The Rest of the Story(10)

“Emma?” my dad asked. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. I wasn’t sure how to explain to him, or if I even could, how I knew that this floor would tilt up slightly as I walked across it, or that the room at the end of the hall was the kitchen, even though I could see nothing of it from where I stood. Outside, this house had felt new and unknown. But standing here now, I would have bet my life I’d walked down this same stretch many times before.

“Now, I’ve put you in the little bedroom, if that’s okay,” Mimi said over her shoulder as I finally moved forward, down the hallway to come into, yes, the kitchen. A big wooden table sat against the wall of windows facing the lake and everything smelled like toast. Also, the sink was stacked full of dirty dishes. Of course I noticed. “It’s the only one free and I knew you’d want your privacy. The sheets are all clean and there’s towels on the bed if you want to freshen up.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Is it . . .”

I trailed off as my dad climbed a nearby flight of stairs, carrying my suitcase with him, then went left on the landing. Clearly, he needed no directions.

“Right up there,” Mimi said to me. “You’ll find it.”

I thanked her, then went up the stairs myself, the middle one creaking audibly beneath me. At the top, the carpet was beige and well worn, and I could see there were three bedrooms to the left, a bathroom to the right. Only the door on the end was open, so I headed that way.

“You know your way around this place,” I said to my dad when I found him in a small bedroom with a single bed, a closet, and one window facing the lake.

“Spent some time here,” he replied, his voice low. I’d been so focused on my own memories, I hadn’t given much thought to what he’d been feeling. But it was definitely kicking up something. He’d put my suitcase in the closet, my duffel on the bed next to two stacked towels and a washcloth. They were white with a little pink rosebud pattern, and seeing them, I felt it again, that familiarity. “This was your mom’s room, way back when.”

“Really?” I walked around the end of the bed to look out the window. The roof below it slanted down at an angle, ending in what looked like a porch overhang. “She used to tell me stories about this.”

“This room?”

“And this view.” It was gorgeous, the pane of glass capturing the lake in a perfect frame. Straight out ahead I could see a floating platform, a motorboat tethered to it. To the right, there were the motels we’d passed, as well as more docks in front of small beaches where moss hung from the trees. And far to the left, what looked like a whole other town of large houses, hotels, and other newer construction. “And the boats. She talked about those, too.”

“Yes, I’m actually glad you brought that up while we were, um, alone.” He sat down on the bed. “I’d like a word with you about that.”

“About what?” I asked.

He nodded at the window, where another boat had now appeared, zooming past. “Boating. One of the great pastimes of North Lake. Which I enjoyed about as much as you do sailing.”

“Isn’t it the same thing?”

“No,” he said. “Sailing is about wind. With motorboats, it’s speed, which means it can be very dangerous, even if the driver of the boat hasn’t been drinking. And here, they often are.”

“You know I won’t drink, Dad,” I said.

“Yes,” he replied, “but I still want to say this. I don’t want you to ever go out on the water with someone who has been drinking or plans to.”

“Is this like a drug talk, but aquatic?”

“Emma.” That tone was like a yellow light, just before red: a warning. “Just promise me, please. It’s important.”

I looked out the window again. The boat had circled around and was now going back the other way. “I’ll be careful. I swear.”

“Okay.” He sat back, resting his palms on the nubby bedspread. “And you know, now that I think about it, this would be a great place to work on your driving. I’m sure Mimi has a car you could borrow.”

“Dad,” I said in my warning voice, “I’d rather talk about boats.”

“I know, I know.” He sighed. “And I’m trying to be understanding. But this is your driver’s license! When I was your age, I was counting the days until I could get on the road—”

“Because it represented freedom, and independence, all things already available to me via public transportation and ride apps,” I finished for him. “I don’t need to drive. It’s just not necessary.”

“But don’t you want to?” he asked.

“Frankly, no,” I said. “I like walking.”

“When we move, you won’t be able to walk everywhere, like you do now.”

“So I’ll take the bus or use GetThere.”

He sighed again. I felt like I understood my dad pretty well, a by-product of it just being us two for so long. But I didn’t get why, ever since I’d turned fifteen, it was so freaking important to him that I get my license. He’d relentlessly pushed me to take driver’s ed and get my permit, then made a big deal of me getting my provisional license, followed by my full one six months later. I stuck it in my wallet, intending to forget about it, but then he was always wanting us to go out driving together, when he’d spent the entire time I was behind the wheel gripping what Bridget’s dad called the “oh shit” handle over his window and pounding an imaginary brake. The whole thing just amplified my anxiety, even before I’d backed into a neighbor’s SUV in our underground parking deck, which had scared me so badly I’d burst into tears.