I shrugged and turned my back to the empty space where the farmhouse had been. “I don’t even know,” I said, realizing as I did that it was the truth. I’d never gotten further in my head than “something left for me in the house.” I’d just wanted some proof—beyond my mother buying out the feminine-care aisle of CVS—that she’d left something for me, something so that I could pretend, at least for a moment or two, that she was still with me. “Just . . . something.” I gave it one last look, then turned to Clark. “We can go now,” I said, giving him a smile. “I’m good.”
Clark squeezed my hand, then started the engine, and headed back toward the center of town. I kicked off my wet flip-flops and propped my feet on the dashboard, settling in for what I knew would be at least a half hour’s journey. I looked over and saw that he was gripping the steering wheel hard, his hands flexing against it and a muscle working in his jaw, like he was struggling with something. I started to say something, then realized that maybe I should wait for him to speak, just like he’d waited for me. I pressed my lips together and made myself sit in silence, and when I was almost sure I couldn’t take it any longer, Clark cleared his throat.
“I was just thinking . . . what you said? About how it’s better to face it?”
“Yes,” I said slowly. You can almost feel it coming, when someone needs to say something to you and you don’t want to spook them. It was the same way I felt whenever I picked up Fenway, the most jittery dog I walked. Any sudden movements and he’d go skittering under the bed, seeming to forget every day that it was nothing to be scared of, nothing but a walk, and that he was always happy once I got him out the door.
Clark let out a long breath, like he was steeling himself for something. And I somehow knew that there was a reason he was telling me now, when we were driving, when he didn’t have to look directly at me, when there were other things to focus on. “My dad,” he said, and I watched as his hands gripped and flexed against the wheel again before coming to rest at ten and two. I just nodded, even as I felt my breath catch in my throat. Since the first night we’d talked, I’d known there was a story there, but Clark hadn’t offered up any more details and I hadn’t known how to ask about it.
“What about him?” I asked, when Clark’s silence stretched on, and I started to worry that maybe he was waiting for me to say something. Clark paused at a red light and gave me a ghost of a smile before looking back at the road.
“He’s never read any of my books,” Clark said, his voice quiet. I blinked, just trying to understand this for a second. How was that even possible? “He always wanted to write,” Clark went on, before I could ask. And I knew, right away, that this wasn’t a story he’d told a lot—or ever. There was no easy cadence here, or practiced gloss. It felt like Clark was finding each word for the very first time. “He was doing the accountant thing to have some stability, but it was always supposed to be temporary. Until his real job could begin.” I nodded, the light changed, and Clark drove on. “But he never sold anything. Never even got an agent to take him on. But since I could remember, he was working on what he considered his masterpiece—this sci-fi epic.”
“Sci-fi?” I asked, surprised. Clark had mentioned that first night that his father was an aspiring writer, and I’d always assumed he wrote fantasy, like Clark.
“Yeah,” Clark said, with a half smile. “He doesn’t really get what I do, I don’t think. . . .” His voice trailed off and he cleared his throat. “Anyway, he was really happy when I started working on my book. I think I only did it because I saw my dad writing every night, and it became something we were doing together. The McCallister men and their books. My mom used to joke about it. . . .” A smile flitted across his face but was gone almost as soon as it appeared. “So when I finished, my dad had lists of agents to send it to. I didn’t think anything was going to happen—I don’t think he did either. But then the book sold.” Clark hit his blinker, and I realized we were heading toward the diner. I didn’t know if Clark was hungry, or if he was going there out of habit, but either way was fine with me. I’d had enough driving-around talks with my friends to know that sometimes you just needed somewhere to go, some destination so that you could keep the car moving and the conversation going.
“He was really happy for me at first,” Clark said, and the faint trace of hopefulness still in his voice was breaking my heart. I wanted to slide across my seat and wrap my arms around him, kiss him until he had forgotten all about this, but I knew that neither one would actually be helpful right now. “And he thought that it would be good for his book too. But my agent didn’t want it. And he couldn’t sell it anywhere, this book he’d been working on for ten years. And then my books started to do well. . . .”
“And he wasn’t so happy?” I filled in, feeling my anger at Clark’s dad starting to rise.
“Not so much,” Clark said, and though he was keeping his tone light, I could practically see the effort involved with it. “He used to say that he was planning on reading my books, getting around to it any day now. But we’ve stopped talking about it, really, and I’ve accepted now that he’s just not going to read them.”