Darling Rose Gold(29)

I examined the photo. The two of them were lying in a bed, pillows under their heads. Both of them were topless. Mercifully, the photo cut off above the chest. Mom’s short hair was messy. Billy had taken the photo, arm extended.

“But my dad’s name was Grant Smith,” I protested.

“What’d he die of?” Billy asked.

“A drug overdose.” I felt sick. I longed for the feeling of my forehead against cool bathroom tile, even though that normally meant neon green drool was hanging from my mouth. My stomach lurched again.

Billy sighed. “Your mom lied to you.”

Which was more likely: that a strange man was pretending to be my father, or that my mother had lied to me—again?

Shit.

If you’re going to do something, do it well, she said.

Billy continued. “I’m not proud I left you behind, but I thought you’d be okay. I had no idea what Patty was. And then I was at the dentist’s office a few months ago and saw this old issue of Chit Chat with your interview inside,” he said, embarrassed. “I realized you thought I was dead. I tried to look you up in the phone book or find your e-mail, but I kept hitting dead ends.”

“What do you want?” I asked again, dizzy. Was I going to cry or scream? My body felt turned inside out. I pinched the skin between my thumb and forefinger hard.

“I don’t know.” Billy fidgeted. “I just feel guilty.”

I stared at him. I should have known today would be a bad day—I’d found a calculator in the middle of the street this morning.

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he said. He scanned me top to bottom, as if he’d find evidence of all I’d been through on my uniform shirt. His eyes stopped at my teeth. I realized my mouth was hanging open.

“Am I okay?” I said. My brain had become a merry-go-round, which I had never been allowed on—Mom thought it’d make me sick. Same with slides and swings and basically every childhood pastime that was in any way fun.

I blinked back tears, hands throbbing. “You ditch me for twenty years and now you come slinking back here, wanting to know if I’m okay?”

Billy winced, but I was just getting started. How did this keep happening? First my mother betrayed me, then Alex, and now this man—my apparent father. Plus, Phil kept dodging me. Would I never learn? Would I never stop letting people walk all over me?

“You deserted us,” I shouted. “My whole life, all I wanted was to have a dad like every other kid. You left us to fend for ourselves. Mom was always worried about money. Of course I’m not okay. None of my screwed-up life would have happened if you’d stuck around.”

I had that ache in my throat, the one you get when you’re trying hard not to cry. But I’d said too much—I couldn’t stop the tears now. I sat on the curb and buried my face in my arms. My shirt smelled like Mom’s perfume: the Bath Shop’s Vanilla Bean. I’d sprayed it around my apartment this morning to pretend she was still here.

Billy squatted next to me, not saying a word. After a couple minutes, my shoulders stopped trembling. I imagined the mascara streaks on my face. What a mess I must have looked like. I didn’t want to face him.

“I’m so sorry for everything you’ve been through,” he said, voice shaky. “This is all my fault.” He sounded like he meant it.

I picked up my head and studied Billy. He had the same hazel eyes and small nose as me. Both of us had dishwater blond hair. His leg pogo-sticked on the curb the way mine did when I was nervous.

“You’re really my dad?” I said.

Billy nodded. He hesitated, then wrapped an arm around my shoulders. He smelled like woodsy aftershave and McDonald’s. “After I read the article, I didn’t know what to do. I thought maybe I should leave you alone, not drop this bomb on you when you’ve already been through so much. But then I thought maybe you might want to meet your father, or at least to know I was alive. I kept having these awful nightmares. So I drove down from Indiana, where I live. I’m sorry if I made the wrong choice.” Billy removed his arm from my shoulders and chewed his lip. I did the same thing when I was worried. There were too many similarities to ignore.

“I have so many questions,” I said. Would we spend Thanksgiving together? Would he try to have “the talk” with me? Would he expect me to root for his favorite sports teams?

A knock sounded on Gadget World’s windows. Scott stood in the vestibule and glared at me, hands on hips. Billy helped me up.

“When do you get off work?”

“I’m done at five,” I said. I was already thinking about Billy’s half hug, already wishing for another one.

“Can we have dinner? How about Tina’s Café at five? I’ll answer anything you want,” he said. “I want to start to make this up to you.”

I thought about the number of Christmas mornings I’d wished for a third stocking above the fireplace. “I could do Tina’s,” I heard myself say.

Billy beamed. “Okay, Rose, see you then.”

I put my hand up to wave and watched him cross the parking lot. He climbed into a red Camry. Nobody called me Rose, not within earshot of Mom. She’d correct anyone who tried to abbreviate my name.

Actually, “Rose” was the first idea Mom came up with while thinking of baby names. She said she’d always liked the phrase “rose-colored glasses.” She wanted her little girl to be full of optimism for her future, in spite of her missing father and extended family. But Mom thought “Rose” was a little too ordinary for Patty Watts’s daughter. “Rose Gold,” on the other hand—wasn’t that just the perfect hue? “It reminded me of blushing cheeks. Or a pale pink sunset. It’s the name of a little girl you can’t help but love,” she’d said to me one night, beaming.