I nodded. “Sounds good.” We looked at each other for a moment, and it was like the very air between us changed. I suddenly remembered all the things we’d talked about, everything I’d told him when my walls were down. As I looked across at Clark in the morning light, I realized I knew him. Not everything, and not perfectly, but I knew who he was. And I’d let him see me.
A part of me was yelling that this wasn’t good, that I’d broken all my rules, that I should pull back, circle the wagons, stop this before it went any further. But before I could sort through this or say anything, Clark took a step back toward the house. “I should go check on Bert,” he said. “But I’ll see you tonight?”
“See you,” I said, nodding. And then, even though I knew it was ridiculous, I waited to make sure he got back inside before getting in my car and heading for home.
I didn’t linger once I made it back, just headed straight up to bed, feeling the fatigue set in with every step I took upstairs. I plugged in my phone and didn’t even change out of the T-shirt and sweatpants, just crawled into bed and pulled the covers over my head to block out the sunlight, hearing the beep that told me my phone had powered back on before I fell into a dreamless sleep.
? ? ?
When I opened my eyes again, the sun was bright and filling my room, and I squinted against it, raising my hand, wishing I’d thought to close the blinds before I went to sleep. I looked at the digital clock on my bedside table and saw that it was noon—I’d slept for hours.
I pushed the covers off me—it was hot in my room—and swung my legs down to the ground. I stretched my arms over my head as I grabbed my phone from the charger. I needed a glass of water, and then maybe I’d see what my friends were up to. And I had another date tonight. The thought of it made me smile as I took the steps down to the kitchen two at a time. I didn’t know if I could get them all on board for wardrobe prep again, but I also wasn’t really sure that I needed it. When someone has seen you wearing their clothes, not to mention first thing in the morning, I was pretty sure you no longer had to try to impress them as much with your sartorial choices.
I had just walked into the kitchen, punching in the unlock code on my phone, when I stopped short. My dad was sitting at the kitchen table, his arms folded across his chest. And he looked angrier than I’d ever seen him look before.
“Where the hell,” he asked, his voice low and furious, “have you been?”
Chapter EIGHT
I blinked at him. “What—what do you mean?” I asked. “I texted you that I had a work emergency—” But my dad was already pushing himself back up from the table, his voice rising.
“I have been waiting all night for you to come home, young lady,” he said, pointing angrily at the clock across the kitchen. “And you stroll on in here at seven a.m. without so much as a word?” I hadn’t ever heard my dad’s voice like this, ever. This wasn’t the controlled anger at his debates and press conferences, when he needed to be upset about an issue only to be able to pivot and speak rationally a moment later. This was real.
“I sent you a text,” I said, even as my heart was pounding hard, feeling the anxious, jittery feeling coursing through me that had always meant you’re in trouble. I suddenly felt eight years old again, approaching the table where both my parents sat looking down at me, furious, my report card in front of them.
I pulled out my phone, and only then did I see I had eight missed calls from my dad and four voice mails. There were also about twelve texts from him, starting friendly and concerned, then getting worried, then angry. I scrolled up past these, to the text I’d sent him, ready to show him proof that I’d covered my bases, been responsible. But my stomach plunged as I looked at the screen. There was the text I’d composed—but never sent. I closed my eyes for a second, remembering. I’d written it, but then Bri had texted, and I’d gotten distracted. I’d assumed, this whole time, that it had gone through and that everything here was fine.
“Oh,” I said, my voice small. “So . . . here’s the thing.” I looked up at him, and when I saw how mad he still was, looked back down at my phone. “I wrote a text to you. But it never got sent. But you can see it. Look . . .” I held out my phone to him, but he barely glanced at it. “I’m really sorry,” I said, hoping we could move past this. I knew he must have been worried, but it was an honest mistake.
“You think that’s an excuse?” he asked, shaking his head. “You think you can come home whenever you want?”
I felt myself frown as I looked up at him. I was sorry that he’d been worried. I’d apologized. It was a mistake. So what was he doing still yelling at me about it? “Look, I said I was sorry. Can we drop it now, please?”