Page 24 of Something like Desire

“When time is a flicker and a block, a dot and a dash, and everything is both unwritten and waiting.”

My computer’s on, ready to be used, but I don’t dare break this spell. Beautiful imagery is pouring onto the page, metaphors, similes, repetition, symbolism. What the hell is happening?

Roughly twenty minutes later, I’m staring down at a page full of pretty purple handwriting—a poem I crafted after suffering from writer’s block for the past decade. I read it over to myself, then whisper it aloud, and it’s good,somuch better than the one I recited this weekend. I wonder what Zach would think of it, then instantly feel a pinch of guilt in my chest. No, I correct myself, I wonder what Jayden will think when I show it to him later. He’ll be proud that I finally felt inspired.

Maybe it was something about performing a poem and having people clap that reminded me how much I liked to share my writing with people, or more frightening than that, maybe it was because after Zach heard it, he understood where I was coming from, and it made me want to feel more, to share more. It’s scary to think that I may have found a muse in the most unlikely, off-limits person.

ELEVEN

After work, I step out into the warm, late-afternoon air and start walking toward my car. The sky is one of those perfect blues—clear, no clouds, nice to look at. I catch myself trying to come up with a poetic way to describe it, something about vastness or depth or whatever, but nothing really sticks.

I hope that burst of inspiration from earlier wasn’t a fluke. Part of me wants to drive somewhere quiet and pretty and see if I’ve still got it in me.

There’s this park with wildflowers everywhere, a pond, and these soft, rolling hills. It would be perfect to sit at the top of one and just stare at the sky for a while. I used to go there when I was a kid, back when Gia and I would take turns on the monkey bars until our hands were raw. It’s just around the corner from my parents’ house—or, I guess now, my dad’s house.

He’s probably holed up inside, totally unaware it’s one of those days that practically begs you to notice how beautiful the world is.

That flicker of inspiration I was riding fades into a dull pang of guilt. One second, I’m dreaming about writing something brilliant, the next I’m hit withOh god, what if the people I love are falling apart while I’m trying to be the next Shakespeare?

The tight ache in my chest says it all. I need to see Dad. Not later—now.

He sounded a little off on the phone, but hearing someone’s voice isn’t the same as seeing their face. Mom has Nicholas to lean on, but Dad...? He’s got no one.

And I just can’t picture him sitting in the living room, feeling abandoned, picking up the phone to say, “Hey, I need to talk.” That’s not who he is. He’s always been the kind of guy who pretends everything’s fine, even when it’s not. I honestly can’t remember a single time he asked for help.

When I pull onto his street, I spot an unfamiliar red Mazda parked right next to his old pickup truck in the driveway. My first thought is that it must be a therapist. I mean, how could anyone deal with being blindsided and abandoned without a little help from a professional? Maybe Dad actually asked for help after all. Good for him.

I’ve heard some therapists do home visits, which would definitely be a selling point for my father—I could never picture him sitting in a waiting room, risking running into someone he knows. Not because he thinks there’s anything wrong with therapy, but because admitting he can’t handle something on his own would be way too hard for him.

I decide not to drive away. I’ll wait it out. I stay parked where I am, which honestly feels like the new story of my life lately—always on some kind of stakeout. Maybe I should go into private investigation. I do have experience now. Spying on my parents and my friend’s ex-boyfriend could totally go on my resume.

From what I’ve heard, therapy usually takes about an hour, so that’s probably the longest I’ll have to wait. I brought my notebook with me, so I pull it out and flip to the page with the poem I wrote, running my fingers over the words like it might help lock in some of that inspiration.

I read it once, then again, marveling at how those words tumbled out of me like a switch suddenly flipped.

I glance toward Dad’s house just in time to see the door swing open. Out steps a smiling woman, probably around my age, radiating positive energy that matches her bold outfit. She’s wearing a bright yellow dress with a delicate lace overlay, paired with strappy gold sandals. Her blonde hair cascades loosely around her shoulders as she walks down the front steps with a kind of effortless confidence and grace.

Dad walks out after her, following her along the concrete walkway toward her car. His wide grin gives me a sense of relief that courses through me. Whatever’s going on here, Dad looks more content than he does grief-stricken. Thank goodness.

The blonde woman reaches her car door, then turns toward Dad. They hold each other for a long time before she pulls away, he steps back, and she gets into her car, smiling.

The last time I checked, hugging a therapist isn’t normal behavior. Something about crossing the patient–client line of professionalism. No one says,Thanks for the therapy, now give me a cuddle. At least, I don’tthinkthey do.

Oh lord, he’s seeing someone too? Someone incredibly young. He’s trying to one-up Mom, to feel like he’s still got it. Maybe he joined Via Match, too, and found this much younger lover.

The woman rolls down her window and sticks her hand out to wave at Dad before she drives away.

Dad stands on the front porch, his hands clasped behind his back, a faraway smile on his face as though he’s admiring his quiet, tree-lined street as much as he’s lost in a happy thought. After a few moments, the smile fades. His brow knits slightly as he stares straight ahead. He stands there for a couple of minutes before turning around slowly, stepping back into the house, and closing the door.

What’s all that about, I wonder. If sheishis lover, maybe the change in his expression is because part of him still misses Mom, even after all she’s done?

I don’t want to aggressively bust Dad—I’d rather he tell me what he’s comfortable telling me without any pressure—so I wait ten minutes, adding a few of the songs I heard playing at the resort this weekend to my Spotify playlist—including “Hallelujah,” if I’m being honest—before driving farther up the street and parking in the driveway.

I knock instead of letting myself in with my key. Dad opens the door just a crack to peek out, then swings it open fully. He blinks, lips parting in surprise. “Lexi, I didn’t know you were coming over.” A beat. “Good to see you.”

I swallow hard. I don’t know whether I should feel guilty that I haven’t seen him since I heard the news, or proud of my restraint if he needed some time.

I step into the house and pull Dad into a tight hug. A warm, slightly spicy scent clings to him—luxurious, and definitely not his. Clearly, his new main squeeze is a fan of expensive perfume. I raise my eyebrows in a way he’ll recognize as conspiratorial.