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Dad stays quiet for so long that I wonder if he’s going to go back to avoiding me mid-conversation. He runs a finger around the rim of his glass, again and again. “I know. She already told me to keep my big bazoo shut about this whole thing.‘She’s your daughter, Archie. Be supportive.’”
“You don’t have to keep your big whatever shut about anything with me, Dad. Tell me what you really think.”
He glances up at me warily before sighing again. “She’s too young. She hasn’t really lived yet. And she’s rushing into this relationship. What’s wrong with taking your time, getting to know each other over a few years, maybe even living together first?”
“She says she’s in love.”
“Love,” Dad grunts, as though the word personally offends him. “What do you girls know about love? You’re babies.”
I frown, and just like that, there’s distance between us again. “That’s exactly the problem, Dad. You still think of us as babies. Celine’s a grown woman, and so am I. We know our own minds, and I think you need to give us credit for that.”
“It’s not that I—”
“This relationship might seem impulsive to us,” I continue as my head spins with images of the night I got pregnant. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not right for her. If she doesn’t regret it, who are we to tell her she should?”
Dad lifts his gaze to mine. Celine inherited Mom’s eyes, and I got Dad’s. Those stubborn, green, almond-shaped eyes. It’s always struck me as strange, how someone who frustrates me so endlessly and efficiently can be the source of all the things I’m most proud of in myself.
“You’re a lot like your mother, you know,” he says softly.
I chuckle. “I was just thinking that I was a lot like you.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “You’re better than me. Braver. Stronger.”
I frown, wondering what’s brought on this dark mood of his. It can’t be just about Celine and her surprise engagement. It has to be something else.
“Dad?”
“I never did apologize to you properly,” he says gruffly. “I’ve handled things badly. I’ve been handling everything badly lately.”
I get up and drape my arms around his shoulders from behind. “Don’t worry about it, Dad,” I say. “We all have bad days.”
“I’ve had badyears, kiddo,” he whispers, tensing under my arms. “And I’m afraid they’re catching up to me.”
Of course. Mom’s condition is getting to him, too. It must be hard to see her fade in and out, day after day, with no real hope on the horizon.
“We’ll get through this,” I assure him. “She beat the cancer once before. She’ll do it again.”
He sighs, and his whole body feels like it’s resting on that one heavy breath. “There are some things that can’t be beaten, Taylor.”
I’m about to ask him what he means, but then I note the smell of burning rice and rush to the stovetop.
“Oh, shit!” I groan, scraping up clusters of charred-to-a-crisp rice. With a sigh of defeat, I turn to him. “Where did you say those takeout menus were again?”
13
TAYLOR
The nervous tension in the car is palpable.
Apparently, this Ilarion—I still can’t say his name without exaggerating it in a posh accent—lives clear across town in a neighborhood known as “The Valley.” Which means we’ve been driving for almost half an hour and we’re still twenty minutes away.
The further we drive, the cleaner the streets become. It’s like we’re closing in on hallowed ground. I almost expect to see a sign that reads“No Poor People From This Point On.”
“I should have worn something different,” Mom chimes from the passenger’s seat.
She’s wearing her favorite blue cocktail dress, a yellow silk bandana on her head, and a pair of thick wedge heels that she hasn’t pulled out of the closet in years. She tripped twice on her way to the car.
I blame the nerves more than the heels.
