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I know Ty well enough to know he’s not reading into my dad’s words, but I’m not sure he knows me well enough to know I am. They’re all I can hear—all I can fucking think about.
For as confident as I am, my dad knows just how to slap me with stuff that’s too close to home. Calling Ty a grown-up and implying I’m not one wasn’t without purpose. No, it was calculated.
Ty’s nearly forty, and I’m only meandering through my late twenties. I wonder why I haven’t paid more attention to that before now.
Embarrassment tinges my cheeks as I head for my bag again, the game of tag long forgotten—replaced by an onslaught of questions I’d do well to remember.
There’s one question in particular that, no matter how many times I ask it, I never seem to come to an answer.
Where in the hell am I expecting all this to end up?
Ty
Rachel heads straight for her bag in the front row of seats as her dad leaves the room. She’s not manic or hurried or anything, but it’s more than clear at this point that she doesn’t plan to stay in Dodge long before getting the fuck out of it.
In some ways, I can’t blame her. It didn’t feel good looking a guy I’ve respected for most of my adult life in the eye and lying by a big, honking piece of omission. But it didn’t feel as wrong as I thought it would either. The thing is, I like what I’m doing with Rachel, and, I think, she likes what she’s doing with me, too.
We’re consenting adults with a grasp on reality, and we’re both still dedicated and practiced at doing our jobs as we should. The education of my classes hasn’t suffered this year; if anything, they’ve gained. The professor of one year ago didn’t have this level of insight, and he certainly didn’t have this many personal experiences that tied into literature that’s largely based in romance.
Nate was a lot tougher on her than he was on me, however, and I can see why their relationship is strained. He doesn’t see her, not really. And from a completely outside perspective, it doesn’t even seem like he’s trying to.
As a person whom he’s always gone above and beyond to understand, even while others have criticized me, I find it a real fucking shock. And it makes me feel…confused by how, over the years, I’ve respected a man this much who is capable of treating his daughter like that.
“Rachel,” I call, getting only a modicum of her attention at first. She glances over her shoulder but mostly keeps packing her bag.
“Rachel,” I appeal again, this time a little firmer. “Look at me, please.”
She stops what she’s doing and turns then, her arms falling to her sides in the most hopeless position I’ve ever seen her in. She’s normally confident—sassy, even. She’s hands on hips and cocked legs. She’s not meek. Not even close. But this version of her has just been run over by her father—and he did it with a witness.
“Are you okay?”
She sighs heavily and then crosses her arms over her chest. It’s safe to say, every ounce of the playfulness before has long since left the building. “I’m fine. But Ty, maybe we need to cool it a little, you know? I’m really busy with classes and the bakery, and I know you’re busy too. This is complicated—like, really complicated. And I don’t know if it’s the right time to be putting our energy into it.”
An overwhelming wave of uneasiness washes over me and through my skin and muscle and all the way down to the bone. I don’t think I’d like hearing this kind of talk from anyone—I don’t think anyone likes to be on the losing end of rejection—but the nature of this feels sour in a different way. It feels forced. Unnatural. The kind of wrong that being together doesn’t.
I know she’s teetering on the edge, though, and convincing her to leap in with both feet isn’t the kind of thing I see myself talking her into in the next thirty seconds. I’m a fast-talker, nevertheless, born from years of practice trying to get a word in edgewise with four siblings, and I’ll be damned if I’m just going to let this go.
Not to mention, I’m not convinced that cooling it is what she actually wants. Especially since it’s coming moments after I just watched her dad railroad her with words.
“You’re right,” I start, loosening her up with common ground. “It’s getting a little intense here on campus, and I completely understand where you’re coming from with the busy schedule.” Her face melts in a combination of relief and a flash of disappointment, so I rush on to transition the thought with one very important word. “But…”
