All the Little Lights(20)

“Your boy is on the swing again,” Dad said, straightening his tie.

“He’s not mine.”

Dad took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. Being unemployed had taken a toll on him. He’d lost weight and hadn’t been sleeping well.

“Is that so? Where’s Owen been?”

“I’ve stopped by his house a few times. I’d rather be outside than watching him play video games.”

“You mean outside with Elliott,” Dad said with a smirk.

“Did you eat breakfast?” I asked.

Dad shook his head. “No time.”

“You have to take better care of yourself,” I said, gently pushing his hands to the side. I adjusted his tie and patted his shoulder. His shirt was damp. “Daddy.”

He kissed my forehead. “I’m fine, Princess. Stop worrying. You should go. Don’t want to be late for your creek date. Or park date. Which is it today?”

“Park. And it’s not a date.”

“Do you like him?”

“Not like that.”

Dad smiled. “You could have fooled me. He doesn’t fool me, though. Dads know things.”

“Or imagine things,” I said, opening the door.

“Love you, Catherine.”

“Not as much as I love you.”

I stepped outside, smiling at the sight of Elliott swaying back and forth on the porch swing. He was wearing a pin-striped button-up and khaki cargo shorts, his camera hanging from the strap around his neck like always.

“Ready?” he asked. “I thought we’d grab some biscuits and gravy from Braum’s.”

“Sure,” I said.

We walked the six blocks to one of our favorite places and sat down in the booth that we’d made ours. Elliott was as quiet as he’d been for the past week, nodding and replying in the right places but he seemed a thousand miles away.

We walked downtown, not going anywhere. As we’d done for the past couple of months, we walked as an excuse to talk—to spend time together.

The sun hung high in the sky by the time we’d made it back to my house to make sandwiches. A picnic lunch had become our ritual, and we took turns picking the spot. It was Elliott’s day, and he chose the park, under our favorite shade tree.

In silence, we spread out a quilt Mama had made. Elliott unwrapped his turkey and cheese as if it had offended him—or maybe I had, but I couldn’t think of a single moment of our summer that had been anything but perfect.

“No good?” I asked, holding my sandwich in both hands. Exactly one bite was missing from Elliott’s sandwich, even though mine was half-eaten.

“No,” Elliott said, putting down his sandwich. “Definitely not good.”

“What’s wrong with it? Too much mayo?”

He paused, then offered a sheepish smile. “Not the sandwich, Catherine. Everything else but the sandwich . . . and sitting here with you.”

“Oh,” I managed to say, even though my mind was falling all over Elliott’s last sentence.

“I leave tomorrow,” he grumbled.

“You’ll come back, though, right?”

“Yeah, but . . . I don’t know when. Christmas maybe. Maybe not until next summer.”

I nodded, looking down at my lunch and putting it down, deciding I wasn’t that hungry after all. “You have to promise,” I said. “You have to promise you’ll come back.”

“I promise. It might not be until next summer, but I’ll come back.”

The emptiness and despair I felt in that moment was equal only to when I had lost my dog. It might’ve seemed like a silly connection to anyone else, but Goober lay at the end of my bed every night, and no matter how many times Mama had a down day or an outburst, Goober knew when to growl and when to wag his tail.

“What are you thinking about?” Elliott asked.

I shook my head. “It’s stupid.”

“C’mon. Tell me.”

“I had this dog. He was a mutt. Dad brought him home from the pound one day out of the blue. He was supposed to be for Mama, to help cheer her up, but he took to me. Mama would get jealous, but I wasn’t sure which of us she was jealous of, Goober or me. He died.”

“Does your mom suffer from depression?”

I shrugged. “They’ve never said. They don’t talk about it in front of me. I just know she had a tough time as a kid. Mama says she’s glad her parents died when they did, before I was born. She said they were cruel.”

“Yikes. If I’m ever a father, my kids will have a normal childhood. One they can look back on and wish they could go back to, not something they have to ride out and recover from.” He peeked up at me. “I’m going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you, too. But . . . not for long. Because you’ll be back.”

“I will. That’s a promise.”

I pretended to be happy and sipped from the straw in my pop can. Every subject after that was forced, every smile contrived. I wanted to enjoy my last days with Elliott, but knowing goodbye was just around the corner made that impossible.

“Want to help me pack?” he asked, cringing at his own words.

“Not really, but I want to see you as much as I can before you leave, so I will.”