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Maybe he does see it.
Maybe that’s why I’m here.
My stare travels to the front door, where my father stands in the doorway.
Neutral.
There’s no emotion as he looks at my mother and me, waiting for us to come into the house. There’s nothing. He’s a stone of a man, and he’s impossible to crack.
“Do you need help bringing anything in?” Mom asks as she peeks over my shoulder at my fully packed car.
Shaking my head, I say, “No. I’ll get it later.” Her eyes find mine again, a tight-lipped smile forming. She already looks like she’s on the verge of tears, so I deflect by saying, “The house looks good,” even though I can only see the outside, and it looks the same as it always does.
“Thanks, honey,” she says, turning back up the walkway. Over her shoulder, she adds, “Are you hungry? Can I get you something to drink?”
The drive from school takes about two hours, so it’s a little after noon, and I didn’t eat breakfast. “I could eat,” I say behind her.
She steps into the house, but I stop. Looking up at my father in the doorway, I hate that he’s a step higher than me. It’s only one step. Maybe a few inches, but the fact that he has any leverage over me at all still makes me uncomfortable.
“Hey, Dad,” I say out of obligation. He’s the parent. He should be the one to step up. He’s the one who cast me out and is now begrudgingly letting me come home for the holidays.
“Chuck,” my mother warns next to him, and my dad seems to blink, remembering this isn’t a shitty dream he’s having.
Taking a deep inhale, he mumbles, “You just couldn’t wait to leave that fine college your mother and I paid for, huh?”
My grip tightens around the strap of my backpack, but I give him a tight smile. “Yup.”
“Chuck!” my mother gasps, but she’s the only one surprised here.
My father steps away from the door frame to go back into the house. “What Christine? The boy knows he’s making his bed. Whatever happens, he’ll lie in it.”
Giving me an apologetic glance, my mother trails after him, scolding him with harsh whispers.
Taking a deep breath, I step over the threshold.
Home sweet home.
57
margot
“Have you texted him?” Rae asks as she peers to look at my phone screen.
“No,” I say, snatching my phone out of her view as I go back to checking the weather in Indiana. She’s been asking me that same question for days, and my answer hasn’t changed.
Her head falls back against the seat, and she groans. “We’re about to take off. Just text him before you put your phone on airplane mode, and then when we land, we’ll have something to look forward to.”
Holding up my phone, I give my best frown. “Already in airplane mode.”
Her eyes narrow. “You just did that.”
Setting my phone down, I lean back in my seat to try and get comfortable for the flight. “I told you. There’s nothing to text him about.” Okay, there are probably a million things I could text Jackson, but I don’t know where to start, and I’m afraid of opening Pandora’s box.
Even without looking, I know she’s glaring at me. She’s been doing it a lot lately. “There are so many things you could text him about.” She starts listing on her fingers. “Tell him you’re going home for Christmas, ask him if he went home for Christmas, ask him if he said goodbye, tell him you can’t wait to see him at the show in January.”
I give her a knowing look.
“You’re going to that show, and if you don’t want to mess this up, you’re going to text him.”
