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Hell yeah!
A broad grin spreads across my face. We haven’t gone in a few weeks due to Dad’s travel schedule, and I’ve missed our unusual daddy-daughter dates.
Rhys and I were nine and ten when he first sat us down and showed us his .45. He talked for over an hour about gun safety rules, what it means to handle a firearm responsibly, and eventually, he started taking us to the range. By the time I turned fifteen, I was able to hit my mark up to twenty-five feet.
Spending the morning with Dad takes my mind off everything else, and when he suggests going to eat lunch at our favorite diner, I jump up and down, clapping my hands like Natty when Mom surprised her by telling her we were going to Disneyland a few years go. I have no desire to be back home yet.
I have just scooted into the booth when the sledgehammer hits again.
Not now!
I grab my temples and squeeze my eyes shut. Here we go. I’m sitting in a booth similar to this one. Across from me, a couple is talking to each other, the man smiling at me in between their conversation. It’s the same woman from the park, but like last time, I have no recollection of her. The man next to her has black hair and seems to be around the same age. His arm is wrapped around her shoulders.
When my vision clears, Dad looks at me with concerned eyes. "Everything okay, sweetheart?"
I smile tightly, still waiting for the remaining pain to subside. "Yes, I’ve been having some headaches lately. Probably need to get my eyes checked; I can’t find my glasses."
Nice save, Lilly.
I want to pat my own back for that one.
He nods in understanding. "That’s a good idea. You may need new glasses with all the screen time you have. It’s not good that you stare at your computer all day and not use your glasses."
I nod and divert the conversation by asking about the upcoming weekend trip with Mom. Every few months, they go away for a weekend to make up for all his traveling. This time, he is whisking her away to New York, but Mom doesn’t know yet. He got them Broadway tickets with a super-fancy dinner beforehand. She’ll be ecstatic; she’s been talking about seeing that show forever, but the opportunity hasn’t come up.
Early Monday morning,Dad leaves for his last overseas trip before Christmas, Mom is busy with Natty and her upcoming Christmas recital, and Rhys and I don’t talk as it is, which makes it easy for me to just hole up in my room when I’m not in school or at practice.
I start avoiding my friends because I’m scared of when the next migraine could hit. I don’t want to deal with potential questions. Denielle throws sidelong glances my way whenever she thinks I don’t see it, but she doesn’t press the issue. She knows me. If she’d push for more details than I’m willing to give, I’d simply shut down. It was the same when the whole Rhys thing first went down. I wouldn’t talk to anyone for weeks. If Den finds out that I think I’m losing my mind, she’ll make me tell my parents, and I’m not ready for that.
The next threedays pass without any further incidents, and I let hope creep in that the migraines are gone.
I was wrong.
Thursday evening, Mom announces we are having family dinner together. Dad is not back until tomorrow morning, but for some unknown reason, Rhys is home. I don’t remember the last time he was home for dinner during the week—on a non-holiday weekday. Mom takes it as a sign and makes spinach lasagna—Rhys’s favorite. Most guys go for pizza or burgers, but not my brother; he takes anything veggie over junk food.
We sit down at the kitchen dining table Mom bought a few months ago on a whim from the same furniture store my headboard is from. It’s a distressed gray trestle table made from salvaged wood. She took that as an opportunity to give the kitchen a redesign. She had new gray Carrara marble countertops put in and painted the walls in the palest turquoise-green color. I have no clue what the actual color is called, but that’s how I describe it when someone asks. A matching bench replaced our old wooden kitchen chairs on one side of the table, and diamond-tufted chairs in a similar color as the walls were on the remaining three sides. With the white cabinets and gray-ish wooden floor, the new color scheme made the kitchen become my second favorite room in the house—besides my own.
Dinner passes relatively smoothly. Rhys keeps eyeing me but doesn’t say anything. He gives me the same look as Denielle, and it’s getting annoying.
Who’s he to act all worried?
He participates in Mom and Natty’s conversation about her next dance lesson and when she has to go for her costume fitting. For a brief moment, I see the old Rhys, the one who was home for meals, played board games with us in the evenings, talked to us about his practice, and always inquired about what was going on in our lives—in my life.
I start gathering my empty plate, taking another look at everyone before getting up. That’s when the fireworks explode behind my eyes.
No, no, no, no.
I drop my plate and press my palms into my eyes, trying to control my breathing. A similar rectangular dining room table appears in front of my mind’s eye. A young Rhys sits next to me, laughing and throwing a fry at my face. I squeal and grin at him. Dad sits at the head of the table, and Mom is to the right of him, deep in conversation with someone else. Oh. My. God. It’s the couple from the diner migraine.
Who the hell are these people?
I slowly lower my hands and blink. Once. Twice. Mom’s and Natty’s blurry forms start to come into focus, both staring at me, wide-eyed, while Rhys is on his feet next to me, ready to act.
"Dad told me you’re having headaches. Did you make an appointment for your eyes yet?" Mom asks, concerned, head slightly tilted to the side as if she’s assessing my physical well-being.
Heart pounding in my throat, I recover from the shock and shake my head. "Not yet. I’ll call tomorrow."
"Okay, make sure to call first thing in the morning. Now go take some Tylenol and lie down."
