The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(70)

“Do you think Phoebe’s okay? She’s not, like, worried that Mrs. Grandma Lightly will try to steal her Gold Star halo in the middle of the night, is she?”

I sigh. “I don’t know.”

“That’s not the way to heaven, but I know it’s hard to break three hundred years’ worth of bad habits.”

I cough to cover the snicker that flies out of my mouth. “Bridget.”

She flashes me a grin as we stroll under a streetlight. “What? You know it’s true. Hey, can I go to the Dells with Mei and her family for a few days next week?”

“You want to leave Tickled Pink to go amusement park hopping? Ew, boring.”

“Dad.”

“When I was your age, I didn’t have a fishing lake and pet goats and boredom and the most awesome dad in the world to hang out with and load my e-reader all summer long. And here you are, wanting to go have fun with roller coasters and swim parks and—”

“Dad.”

“What? Home isn’t heaven for you?” I ruffle her hat.

She ducks away, settling it back down again. “You are really irritating when we lose. Some people would use this as an opportunity for character growth.”

“The world couldn’t handle me if I got any more awesome.”

She stares at me a beat before doubling over laughing.

I turn and watch her, but I’m actually peering beyond, at the outline of the high school, lit by the moon, but without any visible lights on inside it.

The principal’s office—Phoebe’s bedroom—faces the football field, which means I can’t see her windows from here.

But if she were at the school, there would be other light shining through the building.

Wouldn’t there?

“C’mon, old man.” Bridget straightens, still giggling, and loops an arm through mine. “Let’s get you home and tucked in for the night so I can sneak onto your computer and look up ways to run away.”

The good news is, she wouldn’t actually tell me if she were planning on running away, which means it’s not in her plans for the summer. God knows we have our angsty days, and we have to work on that mouth of hers, but on the whole, I don’t worry she’ll pull a— Well, a me.

“How many more weeks do we have to let the Lightlys play on our team?” she asks.

“Gasp. You don’t want to play with Tavi anymore? But you took such fabu selfies. They were totally swag.”

“Oh my God, you are in a mood. Is this because Phoebe didn’t fall into your arms and kiss you senseless when I haloed her as the Gold Star of the game?”

“Bridget.”

“What?” She sweeps ahead of me, dramatically putting the back of her hand to her forehead. “It’s what Whitney Anastasia did when Guy Pierre crowned her the bowling queen in the movie.”

“So you were making fun of me,” a quiet voice says in the shadows.

I leap.

Bridget yelps.

We both spin, looking for the source of the voice, tripping over ourselves and each other.

“What? Oh my God, Phoebe, no,” Bridget says.

“You put your heart—oof—into the game,” I add as Bridget straightens but gets me with an elbow to the gut.

“We don’t mock people for doing their best.”

“Unless they’re only pretending to do their best.”

“Which we know you weren’t, right, Dad?”

Ah.

There Phoebe is, tucked into the trees near the easy entrance to my house. She’s fingering the halo crown, brows furrowed as her eyes flit from my daughter to me and back.

“That’s why you left?” I ask quietly. “You thought we were making fun of you?”

“I—yes.”

She’s lying.

If not lying, then not telling the whole truth.

“Phoebe!” Bridget tackles her with a hug. “Oh my God, I would never. I mean, I would, and I have, but not, like, actually because I wanted to hurt you. I make fun of myself all the time too. It helps with the self-improvement.”

Phoebe’s lips part, and her arms flap around a moment before she figures out how to hug Bridget back.

And when she does, she squeezes her eyes shut so tightly my heart squeezes hard enough to suck the air out of my lungs.

Phoebe Lightly needs Tickled Pink.

She needs hugs. She needs unconditional acceptance. She needs to know sometimes, trying your best is enough, and it’s okay if your best is literally curling up in a ball and hiding under a blanket fort on occasion.

And I want to put my fist through a tree at how fucking familiar this is.

“Heart counts for more than skill around here,” I tell her. “And you put your heart into it.”

“That wasn’t heart. It was refusal to fail. Lightlys don’t fail.”

“You cheered for everyone,” Bridget says.

“So did Tavi.”

“Yeah, but that comes naturally to her. It doesn’t to you. And you did it anyway. You made the conscious effort to do something good for someone else.”

That’s my kid. Brilliantly insightful.

“You should come in,” she adds. “Dad has to check on the goats, but I have nowhere to be and nothing to do, and I’m on a root beer buzz.”