I tried not to smile. The writer was probably in his forties or fifties, but maybe everyone younger than you becomes a kid when you get older. Either way, reading a fantasy series had never been high on my list of things to do, so I figured I was in the clear as the line moved forward and I brought my books up to the checkout.
Half an hour later I unlocked the front door and pushed my way into the house backward, my arms piled high with my library books and a pizza box from Captain Pizza balanced on top of them. As I’d left the library, Palmer had texted, asking if I wanted to go to her house for dinner, and I’d considered it. During the school year I ate down the street at the Aldens’ at least once a week. But as I stood there in the fading sunshine, I was suddenly feeling, all at once, the events of the day and the blisters that were starting to form from walking dogs in four-inch heels. And I realized that nothing sounded quite so good as picking up dinner, finally changing out of this dress, and vegging out in front of some really bad TV.
I dumped the books on the table in the foyer and headed into the kitchen with my pizza box, then stopped short in the doorway. The fridge was open, and I stared at it for a moment, trying to understand what was happening. Then the door swung closed, and there, standing behind it, was my father, looking irritated. “Oh,” he said when he saw me, sounding as thrown as I felt. “Andie. Hi. Sorry—you surprised me.”
“Same here,” I said, giving him a quick smile as I set the pizza box on the island in the center of the kitchen. There were stools that pulled up to it, and this was where I ate most nights, when I wasn’t eating in front of the TV.
I hadn’t seen my father at all yesterday—I’d been out trying to find something to do with my summer, and he’d been locked in his study, there when I left in the morning and when I came back at night.
He was frowning now, as he looked at me, like he was just now putting together that something was off. “Didn’t you . . . ? When do you leave for your program?”
I could feel irritation starting to bubble up, but I pushed it away. My dad had forgotten I was even going to this program, so I really shouldn’t be annoyed that he’d forgotten the start date, even though he seemed perfectly able to remember all kinds of obscure details about his biggest donors. “Well, it was supposed to be yesterday,” I said. “But, um . . . I’m actually not going.”
“Not going?” my dad repeated, staring at me. “What do you mean?”
I took a breath before telling him, planning out what I was going to say. I’d start with the phone call, then what happened with Dr. Rizzoli, and at least I’d be able to follow it up with the good news about my job.
“Why isn’t there any food in the fridge?” my dad interrupted, having pulled the door open again, leaning in closer, an irritated look on his face.
I didn’t reply, just waited for him to remember that he’d asked me a question and that I still hadn’t answered it. He shut the door and pulled open the freezer, then opened the fridge again, his face suddenly brighter in the refrigerator light. “There’s no milk or bread or fruit. . . .”
I could hear how annoyed he was getting, and I realized he’d totally forgotten about my program, had moved on to other things. I knew I could interrupt and tell him why, exactly, I wasn’t going, and that it was his fault, but I dismissed this plan before I even found the words. I wasn’t about to start begging my dad to pay attention to me.
“Well,” I finally said, about to answer his food question, which was clearly the most important thing right now. “Joy would sometimes pick stuff up. Or I’d get what I needed. . . .” The fact was, we almost never had that stuff in the fridge. I ate about four things, so it had never been an issue for me to keep myself fed. I took a breath, not really sure if I should point out that he was an adult who was capable of shopping for himself, when I realized a moment later that maybe he wasn’t. He had a housekeeper in D.C., along with interns and assistants who probably made sure he had everything he needed.
“I guess I’ll pick some things up later,” my dad said, mostly to himself, as he closed the fridge. He blinked at me again, like he was surprised to see me still there, his brow furrowing like he was trying to put something together. “So did you have another program lined up? Or are you going to be here this summer?”
“No other programs. So . . . I’ll be here.” As I said the words, I felt them sink in as, for the first time, I really understood what that meant. I’d been so caught up in getting my new job and feeling like I had at least some semblance of a plan that I hadn’t thought about what this would mean exactly. I would be home all summer. With my father.