Twelve Steps to Normal(53)

I lift my hands in the air. “Guilty.”

“It’s the talking monster plant in Little Shop,” he explains. “I’m in charge of creating it, actually.” His face lights up. “I can show you once it’s finished, if you want. Mrs. Henson thinks we can spruce it up even more and use it in the show.”

I nod, and mean it when I say, “I’d love to.”

He lifts the toolbox, glancing down toward the theater wing. “I’d better—”

“Yeah,” I say, feeling my face flush. God, what is wrong with me? “I’ll see you later.”

He smiles, then heads to the woodshop classroom. My heart pounds as I make my way toward the vending machine. I put my dollar in and retrieve a water bottle, but the thumping doesn’t cease. I don’t even realize Whitney’s pushing through the double doors until I nearly run into her.

“Whoa.” She stares at me for a moment. “Uh, you okay?”

“Yeah,” I say quickly.

She moves past me, shrugging it off. I steal one last glance down the theater hallway before shoving the door open and heading to the parking lot.





NINETEEN


I’M ON THE COUCH AVOIDING homework when my dad comes home from work on Thursday. No one else is here, so I’ve spread out on the sofa with a bag of stale tortilla chips. There’s a rerun of Chopped playing on TV, but I’ve been more focused on texting Lin about potentially going to the homecoming dance as a group.

“Feel like a burrito from Lucky’s?” he asks.

We haven’t had a chance to talk after I’d overheard him and Nonnie’s conversation the other night. I don’t want to admit to eavesdropping, but it did make me think of my list again. And the truth is, deep down, I do want to forgive him. It’s the only way to go back to the way things were.

I slip my feet back into my flats. “Yes, are you kidding?”

We haven’t been to Lucky’s in forever. It’s a customizable burrito joint twenty minutes away, but it’s totally worth it because they have seven different types of salsa and the best carne asada I’ve ever tasted. Grams hated Lucky’s burritos. She always said they got too soggy too fast and gave her heartburn. But Thursday nights, when she went to the Y to play bridge with her friends, my dad and I would make a special trip together.

He drives. Talk radio is set on low, and it suddenly occurs to me that I’ve trapped myself in a car with my dad for a significant amount of time. It doesn’t feel as awkward as the ride home from the airport, but I still can’t think of a single thing to say.

After a few moments, he turns to me. “Do you have a home or away game tomorrow?”

“Away.”

I feel slightly guilty about not extending him an invitation to come see me perform with the Wavettes, but he and Grams never came to away games anyway. The drives were always too long, and she liked to be in bed by nine.

“Do you need money for dinner?”

I shake my head, but another pang of guilt stabs through me. He’s being so supportive. It would be easier if he were uninterested. At least then I wouldn’t feel so bad.

We drive the next few miles in silence. I watch acres of green pastures and roaming cattle fly past my line of vision as the sun dips below rich green treetops. When I was younger, I remember asking Grams why she lived here her whole life. She looked confused, like I’d just asked why there weren’t eight days in a week.

But then she’d said, “Because there ain’t nowhere better than this.”

“I miss her,” I hear myself say. My heart aches in the familiar patterns of loneliness. “I think about her every day.”

My dad is quiet for a moment. I know he understands who I’m talking about. When he glances over at me, there’s a sad smile on his face. “I do, too. To tell you the truth, I still struggle with missing her.”

My hands twist together in my lap. I decide to come clean. “I know. I heard you and Nonnie talking the other day.”

“Did you?”

I nod. “I want to trust you again… I just don’t want things to be like last time.”

He turns off the radio. “I won’t lie to you, Goose. It isn’t easy, but I’ve been in touch with Michael.”

Michael. His AA sponsor. At first, I blamed Michael for my dad’s decision to go to Sober Living. He was supposed to be his mentor. Why couldn’t he help him?

But now I think I understand the difference in his struggle back then and his struggle now. This time, he’d made the decision to stay sober. I just needed to trust he’d follow through.

“Michael recommended seeing a counselor, and I want you to know I’ve taken his advice.”

“Oh.” This isn’t what I expected him to say.

“I want to make sure I’m not going to slip again,” he explains. “I don’t want you worryin’ about me. It was never fair to put you through everything I did.”

I swallow, thinking back to all the nights he spent closed off in his bedroom. All the nights my sadness ate through me like acid.

“It wasn’t,” I agree. “I was a bit skeptical about coming home, actually.”

I expect this confession will make him mad, but it doesn’t.

“You know, I can’t say I blame you. Although I sure am glad you did. Your Grams—well, she was there for us. But you were there for me, too. And I let you down.”