“If I had my way, you wouldn’t be driving at all.”
My jaw is tight. I push past him before he can goad me into an argument. “I guess it’s a good thing you don’t get your way, then, huh?”
Actually, it’s a good thing I had an expensive attorney, or I really wouldn’t be driving at all.Alan doesn’t stop me, and he doesn’t say anything as I ascend the stairs. I’m closing the door to my room when I hear his voice, bitter and resigned. “You’re going to end up just like your father.”
The television should be too loud for me to hear him clearly, but he wasn’t quiet about it.
I slam my soda on the dresser and fling my door open so hard it bounces against the wall. My breathing is loud in my chest, and I have to force myself to stop at the top of the stairs.
“What did you just say to me?” I yell.
Now it’s his turn to ignore me.
I hit the wall so hard the pictures rattle. “What the hell did you just say to me, Alan?”
“You heard me.”
I hate him.
I hate him.
I hate that he’s here. I hate that he’s not my father. I hate that he makes my mother happy. I hate that he doesn’t make her happy enough.
I hate everything about him.
The door at the other end of the hallway opens, and my mother stands in the doorway. Her dark hair is in a loose ponytail, and she clings to the molding like she might duck back inside if it’s too scary out here.
That sucks some of the rage right out of me. My one hand is so tight I’m digging nails through my palm, and the other hand clutches a shaking plate of lasagna. My shoulders are hunched, and I’m sure my eyes are fierce.
I should apologize, but I can’t. There’s too much weight behind it. I owe her apologies for much bigger things. The letter from the cemetery was right: fate does seem to conspire against us. The guilt sits on my shoulders and presses me into the floor until I’m unable to move.
My mother doesn’t move, either.
I wonder if she heard what Alan said. I wonder if she agrees with him.
I turn my back on her and enter my room. I don’t slam the door, but the sudden silence is loud, despite the football game roaring downstairs.
She won’t come in. She hasn’t come in for years.
Maybe—
No, nothing will change.
I drop onto the corner of my bed. I don’t want the lasagna anymore. I keep hearing Alan’s voice in my head.
You’re going to end up just like your father.
He’s right. I probably will.
CHAPTER EIGHT
My father is in prison.
I’ve never visited him. I don’t think my mother has, either, but it’s not like we talk about it. It’s a family secret that’s not really a secret at all.
The real secret is that sometimes I want to see him. It’s weird admitting that, even to you. I’ve never told anyone, not even my best friend. It would be easy to hate my father, but I don’t.
I miss him. Not the same way I miss my sister. Never like that. She and I could fight like it was the end of the world_she was a little sister after all_but when it counted, we were close. People sometimes say that losing a family member is like losing a limb. Her death was like losing half of myself. I miss her, but I know I’ll never get her back. There’s no undoing it.
But I miss him, too, in a different way.
And prison isn’t forever. Well, not for him.
That’s wrong, isn’t it? How messed up am I that I miss the guy who killed her?
I almost used a different expression than “messed up,” but I remembered what you said about your mom. My best friend is the same way. He hates when I swear, so I make an effort. Usually.
I disagree with your mom, though. Words are words. Dropping an f-bomb wouldn’t make me an idiot any more than saying “sesquipedalian” makes someone intelligent.
Both those words can easily make someone sound like a real douchebag, though.
Now I feel like I should cross out “douchebag.” Your mom probably wouldn’t like me much.
I looked up your mother’s photograph. I don’t think it’s depressing. I don’t think it’s hopeful, either. It’s life. When everything goes to hell around you, the only way to go is forward. Those kids on the swing set know it. The guys with the guns do, too.
How old are you? You mentioned honors photography, so I’m guessing you’re in high school. Do you go to Hamilton?
Or maybe it’s better if we don’t know anything about each other.
Your call.
“I need your opinion on something.”
Rowan lifts a hand and blows on her nails. She’s painting them a pink so light it’s almost white, and the opaque nails combined with her light hair and skin makes her look even more ethereal than usual. Her bedroom furniture is all white, trimmed with gold, and her carpeting is lavender. All she needs is a pair of wings.
“You’re hiding,” she says.
I straighten. That’s out of the blue and has nothing to do with what I was about to ask.
Then again, maybe it’s exactly on target. “I’m hiding?”
“From your father.”
Oh. I scowl. “I don’t want to talk about him.”
She starts a second coat of polish. “He wasn’t trying to hurt you, Jules.”
I don’t say anything.
She glances up. “You said yourself that her editor offered to take them. It’s not like your dad dug them out and listed them on Craigslist.”
She’s right. I know she’s right. I study my own nails, short and round and unpolished. “It feels like he’s punishing her,” I say softly.
“Maybe.” She hesitates. “Anger is one of the stages of grief.”
This conversation is making me jittery. I didn’t want to talk about Dad at all. Or Mom. “Is that your psych class talking?”
She puts down the nail polish and turns the desk chair to fully face me. “Last night Mom asked me if she should call your dad.”
“What?” My voice drops two levels. I glance at the door, ready to bolt. “Why?”
“Because you’ve been here until almost midnight for the last four days.”