AllFreeNovel
Share Us
My father always said that people are paper and memories are ink.
Little did I know, my book would be dipped in tar, then ripped to shreds.
I grew up with a generous father.
Money. Identity. Love. A nice set of morals—and an even nicer set of teeth. He gave me them all.
But the most precious thing he ever gave me?
His life.
Age Twelve.
Like all calamities, the worst day of my life started innocently enough.
Dad and I rode in the backseat of his Flying Spur Bentley, our driver veering in and out of lanes in a desperate bid to beat the heavy traffic. A never-ending chain of honks filled my ears.
The sky poured above us, a storm that had followed us from the auction house. The radio played “Bookends” by Simon and Garfunkel too loud to hear my own thoughts.
I could feel Dad’s eyes glued to the back of my head as I blew hot air onto the car window and drew a sword over the frost.
He sighed. “You could really use a hobby.”
“Hobbies aren’t useful. That’s why they’re hobbies.” I drew fingers curled around my sword and blood dripping from the tip. “Besides, I have hobbies.”
From the front, our driver snorted, flicking on the left signal.
“You have talents,” Dad corrected. “Just because you’re good at things doesn’t mean you enjoy them. And sitting idly all summer as you wait for your best friend’s return does not constitute a hobby.”
Stupid Romeo Costa.
He just upped and left one day. Didn’t even say goodbye. First to Italy in elementary school. And now some boringsummer camp his dad forced him into.
He came back from Europe a total bummer. I half-expected him to return this time with a chunk of his brain carved out.
I blinked up at Dad. “Why do I need to enjoy the things I do?”
A soft smile curled his lips at the edges.
He was huge.
Or maybe he just looked huge because I hadn’t shot up all the way yet. But he filled up the entire backseat with his body.
With hispresence.
With his onyx hair and laugh wrinkles on the sides of his eyes. And the wicked scar on his forehead he got while chaperoning Cub Scouts.
An eagle had tried to snatch me, and he’d lineman-tackled me at the last minute, bumping against a sun lounger and splitting his forehead.
Dad rapped my temple with a curved knuckle. “Because if you don’t appreciate the journey, how would you enjoy the destination?”
“Isn’t life’s destinationdeath?” I pinned him with a glare, so I wouldn’t have to witness my art evaporating from the condensation on the window.
He laughed. “You’re too smart for your own good.”
“That’s not a no,” I murmured, itching to cover my ears to avoid the sound of cars honking and pelting rain.
“The destination is family. Love. A place in the world to call your own.”
