My eyes well with tears, again, because apparently I’m going to do more crying this weekend than I’ve done all my life. “I hope so, too,” I tell him.
“Your father’s going to leave,” Meredith says, apologetically, like the surprise of this news might be too much for me to bear. “At least for now.”
“There’s an extended-stay hotel not too far from here,” Dad says, “and there’s a place for you there, with me.”
“I—uh…” I can hardly breathe. It never occurred to me that I’d have to go away. Mer and Ally, my bedroom and the kitchen I adore, the Holdens—Max—across the street. I know the extended-stay Dad’s talking about; it’s a few miles down the highway, but it might as well be on Jupiter. I don’t want to leave home.
“Or,” Meredith says stretching to cover my hand with hers, “you can stay here with your sister and me. Your dad and I agreed—this house was yours long before it was mine, and more than that, I’d be happy to have your company. Ally would, too.”
It would’ve been enough for her to offer out of obligation, but to know that she wants me to stay, she values our relationship enough to invite me to live with her sans Dad …
It’ll hurt him if I choose to stay with Meredith. He stuck with me after Beth left, made sacrifices and compromises, showed me a version of the love I went on about a few minutes ago. He cares about me, I know he does, and it’s possible he needs me, too.
I recall what Max said last night, about me trying too hard to right wrongs; it’s not up to me to fix my father. My focus has to be on high school, and my job, and saving money. I’m going to settle on a local culinary school, one that rivals the International Culinary Institute, and then, eventually, I’m going to chase my Grand Dipl?me of Professional Pastry Arts. I’m going to be present for Ally, and to do my best to be a kick-ass big sister. I’m going to concentrate on my relationships, all of them, but I’m not going to move to a hotel just to maintain a false sense of peace with my dad.
I meet his gaze. “I’d like to stay with Meredith.”
38
HANGING OUT WITH MEREDITH AND MY SISTER turns out to be therapeutic. Mer’s become something of a friend, and in the two weeks since my dad moved into a room at the extended-stay, we’ve spent a lot of nights talking our way through trays of warm chocolate chip cookies. Ally can lift her head now, and when she sees me, she smiles a gummy smile that makes my heart feel like it might burst.
I’ve decided on the Seattle Culinary Academy as the strongest contender for the first couple of years of my culinary education, and I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time baking, learning, practicing. Mer pretends to be displeased—I’m not helping her lose the last of the baby weight!—but she rarely leaves me alone when I’m in the kitchen. I think she’s found comfort in my pastries, and in the act of creating her own. The other day, I shared my tried-and-true crust recipe with her, and she managed to fashion a passable lattice to top her cherry pie.
I’ve seen my dad only twice since he moved out, lunches initiated by him. They were quiet meetings, punctuated by the scrapes of silver against china and a lot of uncomfortable ahems.
He’s not seeing Mrs. Tate anymore, he claims, but it’s hard to take his word at face value. He hasn’t mentioned Max. I know he takes exception to the two of us together, though I think his objection comes more from principle than anything else. I went behind his back to spend time with the boy he told me to stay away from. He must have a Fatherhood Handbook tucked away somewhere, and it must advise him to remain quietly pissed for some predetermined number of days.
His disapproval doesn’t bother me.
Tonight, I give Ally a bath, then volunteer to rock her to sleep. After I lay her in her crib, I find Meredith and Marcy scrapbooking at the kitchen table. This is a new hobby, one Mer jumped into to fill time not monopolized by the baby. I’m glad Marcy’s joining in, though like me, her creativity comes more in the way of butter, sugar, and good chocolate than stickers, card stock, and fancy scissors.
I make a pot of coffee, fill three mugs, and join them. Glossy photographs litter the table, along with dozens of sticker sheets, printed pastel paper, and strips of waxy paper covered in glue dots, a miracle of scrapbooking I’ve only recently learned about. “What are you working on?” I ask, setting their mugs a safe distance from the memories.
“Ally’s baby book. This page is dedicated to her first time in the bathtub.” Meredith picks up a photo and passes it to me. I smile at the image: Ally sitting in a mesh bath seat, rosy pink and wailing, hair covered in sudsy shampoo.
“She’s just the cutest thing,” Marcy says, thumbing through her own stack of photos.
“Can I help?”
“Sure,” Mer says, scanning the table for a suitable task, obviously trying to figure out where I’ll do the least damage. She selects a few pictures, a celadon sheet of card stock, and a strip of glue dots. “You can glue these pictures to card stock, then cut them out. Leave about a quarter-inch of green border.”
I study the example she holds up. I’m pretty sure I can reproduce it.
The pictures she’s given me are of Ally’s first full day of life. I recall it with perfect clarity. The tension incited by Dad’s stunt contrasted with the immediate-yet-unforeseen love I felt for my baby sister. There’s a picture of me holding her stiffly, then one each of Dad and Meredith snuggling her close. I flip to the next picture and find Ally in Marcy’s arms. I stare at the photograph a beat too long, overcome by a rush of memories.
The final photograph in the pile steals my breath. It’s the one I took of Max holding Ally like a little football—the moment I realized I was in love with him.
“You okay, sweetie?” Marcy asks, leaning in for a look at the picture I’m holding.
I pass it to her. She grins, then shows Meredith.
“That was a good day,” Mer says.
“That was a crazy day.”
“Max was such a grouch on the way home from the hospital,” Marcy says, handing the picture back to me. “I had a feeling something had happened between the two of you, and Jill, I can’t tell you how hard I hoped it’d work out.”
I sip from my mug to hide a smile.
“You should’ve seen the two of them on Valentine’s Day, before they left for Seattle. I caught them smooching in the hallway—”
I choke on coffee and laughter. “Meredith!”
She shrugs. “It’s true.”
I’m flushing raspberry-red when my phone chimes. I find a text from Max: I miss you.
I hear his words as much as read them, whispered low and gravelly, his breath moving tendrils of my hair, tickling my neck. I grin at my phone.
“Max?” Meredith asks, slapping pink teddy bear stickers to the layout she’s working on.
“Tell him to come over,” Marcy says.
I tap out a response: I’d ask you to come over, but there’s a whole lot of crafting going on around here.
His reply comes quickly: Meet me outside?