.”
“We’ll talk,” I repeat, hypnotized by his voice and unable to form an original thought.
“We’ll talk,” he confirms.
“Bye, Marcus,” I say, and hang up before he can say anything else.
Dad’s voice comes from behind me. “Who was that?”
I turn and find him staring at me from the recliner.
I lower my gaze. “My water polo coach.”
“The pervert,” he grumbles with a scowl.
My stomach tightens as my eyes widen. “Why would you say that?”
He rubs the sleep off his face, but his frown only deepens. “He was looking at you wrong.”
I lean against the counter, trying to come off as if the thought of Marcus looking at me any way didn’t just level me. “He wasn’t looking at me at all.”
“He was,” he says, straightening in his chair. “In the hospital, while you were out, he kept looking at you.”
My heart thuds hard in my chest. “He was there?”
I knew he came in after I’d woken up, but I so hoped he hadn’t been there the whole time.
“Told him to leave, but he said he wouldn’t go till you woke up.” He gives his head a slow shake. “It wasn’t right.”
“That doesn’t make him a pervert, Dad. He just wanted to make sure I didn’t die and sue him or the school or whatever.”
He kicks the down the leg rest. “The way he was looking at you—all possessive, like he thought he owned you or something—that makes him a pervert.”
“Why do you even care?” I turn away from him and move to the door, because I’m afraid my face is flushing and I don’t want Dad to read anything into that. “I’m almost eighteen. I’m graduating from high school in May and then I’ll be out of your way.”
The reality that I have absolutely nowhere to go is the only problem with that plan, but my high school counselor has been feeding me scholarship applications at a rate of two or three a week, which I’ve diligently filled out. The only California colleges on my application list are in San Diego, and that’s only because my counselor said I might need a cheaper state option depending on how much scholarship money and loans I’m able to score. Everything else is on the east coast. I want as far away from here as possible.
“Addie, don’t talk like I want you gone,” he says, his voice a low warning.
I turn on him. “Don’t you?”
The pain in his gaze shovels one more layer of guilt on the pile that is burying me alive. He scoots to the edge of the chair and rubs his face, then takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “I know things have been hard the last year or so, but I’m going to find a job and everything’s going to be fine.”
Fine. The biggest lie in the English language.
I breathe, in and out, forcing myself to remember that it’s my fault he’s the way he is. “I know, Dad. Sorry.”
I turn and pull the door open.
“Where are you going?”
“To the market,” I answer without turning to look at him.
“You look like shit,” he tells me, matter of fact.
“I know. But we’re out of milk and coffee.” I know the coffee will get him. He’s almost as addicted to that as his Jack Daniels.
“I’ll go.”
I glance at him over my shoulder and consider telling him that he looks shittier than me, but hold my tongue because there’s no point. We spend enough time beating each other up over things that actually matter.
He drags himself up and looks for a second at the empty bottle of JD on its side on the floor next to his chair, then lumbers my direction, feeling in his pockets.
When he comes out with his car key, I step in front of the door. “Just go to Mimi’s, Dad. It’s right on the corner, so you can walk. Your coffee’s almost ready.”
Plus, Mimi’s doesn’t sell alcohol. But I can’t say that out loud.
He looks at me for a long second with an expression that tells me he heard it anyway. I wait for him to explode. Instead, he takes a deep breath and grumbles, “I’m going to the grocery store. I’ll be back in an hour.”