Beautiful Graves(19)

I pick up my backpack and check my phone, something I haven’t done all day. There are some missed calls from my dad. That’s weird. Dad doesn’t really call me all that much anymore. When he does, he treats me like one of his clients. All businesslike and formal.

My heart instantly kicks into high gear. Has something happened?

I call him, grateful that it’s not outrageously late yet on the West Coast. He picks up on the first ring.

“Everlynne.” His voice is paper dry, cold.

“Hey, Dad.” I don’t know why, but I still want to cry every time I hear his voice ever since That Day.

There’s a pause. I think he didn’t expect me to call him back. It makes me nauseous with shame. Has it really been this long since I last checked on him? I should get better about this. I should call my family every week. And send more postcards and gifts. Christmas and birthdays aren’t enough. But I can’t help but think I’m doing them a huge favor by distancing myself from them.

“Is everything okay? I saw a few missed calls.”

“Excuse me?” He sounds puzzled, and also like I’m bothering him. Then he lets out an awkward chuckle. “Oh, right. My reception is awful. Doesn’t matter which carrier I switch to, I always have to call a few times before I get a line. If I lived in the sticks, maybe that would make sense. But these companies keep telling me it’s just the opposite. That because I live in the city, there’s more competition over the network. Something about data priority. Can you believe they want me to pay premium just to be able to get a decent signal?” he rages. Because that’s what’s important right now. His reception. Not the fact that we don’t have any kind of relationship.

“Outrageous,” I agree. “We should all just stick to landlines. Show them where to stick their premium plans.” I’m repeating the stuff he used to lecture us about at dinnertime.

“No need to be sarcastic.” He sobers all at once.

I can’t win with this man. “You’re right. Sorry. You wanted to talk to me?”

Dad clears his throat. “Yes, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Now’s a good time,” I say, trying to sound cheery.

“See, I was thinking we’d do it face-to-face. But you haven’t been home in a long time.”

“Not that long.”

“Three years is long in my books, Ever.”

Shame floods me again. I miss my family every day. Lots of people live far away from their families. I know that. People find work and go to colleges in different places. Or they meet someone worth moving for, or maybe it’s their dream to live elsewhere. On golden beaches or in big cities that swallow you whole. But my story is different. I didn’t move. I ran.

Dad hasn’t invited me over in years, so I wonder what’s made him change his mind. Is he . . . terminally ill?

“I hope everything is okay,” I say cautiously.

“Everything’s fine,” Dad says curtly. “If what you mean by that is that we’re healthy.”

“Okay . . .” I’m buying time, because I really don’t want to go back home. I’m pretty sure once I do, Dad will inform me he removed me from his will and would like me to change my last name not to cause them embarrassment. “In that case, why don’t you—”

“Come for Thanksgiving.” He cuts into my words. My dad is not huge on feelings. He’s always been more comfortable with numbers and spreadsheets than with words. So I know if he summons me home, there’s something explosive waiting just around the corner.

“Are you sure everything is okay, Dad?” I ask softly. “Because if not . . .”

“I already said we were okay,” he says, a little impatiently. He is a mild man, and I know I’m the reason he becomes exasperated. “I just want you to be here for Thanksgiving dinner. I’ll pay for your tickets.”

“It’s not about the tickets.” I let out a sigh. I hate this, and I hate myself, and I hate that this is what my family has crumbled into. “I don’t think I can take time off work. Spooky Season is our busiest time of the year. I’ll need to find a replacement for both my jobs . . . I just don’t see it happening at such short notice.”

Even though this is not a lie, it’s not the entire truth either. It’s not work that’s keeping me away. Dad is quiet. I hear Renn in the background, playing video games and laughing with his friends. My heart folds into itself, a tiny origami butterfly. I miss lazy Sunday afternoons with him, playing Halo and arguing about meaningless things, like which is better, How I Met Your Mother or The Big Bang Theory (How I Met Your Mother). Or are people who eat hot dogs horizontally sociopaths (yes).

“I see,” Dad grunts, finally. “I can’t change your mind, I suppose.”

“We’ll do Christmas together,” I hurry to promise. This time, I intend on keeping that promise.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he says.

Taking a deep breath, I ignore his snark. “I love you, Dad.”

The words feel so hollow, so sour in my mouth. This is not what love looks like. This is not what love feels like. It did, six years ago. Six years ago, we had weekly dates at a favorite diner and family Scrabble evenings every Wednesday and Taco Tuesdays.