She shakes her head in disbelief as I back toward the front door. “Why? What changed?”
I changed, but I’m not really sure how or why. I want to be better than a string of hookups. “I guess I just need more.”
Her eyes narrow and I instantly get I said the wrong thing, but there’s no taking it back. And as I think about it, I realize it’s the truth.
I pull open the door. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
When I’m outside and can breathe again, I stare up at the stars, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. I jump in my truck and barrel down the hill, knowing there’s only one thing that will dissolve this bundle of frustration in my gut.
The school grounds are deserted at nine o’clock at night, but I’ve got a key to the pool cage. I unlock the gate and change in the locker room, then dive in.
And I swim until there’s nothing but me and the water.
Chapter 8
Addie
My head pounds as I sit over my econ book at the kitchen table, making it nearly impossible to focus on my homework. The other thing making impossible is the face that haunts my every waking thought—those cinnamon eyes that can be full of amusement one minute and reading my thoughts with pinpoint intensity the next.
When that gym teacher, Deanna, came for Marcus at the end of practice, the slight headache I’d been nursing all day blew into a tornado in my head. She asked if he was still free, which means they’ve got a date.
So, instead of working on econ, I’ve been sitting here twirling my pencil on the table, obsessing over what they’re doing, for the last half hour. Which is stupid because he’s dating the hot goddess gym teacher. And I’m me—his un-hot seventeen-year-old student with the shaved head and raccoon eyes.
I finally give up and go for my meds. I was trying to hold off until bedtime so maybe I’d make it to morning before my headache woke me, but there’s no point sitting here in agony and getting nothing done.
Aunt Becky stocked the fridge before she left this morning. When she told me she was going to postpone the rest of her trip, I told her not to. Whether she goes now or later hardly matters.
I grab a can of Diet Coke, and just as I’m popping the top, the front door swings open and Dad comes through. It’s only eight thirty, so maybe Bran and Vicky threw him out before he got too drunk to drive. I take that as a good sign and swallow my pills.
He closes the door and looks up at me as I move back to the table and sit. “What are you working on?” he asks, coming tentatively closer.
“My econ project,” I answer. “I make twelve dollars an hour and I have to figure out how to live on it.”
Before Mom and everything that happened after, Dad was a finance manager for a Levi Straus. Money was his thing and he made everything a lesson in budgeting. When I was in elementary school, we’d go to the grocery store, or out to dinner, and he’d make me add up all our purchases and decide if we had enough money left for ice cream. In junior high, when we’d plan a vacation in the RV, he’d tell me how much we could afford to spend and make me plan the trip, including gas, campsite fees, food, and sightseeing. Before everything, if I’d told him this was my project, to put together a budget based on my assigned salary, he’d be at this table asking if I’d considered all the things that I’m sure I’m not considering. He’d be more into this project than me.
Now, he just stands there staring at me with the same numb expression that’s been on his face for the last year.
“Do you want to help?” I ask, a pang of nostalgia in my heart.
He looks at me a long minute before answering and I can’t read his expression. He doesn’t seem drunk, but sometimes he’s good at hiding it. “I think the purpose is for you to learn to live within your means. But I’ll take a look when you’re done.”
I’m already doing that in real life. Once Dad’s unemployment ran out last year, we burned through whatever savings Mom and Dad had pretty quickly, and what money we got from her life insurance is almost gone. I take money from Dad’s wallet whenever there is any and stash it away for groceries and whatever. It’s a pretty tight budget. Pointing that out is only going to make him mad.
But that nostalgic little knot in my chest has grown, and the daughter buried deep inside me grasps at the possibility of connecting with her father again. “Have you eaten? I made some soup out of the rest of that rotisserie chicken we had last week.”
There’s a flash of life in his haunted eyes. “Your mother used to do that sometimes.”
“I know, Dad. She taught me.” I rise slowly from my seat. “Do you want some?”
He nods and lowers himself into the chair across from me.
I go to the fridge and get the Tupperware I put the soup away in, then scoop some into a bowl for him. “Should I heat up some sourdough to go with it?”
His eyes lift from the table to mine. “Yes, please. That would be great.”