Never Let You Go(22)

He notices my look, touches the ring. “I know I screwed things up,” he says, “but it doesn’t mean I’ve stopped loving her.”

“She’s happy now.”

My dad pauses and I think about my mom, wondering if what I said is true. I think she has fun with Greg—he’s really nice and has a good sense of humor, always teasing Mom about something, like how she lines up all the sponges on the sink according to color. He’s perpetually happy. I mean, who wouldn’t be when you get to wear shorts to work most the year? But she doesn’t talk about him much. Maybe it’s because there’s not much to talk about. He’s just Greg.

“I’m glad she’s happy,” my dad says. “Is she seeing anyone?”

“Dad.” I stop; the word feels unfamiliar and strange and thick in my mouth.

“You don’t have to call me that,” he says. “You can call me Andrew.”

“Andrew.” That feels even weirder but I don’t know what to say. Maybe I won’t call him anything.

“She must have a boyfriend. She’s too pretty to stay single for long.” He’s smiling like he’s trying to joke around, as though this isn’t a big deal, this question, but the coffee shop feels too busy now, the voices too loud, and the hot chocolate is making me feel sick.

“No,” I say. “She’s not seeing anyone.” I don’t want to have this conversation. I told him that I didn’t want to talk about her but it’s like he didn’t even hear me.

“That’s too bad. I really hoped she’d found someone who would make her happy.” He looks sincere but I don’t know his expressions. I don’t know him.

“How’s AA?”

“It’s going well.” He nods. “I have a sponsor.”

“Are you going to all your meetings?”

“You’re starting to sound like my lawyer.” He smiles but I’m unsure again, nervous again about upsetting him. Is this how it felt for Mom? I think about telling him that I have to leave, but I also want this. To sit here and have coffee with my dad. Like a normal kid.

“You don’t have to tell me,” I say. “I just don’t know what to talk about.”

“Me neither,” he says. “Let’s start over.”

“Okay.”

“I brought you something.” He reaches into a bag down by his feet, pulls out a long rectangular box, and hands it across the table. I know this box. Prismacolor Premier color pencils. I’ve stood in the art store and stared at them, but then I bought the cheaper set. I run my hands over the surface. One hundred and fifty shades. How did he know how much I wanted these?

“Thanks. These are great.” I feel like I should say something else, but I can’t find the words, can’t explain how much I want to draw with them right now, how my mind is swirling with all the colors. I want to spread them out on the floor and touch each one.

“Did you bring your sketch pad?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I see what you’re working on?”

I pull my pad out of my backpack and pass it over to him. My face feels hot as he flips through the pages and makes comments. I hate how much I like this moment, the proud look on his face. How much I wanted to show him. I realize now that I drew some of them for him, and I didn’t even know it. This is okay, I think. Mom would understand.





CHAPTER NINE


LINDSEY

JUNE 2004

He was home. His boots lay by the front door, dust tracks and clods of dirt all over the foyer. Sophie’s pink running shoes were under his boots. I pulled them out. He was drunker than normal, had barely looked at me as he stumbled in and collapsed onto the couch.

I stared down at him, watching the way his mouth parted as he snored. One arm was thrown above his head. His hair was long again, falling into his eyes like it did when we met. It was only the first week of June but he was already tanned on his neck, his biceps, which I used to love to wrap my hand around, and where his shirt rode up at his waist. His other hand rested across his stomach. I could lift it and it would flop back down. He’d dripped something onto his shirt, ketchup, maybe pizza sauce or spaghetti. I studied the marks. I’d have to use stain remover.

My mom kept bottles of the stuff in the bathroom cabinet. She was always dabbing at a spill, on my dad’s shirt, one of my dresses when I was little and in my mud pie phase. She said cleaning up after my brother alone kept the company in business and they should send her free samples. She and my dad had gone for their cruise in January, came back tanned and happy. The months had staggered on. Sophie was five and a half already. She got up on her own in the mornings, helped herself to cereal, and watched cartoons. She was going to see him like this.

I should go into her room, pack her things, and drive away. We could move in with my parents and I’d find a job. Something, anything. I felt another jolt of anger when I remembered the interior design class I’d loved so much. Then Andrew kept having to work late, or couldn’t pick up Sophie from school, or needed me to bring something to the job site. What was the point? I dropped out.

He mumbled something, smacked his lips, and scratched at his stomach with lazy fingers. He’d wake up in the middle of the night and stumble to bed, his arm pulling me closer. The heat of his body would surround me so tightly I wouldn’t be able to breath. I’d stay awake for hours.