A Midsummer's Nightmare(53)

“Whitley.” Sylvia sighed. “Honey, you’ve been here since May, and you haven’t even unpacked your bag.”

I didn’t look at her.

“I know you’re not happy and that you must be frustrated,” she said. “But you’re only here for a few more weeks. I don’t want you going off to college with regrets about your relationship with your father.”

“He’d be the one with regrets,” I mumbled.

I didn’t think she’d heard me, but apparently she had. “That might be true, but you need to put forth a little effort, too. He loves you.”

“Whatever.”

“I’ll take that to mean you’ll go with him.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really.” She smiled and took my plate of syrup. “He’ll be ready and in the car by ten.”

So, when I climbed into the SUV an hour and a half later, Dad was all pumped and ready to go. He grinned at me from across the cab. And for a moment, I thought maybe Sylvia was right. Maybe this time together would be good. Maybe we could work things out….

“Hey, munchkin. Nice to see you up so early.”

“I was forced.”

He laughed and started the engine, humming along with the country music on the radio. I frowned. At one time, we’d both hated country music. Jimmy Buffett was the only exception. But I guess that was just one more thing to show me how much my dad had changed. We didn’t even hate the same things anymore.

And if I had hopes of getting to know the new Dad on this little outing, they were dashed the minute we got to the tuxedo place. It was like I wasn’t there anymore. Just him and the tuxes—and there were lots of tuxes. He insisted on trying on all of them. Because nothing was good enough.

That coat was too tacky.

That bow tie was too small.

Those pants had a strange shape.

My father shopped like a woman, which made Sylvia’s whole pretense of me saving him from wardrobe embarrassment even more laughable. Laughable was also a great word to describe the bonding idea. This was real quality time, with Dad locked in a dressing room and me sitting on the bench outside, texting Harrison about how the store attendant was just his type.

But I couldn’t get Sylvia’s voice out of my head, and I knew that it was still my job to try. So, after three hours of shopping—during which time Dad wound up buying the first of the twenty-two tuxes he’d tried on—I swallowed my pride and made my attempt to talk to him.

I suggested we go get ice cream together, and I started the conversation.

“So,” I began, swirling the plastic spoon around in my Dairy Queen Blizzard. “We, um, haven’t really had a chance to talk in a while.”

“I know,” Dad said. “I’m sorry about that, munchkin. I’ve just been so busy. Between work and preparing for this wedding and just getting used to everything. Becoming part of a family can be difficult.”

You were already part of one.

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess it probably can be…. But the Caulfields are nice, I guess.”

“I thought you’d love them.”

“I wish you’d told me about them.”

He sighed. “I suppose I probably should have. It just didn’t seem right, you know? To tell you over the phone or in an e-mail that I was engaged.”

“You could have told me when you started dating her. You could have called.”

“Oh, you know me, munchkin.” He laughed. “I had no idea how serious it would be. I didn’t see any need to waste your time by telling you about another girlfriend when I figured she’d be gone in a month or two.”

I gritted my teeth. Whose time did he really think he’d be wasting by calling me? Mine or his?

“Then we were serious all of a sudden,” he continued. “And I just thought I should give you the news in person.”

“Right. Well, I like them. Nathan and Bailey are nice, and Sylvia… She’s been really great support through all of this online-bullying stuff.” I waited to see if he’d even admit knowing about it, or if he’d feign ignorance.

“Yeah,” he said. “Well, Sylvia says you’re holding up well.”

Fuck that. Holding up well? He hadn’t spoken to me about the pictures, hadn’t acknowledged them. He’d just untagged himself and ignored them, never even asking if I was okay. Sylvia shouldn’t have been the one talking to me about cyber-bullying. It should have been him—my father. He didn’t even care.

But like an idiot, I just kept trying.

“The things they said—most of them weren’t true,” I told him.

“Good.”

“Do… do you want to talk about it?” I asked. “I mean, I know some of it was on your Facebook page. Did you want to ask me about any of the pictures or… anything?”

“No, munchkin. I have faith that you can deal with it,” he said.

I stared at him, trying to fight off the tears springing to my eyes. Even if he wasn’t angry, couldn’t he have given me a hug? Comforted me? I wanted to throw my ice cream at him. To scream, Everyone in this f*cking town thinks I’m a whore because of that web page! I was almost raped a few weeks ago because of some of the things it says about me! The least you could do is tell me you give a shit.