Girl Out of Water(29)

He runs a hand through his graying hair. “You know what’s more exhausting than building a city hall?”

“What?”

“Toting three kids to the pool and the mall.”

I gasp. “The mall? You hate the mall. You must have made Emery happy.”

“Emery? More like Parker and Nash. Those boys spent two hours in the Discovery store. Emery and I had to pry them away with the promise of cinnamon sugar pretzels.”

Oh god. Cinnamon sugar pretzels. The bakery next to Tess’s family restaurant makes the most delicious ones but only during the holidays. I swear I eat three a day all through December. “Did you…”

Dad pulls a crumpled wax paper bag from one of the shopping bags at his feet and grins. “I did. Because I am—”

“—The best father ever. Thank you, thank you.” Despite eating chocolate pudding all afternoon and a ton of sugar this morning, I open the bag and tear off the still-warm dough, popping the piece into my mouth. “And thank you for taking them today,” I mumble while chewing.

“Happy to do it,” Dad responds. “How was hanging with Jacks?”

“Pretty good. I forgot how much I missed her, you know?” When they visit us in Santa Cruz, the trips are always so relaxed. Aunt Jackie and I have spent countless hours sitting by the surf, sipping Arnold Palmers, and inventing increasingly absurd backstories for all the tourists walking by. When I was younger, I used to beg Dad to let them come live with us. I wanted my aunt and cousins to be around all the time, a big, loud family like the ones on TV. He had to explain that they had their own home. And soon enough, Eric and Tess and my other friends and their parents became that big, loud family anyway. It was only late at night, when it was just Dad and me that I still felt a little alone. Sometimes I’d slip one of my mom’s postcards out of my nightstand and run my fingers along it like a magic lamp, wishing, “Come home, come home, come home.”

I imagine her finding the note I left in Santa Cruz. I wonder if she’ll care that her sister is hurt, if it will even register for her to care. I can’t believe she up and left her sister and dad for two years without a word, yet of course I can believe it because she does the exact same thing to me. No wonder Aunt Jackie ruined all of her stuff. It’s probably healthier than stashing keepsakes in a nightstand.

“I do know,” Dad says. “I’ve missed Jacks and the kids too. It’d be nice if we lived closer and could see them more often.”

“You mean if they lived closer,” I correct.

“Yes, of course.” Dad shifts on his feet. “Oh, I almost forgot. I got you something else.”

“A cinnamon sugar pretzel and something else? Watch out or I might turn into one of those spoiled Willy Wonka kids.”

“Think of it as a thank you for being there for your cousins,” he says and then reaches for the largest of the shopping bags by his feet.

Parker and Nash nudge each other, and Emery half glances over from the screen of her phone. I hesitate, then open the bag and find two things inside: a skateboard and a helmet. The presents are unlike Dad’s usual gifts—Mr. Zog’s Wax, a new wet suit, a gift card to the Shak. People identify who you are and buy you presents accordingly. What do these presents say about me, about how much I’ve changed since leaving home?

“You like them?” Dads asks.

“Yeah, do you like them?” Nash asks loudly. Parker shushes him. Nash swats him. Emery shushes them both. Aunt Jackie stays sleeping.

I nod a couple times but don’t say anything because the skateboard and helmet are white and teal, which are the colors of my surfboard. My throat gets all tight.

“You like the colors?” Dad asks. “They’re your favorites, right?”

This is sweet. This is thoughtful. This is Dad saying, I’m sorry your summer isn’t turning out like you planned, but I hope this makes it better. So I cough, trying to loosen my throat, and say, “Awesome. Thank you. Really, thanks.”

Dad has always been one to take words at face value, so he hugs me and smiles. “Glad you like them.”

And I do like them. Well, part of me likes them.

But a different part of me feels like I’m looking at gifts that belong to a different girl.

? ? ?

“I don’t need help packing,” Emery says. I’m sitting on her bed as she pulls out a duffel bag and stares into her closet.

“I know,” I say. “Just thought I’d keep you company since I won’t see you over the weekend.”

Emery’s friend has a lake house, and as we were leaving the hospital this evening, she texted Emery to invite her up for a few days. Emery jumped at the chance, even as Dad was muttering something about it being rather last minute. “Okay, thanks I guess. But you know, you are here all summer.” She looks up from inspecting a pair of shorts and smiles. “You’ll survive a few days without me.”

Thanks for the reminder. I still have fifty-seven days left in Nebraska. Not that I’m counting. “So who else is going?” I ask as Emery places the shorts on the extra bed and pulls out two blue summer dresses that look exactly the same and holds each one up to the mirror, switching them back and forth.

It’s amazing how Emery and I can spend hours talking and watching TV and laughing yet basically have no shared interests. She’s all music and clothes. And I’m all surfing and…surfing. But maybe that’s part of what family is—loving people you have nothing in common with.