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“You guys share an earth-shattering kiss, and you think the guy was just caught up in the moment. That’s insane.”
“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I have to tell him the truth. Homecoming is only a couple of weeks away, and this is all getting entirely out of hand.”
“Ugh. I’d hate to be you.”
The front door slammed, and my eyes darted toward the hall where the angry baritone of my father’s voice reverberated off the walls, and my stomach dropped. It was rare for him to get rattled. Even rarer for him to be home early on a workday. And the sinking in the pit of my stomach told me something was off.
“Um, hey, Scarlett? I gotta go. Call you later?”
“Yeah. Give me a ring and we’ll come up with a plan of attack for outing yourself.”
“Will do,” I said as I hit END on the call, my mind already focused on my father, whose heavy footsteps clomped around the house.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and headed out into the hallway, following the sound of banging in the kitchen when I found Dad in front of the sink, filling a pot with water.
I stood there a moment, observing him, his movements angry and sharp as he placed the pot on the stove, sloshing some over the rim and onto the burner. His expression pinched, and even from where I stood, I could make out the bloodshot eyes, the worry creasing his brow.
“Dad, what are you doing home so early?” I asked, my tone careful, like someone asking why they held a gun in their hand.
The creases smoothed before his gaze shot up to mine. “Hey, P!” he said, his tone forced. “How about spaghetti for dinner? You girls like spaghetti, right?”
“We had spaghetti last night.”
“Oh. Right.” His expression fell a little. “Well, we can have . . .” He glanced around him, looking lost.
“Spaghetti’s fine, Dad. It’s Sara’s favorite anyway, she’ll be thrilled,” I said, mostly because it was true, but also because I couldn’t stand to see his pained expression anymore or the doubt—or whatever emotion it was—clouding his eyes.
“Okay, great.” He shook his head, but he made no move toward the jar of sauce in front of him on the counter. Instead, he crumpled forward, placing his elbows on the counter, head in his hands.
“Dad?” I asked again, because now he was really scaring me. “What’s going on?”
“I let you down, P. I let both of you down.”
“What are you talking about? You could never let us down.” I moved closer until I was directly beside him and placed a hand tentatively on his back, afraid he might crack.
The gesture must’ve worked because a moment later, he sniffed and cleared his throat, then stood. “I lost my job, P. Fired.”
Shock reeled through me like a thunderclap. “What? But how, why?”
He shrugged and shook his head, ripping a dishtowel off the counter and threading it between his hands. “Elliot’s had some equipment go missing these past few weeks . . .”
My thoughts drifted as he spoke. Back to the night Topher and I went to the IRL concert and we got caught by the security guard outside his father’s business. That was his reason for patrolling the area, he’d told us as much.
And then it hit me like a ton of bricks.
Iwas the reason my father got fired.
“You have to believe me,” he went on. “I didn’t steal anything. Not one single thing.”
“Dad, I know.”
“The only things I ever took from that man without his explicit permission was the aching back I brought home every night,” he continued, his voice thick—a grown man nearly in tears at the thought of being unable to provide for his family. “I swear to you. You know I would never steal—”
“Dad, stop!” I shouted, clapping my hands over my ears.
He blinked up at me, a frown pulling at his mouth.
“It was me,” I said, my heart aching with the words.
