Page 35 of Sincerely, Mr. Braden

My hatred of my cowardice is second only to how much I hate myself for lying.

I tried to scrub that hatred out of my system by cleaning every inch of my townhouse until it was too damn clean and too freaking quiet, and I still hate myself for what I’ve done. Even though I deserve every second of this torturous day, I went to the animal shelter, hoping the dogs would cheer me up enough to make it through dinner with my dad. But I think the dogs felt my anguish. I texted my father from the shelter to tell him I was home from the trip and was going to pick up dinner and come over. I asked what he was hungry for, but he never texted back.

He may not be verbose, but he usually answers my texts. Worried he might have gotten himself into trouble during my stolen hours of wanting to be invisible, I drive straight to his house. His car is in the driveway, which amps up my worry, but as I head up the walkway, annoyance that he might have simply ignored my text claws its way in.

“Dad?” I call out as I head inside.

Answered in silence, I check the kitchen. Half-empty take-out containers litter the counter, dirty dishes are piled up in the sink, and a half-eaten doughnut sits on a napkin beside a mug of cold coffee on the table. That ache in my chest is joined by a knot in my stomach. My father may be scattered and reckless, but he’s not a slob. He can’t stand dishes in the sink or food lying around. He says it’s wasteful, but I think it reminds him of my mother. She could never be bothered to put things back in their proper places or clean up right after meals. She used to say there were more important things to be worried about than the messes a family made.

A terrifying thought slams into me. Is she here? My heart races. My mother has skated into town unannounced before, kicking up a flurry of dusty memories, then taking off without a moment’s notice. I tell myself that’s a ridiculous thought. She hasn’t come around in years, which is probably because I pushed her away every chance I got, and Becca was cordial but not exactly kind. But that does nothing to stop my rising panic.

“Dad?” I call out, weaving through the empty rooms. I check the basement, then head into the garage. It’s empty. I rush outside and sprint to the backyard, searching for ladders, scanning the roof and the trees, because God knows what he might be up to.

I try his phone again, but it goes straight to voicemail. My panic mounting, I call Becca as I head up the side yard. She answers on the second ring. “Becca?”

“Welcome home, Tay. What’s wrong?”

“I can’t find Dad. His car is here, but he’s not, and the kitchen is a disaster.”

There’s a pause, then a sigh. “Taylor, breathe. He’s fine. Steve came into town last night, remember?”

“No, I don’t remember. Nobody told me Steve was coming into town!” Steve is my father’s oldest friend and a first-class slob. I head up the porch steps and lock my father’s front door.

“Oh, shit. Sorry. That’s on me.”

“Becca.” I climb into my car feeling like I’ve run around the block five times.

“Excuse me, but you made it clear that you were busy getting your groove on. I wasn’t about to ruin that rare moment.”

I close my eyes, telling myself to calm the hell down as my car’s Bluetooth takes over the call. “Sorry. You’re right.” I back out of the driveway to head home. “It’s been a rough day. For a minute I thought Mom was back.”

“I would have warned you if that were the case, but it’s not. Dad and Steve took off this morning to visit some friend of theirs who got an old band together for a retro event or something.”

I clutch the steering wheel tighter. “Where?”

“I don’t know. Philly, I think, but don’t worry. He texted me a picture earlier. They were smiling and arguing about directions, so business as usual.”

“That’s what worries me. When is he coming back?”

“In a few days. He’s fine, Tay. Now stop worrying and tell me about this amazing trip,” she says, her voice bright. “I want to hear all about the island man you hooked up with.”

I take a deep breath and face the music. “It was Seth.”

“What?” she shouts excitedly. “You manifested the hell out of that, didn’t you? Way to go, sis!”

“Becca, don’t,” I warn.

“Okay, sorry,” she says seriously. “Wait, your plane wasn’t supposed to get in until five. How’d you get home from the airport so fast?”

“I came home yesterday.”

“Oh, shit. Where are you going now?”

“Home.”

“I’m coming over.”

“You don’t have to. I’m fine.”