If I Was Your Girl(18)

“I like you too,” he said. We stopped by my stairwell and laughed like happy idiots, our fingers laced together.

“I have to go, okay?” He sneaked another quick kiss and then we pressed our foreheads together, our faces only inches apart. Finally, he let me go.

“I’d like to call you tomorrow,” he said, getting out his phone.

“I’d like that,” I said. “My phone’s still at the tree house. Bring it here and we’ll trade numbers.”

“Okay.” Grant smiled and backed away without turning, as though I might disappear if he looked away.

I walked upstairs and turned on the landing to wave at him. He remained in place, silently watching. I waved again, not wanting the moment to end, before he smiled and started the long walk to his car.

I ran a hand through my hair and whispered, “Shit.”

*

I found Dad asleep on the couch, a DVR menu bathing him in blue light.

“Daddy?” I said softly, unafraid to use the word this once because I knew he wouldn’t hear me. “I’m home.” He grunted and his eyes fluttered. He looked at me for a long moment with half-lidded, bleary eyes, and sounded far off when he spoke.

“Andrew?”

My heart nearly shattered. But then I remembered I was wearing Grant’s shirt, that the light was low and he was half-asleep. I thought of Sandman and wondered if the son he wanted waited for him in Dream’s kingdom every time he slept. I couldn’t blame him.

“It’s Amanda,” I said softly.

“Amanda?” He blinked slowly and leaned in close. “Why are you wet? Whose clothes are those?”

“I went swimming with friends,” I said. “Didn’t have a suit, so I wore this.”

“Oh,” he said, stretching and yawning again. His back popped. “Good. It’s bad to be alone.”

“Let’s get you in bed.” I put his arm over my shoulder and immediately recognized the smell of whiskey.

“You’re a good kid,” he said, a faint slur in his voice. “Daughter. Sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“You look happy,” he said.

“I think I am.”

“I want you to smile. I love you.”

Did he realize it had been a decade since he’d said those words? “I love you too,” I replied. He pulled me into a tight hug and kissed my cheek before I could react, then stumbled off to bed.

I closed his door and stood in the hall for a long time. The television buzzed, the vent fans whirred, and cold water soaked into the carpet around my feet as I replayed those three words in my head. I touched my fingers to my cheek, still the littlest bit raw from his stubble.

I remembered how angry he had sounded when he told me that lives like mine weren’t good, couldn’t possibly be good. I felt the scar above my ear and thought about how warm and tingly my lips still felt from Grant’s kisses. I prayed that Dad had been wrong.





8

My phone chirped as I made my way through a sea of students rushing the front doors in preparation for the weekend. I sidled into one of the few empty spots by the office and pulled it out, hoping it was one of the girls saying their Friday-night plans had fallen through and they could hang out. Instead I saw Grant’s name and the first few sentences of another of his texts.

“Hey!” the message read. “Sorry to keep bugging you, it’s just I really liked what happened the other night and I thought you did too. I hope you’ll—” I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and put my phone away without reading the rest. The night of the party had been a mistake, a complete violation of the rules I’d set for myself—my plan, the whole reason I’d come to Lambertville. It was stupid, it was risky, and it couldn’t happen again. Grant had been texting me ever since, and I’d been steadfastly ignoring him and avoiding him in the halls. I debated blocking his number to spare myself the temptation of responding, but for some reason I couldn’t.

At least the weather was nice. I descended the steps and turned away from the buses, making my way around the school to the football field. It seemed a shame to waste a day like this even if I had to spend it alone, and Dad had agreed when I texted him at lunch to pick me up once he got off work. I climbed the bleachers and opened my Catalogue of American Fiction textbook to “A Good Man Is Hard to Find,” by Flannery O’Connor. I immediately hated the old woman in the story, though it was pretty obvious I was supposed to. Part of me could sympathize with the bizarre standards she held herself to, to make sure people knew she was “a lady,” but it was a small part. I was highlighting a line when my phone suddenly erupted in the Star Wars theme. I pulled it out and saw that Grant was calling. The ringtone finished once and looped back to the beginning before I gave in and accepted the call.

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound distant.

“So. Your phone ain’t broke,” Grant replied.

“No,” I said, rubbing the bridge of my nose in anticipation of the next logical question: why hadn’t I responded to his texts?

“And you like Star Wars?” he went on. “That’s badass. I love Star Wars! Which one’s your favorite?”

“Empire Strikes Back,” I said reflexively, before sitting up straight and looking around. “Wait, how’d you know that?”