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Nope. Still ignoring.
Then, “Cassie!”
Wait, what? Liam’s voice?
Liam and I hardly see each other. Sure he knows where I live. He helped me move in, but he’s never really visited me much. What would he—
Oh. He probably heard about Mom and… yeah, all that.
God, that’s the last thing I feel like talking about. It’s not like he can make it better. Now, Jeremy. Yes, Jeremy could make it better. He could turn Mom’s opinion on anything. But I doubt Jeremy knows anything about this. He’s probably still offshore, making all those big bucks, avoiding our mother and all the drama.
“Come on, Cassie. I know you’re in there.” If nothing else, Liam is persistent. “I’m not going away.” Oh, yes, persistent indeed.
I grunt my way out of the beanbag. Why is it always so much easier to get into than out of? Then I make my way to the front door. A glancing pass by the mirror tells the story. I haven’t showered in one—maybe two—days, and my hair’s in an ugly sleep topknot that’s overdue for a release and a brushing. The hell with it.
I open the door abruptly, more than a little irritated that I have to see someone—anyone—including my baby brother.
The sunlight is blinding, but I’m stunned by more than that.
A figure steps out from behind my brother.
“Dad?” The word is torn from my chest, lungs, lips. How can one single word sound so broken?
“Hey, baby girl.” Dad’s never called me that. Not ever. At least, not as far as my memory goes. Word has it that he used to call me that before I learned how to walk. At least, that’s what my grandmother told me, but she’s gone now, so no one tells me stories of the relationship I had with my dad from when I was too little to remember.
Oh, Lord, please grant me the strength not to crumple.
“What are you doing here?” The question is a soft whisper. One I’m not even sure I gave voice to until he opens his mouth to answer.
“Got a minute? Somewhere we can talk? Not out here on the porch?” He glances about as though to emphasize that this isn’t the place to have a conversation. At least, not the kind of conversation I think he’s wanting to have. Dad looks tired. Like he’s been to hell and back. Dark circles under his eyes. Gaunt cheekbones. His shirt hangs off his shoulders in a way it never has before. He doesn’t look well.
He clears his throat.
In my mind, I know what he’s going to say. He’s going to take her side, tell me how much I suck. Though, of course, it’s Dad, so he won’t be as merciless or cutting as my mother was.
“Sure.” I step aside.
He and Liam come in, and I have to wonder what he thinks about the ratty furniture the girls and I have acquired. He doesn’t say a word about it, and his face is unreadable.
He takes a spot on the couch. Liam plants himself next to Dad. I perch on the arm of the wingchair that definitely doesn’t match the couch, but hey, the dentist who was going to refurbish his office was kind enough to give it to us for free. It’s the least ratty piece of furniture we have.
“So…” I say because I don’t know what else to say.
“Your mother told me about what happened,” he says.
Her version,I want to blurt, but don’t. “Okay.”
“Your mother acts on emotion at times,” Dad says, as though telling me that I’m disowned is as simple as reacting to having her toe stubbed.
“How can you love her?” I can’t believe those words just left my mouth.
Liam’s eyes betray his surprise as well. They widened a fraction before he recomposes himself.
Dad’s poker-faced. “She’s complicated.”
I shake my head. Whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. It means nothing, really.
Then he says, “It’s better to be her second choice than nothing at all.”
