Bookish and the Beast (Once Upon a Con #3)(49)

“Perfect! I’ll go pick up some supplies and start cooking,” he says brightly, and then gives me a meaningful look.

I stiffen. Me? I don’t want anything to do with that girl. She almost broke my nose! And she had the audacity to try to blame me! I answer with a shrug, which suffices for Elias, because he grabs his wallet and keys from the counter and leaves through the garage.

When Elias is gone, Rosie says quietly, “Sorry, I didn’t know who else to ask.”

“Like Elias said, we have plenty of rooms,” I reply, even though I want to ask if her personal things are okay, if anything is ruined.

She breathes out a sigh of relief. “Well, that’s something.”

I show her to a room upstairs. It’s one of the bedrooms that neither Elias nor I have really been into, so the windows need to be opened and the sheets need to be changed because it’s so musty, but she doesn’t seem to mind, especially when Sansa comes in and curls up right at the foot of the bed. Rosie scratches her behind the ears, and when I leave her alone to go into my room, Sansa doesn’t follow.

So much for loyalty.





THE DOORBELL RINGS. “That must be my dad,” I say as I get up to go answer it.

It is, laden with two suitcases full of clothes—our latest laundry load. He rolls them both in and wipes sweat from his forehead. He must’ve changed out of his work clothes at the apartment, because he’s wearing his old band T-shirt and jeans with those God-awful flip-flops I wish I had burned years ago. Mr. Rodriguez rounds out of the kitchen with an outstretched hand to meet him.

“Thank you so much for the hospitality,” Dad says, grasping Mr. Rodriguez’s hand tightly. “Honestly, it means a lot.”

“It’s no trouble at all. We’ve grown really fond of Rosie.”

“It’s hard not to,” Dad agrees, and I notice that their hands linger a little longer than necessary in the handshake. I glance up at the two men, trying to read the air between them, but they’re just smiling and I don’t understand it at all.

Weird.

Very weird.

“Mr. Rodriguez has food ready,” I pipe in, leaving the suitcases by the door and herding Dad toward the dining room. Mr. Rodriguez already has the table set, a large plate of pasta in the middle like in those family-style restaurants. Vance squirms a little in his seat as Dad comes in, but then he forces himself to his feet and outstretches a hand.

“Sir,” he says, clasping Dad’s hand tightly.

“Nice to see you again,” Dad replies.



* * *



—

THAT EVENING, I eat my weight in Mr. Rodriguez’s spaghetti and meatballs. Over dinner, we talk about nothing—the weather, the movies coming out, and Darien Freeman’s lip-sync battle, which has, by now, been retweeted over half a million times.

Vance doesn’t say much of anything throughout the dinner. He just sits and listens and bats his meatballs around the plate, trying not to meet Dad’s gaze, and aside from that it sort of feels…strange. Not in a bad way, but in a way I’m not very used to. There isn’t an empty plate at the dinner table, and there isn’t an empty seat where someone once sat.

It feels…whole.

“So, what are your plans after high school?” Mr. Rodriguez asks me after a while.

Oh, the dreaded question. I wipe my mouth, hesitating on what to say. Sorry, I’m a failure and I can’t even complete one essay so I’ll just live as a hermit in my room for the rest of my life reading Starfield novels and eating jerky.

Ugh, that sounds depressing.

Dad gives me a patient look from across the table, as if to tell me that it’s okay if I don’t know. He knows I’ve been struggling with the essay portion for a few weeks now, and time certainly is winding down to turn that in. “Well…my mom always wanted me to go to NYU because she went there as an undergrad—that’s where she met Dad.”

“My wife was an accounting major,” Dad fills in.

“So I want to go there, too—except for English, not accounting—but the essay prompt is horrid.”

“What’s the essay about?” Vance asks.

“Basically, what makes me a good fit for NYU, but what I think they want is why should they pick me over so many other gifted students? And I…don’t know.” I shrug. “And I just don’t think they want a sob story about a dead mom.” I force out a laugh, because it’s just getting too depressing thinking about it. “I’m really not that amazing.”

“I’m trying to tell Rosie that she is amazing,” Dad says.

“Dad,” I say. “I’m not.”

“Not as amazing as me, anyway,” Vance agrees ignobly, but I’m beginning to realize that that’s his kind of humor. Sort of self-important, but self-deprecating at the same time, because he doesn’t believe it himself.

And a part of that’s really sad, too.

“Which is not amazing at all,” I reply, and he mocks a dagger to the chest.



* * *



—

DAD SITUATES HIS SUITCASE IN THE CORNER of our room and plops down on the end of the bed. Finally, his mask falls away, and he looks about as tired as I would have guessed. I sit next to him and rest my head on his shoulder. He smells like home.