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Not that I want to. My past is out there now, and all I can control is how I let it affect me. I straighten. “You’re absolutely right.”
“I usually am.” Mom playfully bumps my shoulder.
I hear a door open followed by loud footsteps, Dad’s fancy black loafers tapping the floor. “Hello?” he calls out.
“Hey, honey,” Mom calls back.
Dad enters the family room with his briefcase in one hand and a pie box in the other.
“What are you doing home so early?” Mom asks.
“Don’t get upset,” he says, his attention on me, “but I got word there were a couple of reporters lingering out front. I got rid of them and also had a craving for harvest apple pie.”
“What?” My entire body shakes. I look toward the window.
“Hey,” Dad says. “Eyes on me.”
I’m about to hyperventilate. Or have a heart attack. Maybe both. I wave my T-shirt away from my stomach. Is it hot in here?
“Kendall.”
I swallow the emotion lodged in my throat then find my dad’s fierce blue eyes. “They’re gone and won’t be coming back. I made sure of it,” he says. “You’re safe.”
It’s like déjà vu. He said similar words after the accident. And he was right. He’s got my back, like always. I breathe a small sigh of relief as he gets comfortable on the couch. Mom goes to the kitchen, I’m guessing for plates, napkins, and forks.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice a little rough.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of, you know.” Dad opens the box to my favorite pie. “You made amends for your actions years ago, and again with Mason a few days ago. And you handled yourself with dignity at the funeral. You’re strong enough to deal with anything that comes your way.”
“I second that,” Mom says, returning and dishing us each a piece of pie.
We’re quiet for a minute while I absorb my parents’ support. I have paid for my mistakes. I’ve suffered, learned to make the best of my situation and believe in myself again.
My dad clears his throat, and then says, “So, I got an interesting call today from—”
“Dad,” I interrupt. My timing isn’t perfect, but his pep talk is the impetus I needed to tell him how I feel. After everything he’s done for me, I owe him the truth. “I don’t want to go to law school.” The weight dragging my shoulders down floats up to the ceiling like a helium balloon poked with a pin. The pressure of pretending it’s what I wanted drifts away with the scent of apples, butter, and cinnamon.
Mom blesses me with a tiny but proud smile. Dad stares at me like I’ve confessed to murder. It’s true in a way. I’ve killed his dream of having me join his firm.
I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something. This isn’t a surprise to my mom, but it is to him. I’ve never so much as mentioned having any doubts. My bad. He’s my father and I know deep down he wants what’s best for me. Especially today, with all the scrutiny I’m dealing with. No way can he possibly object. Right?
“Now or ever?” he asks.
I press my hands into the couch cushion while forcing myself to maintain eye contact. “Ever. I’m sorry.”
“Is this because of Vaughn?” he asks, his voice tight.
“No. Not at all. I’ve had my doubts for a while, and it took this summer to make me realize my dream job isn’t an attorney. It’s working with young people who are grappling with various challenges and emotional hardships. I know a thing or two about guilt and pain and self-loathing, and I love working at Art in Progress. Their goal is to use art as therapy and offer a safe place for kids to share their troubles with others, and in so doing, heal. I’ve been offered a full-time position there.”
Dad runs a hand down his dress pants. “You can help people as an attorney, too, you know.”
“I know. But it’s not the same. And I’d like to start now rather than three years from now.”
“You want to stay in California.”
“Yes.”
“Not because of the boy.”
