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Loved.
But maybe I’m mistaken.
Swallowing hard, I scan through the pages, looking for my favorite part. I don’t want to leave the book behind but maybe…maybe whoever it is will read it and see me for who I really am. Maybe it’s a way to make a friend.
This might not be a guy who left the note. It could be a girl. A fellow bookworm who enjoys reading romances on the spicier side. Wouldn’t it be fun if we could bond over that and eventually start a book club together?
My heart skips a beat at the promising thought.
Deciding I can sacrifice one more day without my book, I choose the section that’s been my favorite so far and stick the Post-it note on that page, adding my own words to the note before I shut it and discreetly stash it away in the desk.
If they don’t respond tomorrow, then it’s fine. My hopes will be dashed, but I’ll take my book home and finish it. But if they do answer…
Then maybe we can continue our conversation.
* * *
“Aw Daisy Mae,why do you look so down?”
I smile at my father when he enters the house, but it feels forced so I let it fall, glancing back down at the book I’m supposed to be reading for English.
I’m not reading it at all. I stare at the pages and the words become distorted. Fuzzy. I’m too distracted by everything going on in my life. The attention from Arch. Whoever’s writing secret notes in my book. All of the homework I still need to do. I’m so caught up in my thoughts I didn’t realize how late it actually was and I promised my dad I would fix dinner tonight.
“I’m just tired,” I tell him as I shove the throw blanket aside and stand, stretching my arms above my head and yawning as loudly as possible. None of that is forced. I haven’t been sleeping great lately either. “Sorry dinner isn’t ready yet.”
“I can wait.” Dad smiles. “I can even help you.”
“That would be nice.”
We move about the kitchen smoothly, the two of us used to dealing with each other over the past almost six years. His mood is somber tonight too and I know why. It’s probably why mine is as well, though we’re both loathe to admit it.
It’s almost my birthday.
The anniversary of my mother’s death.
The day isn’t special for me anymore. It’s a sad day. A remembrance of how tragically we lost her. I can’t celebrate on that day. It just doesn’t feel right, and while Dad always tries to make the day a positive one, it never works.
We’re two weeks away and look at us. Already quiet, the air tinged with sadness. All of the unspoken things hanging between us, heavy and foreboding. He’ll eventually want to ask me what I want to do for my birthday and I’ll insist on nothing. He’ll get me a cake and try to make my favorite dinner but the night will end in tears.
It always does. For the both of us.
But tonight we’re pretending, offering each other quick smiles as we pass in the tiny kitchen. I boil water for the noodles while Dad browns the meat for the sauce. A homemade sauce we can together, using the vegetables from the garden. His mother, my grandmother, was Italian and handed down her recipe to Mom, but she could never make it right. Dad though? He makes it perfectly, and he taught me how to as well.
Twenty minutes later and we’re seated at the table, both of us silently eating our spaghetti, the only sound the crunch of our salads or Dad tearing into the garlic bread. I finally start asking him questions, hating how thick the silence is, needing to break it for a bit.
“Did you give Kathy any more tomatoes?”
He swallows down a big bite of garlic bread. “I sure did. Brought her a whole bucket earlier this afternoon. She said they’ll make their appearance in the salad bar tomorrow. They’ll also be offered on sandwiches and if I keep her supplied, they’ll be available for Taco Tuesday.”
“That’s great.” I smile at him, taking another bite of spaghetti.
“We’ll have to keep some more for ourselves, of course. So we can can up the sauce for next—” He ducks his head for a moment and I stare at his graying hair, my heart panging. He’s getting older, and I worry about him being alone when I leave. “You won’t be around next year.”
“I’ll be here until June,” I remind him, my voice soft. “I can eat plenty of spaghetti between now and June.”
He smiles, but his gaze is tinged with sadness. “I’m going to miss you, Daisy.”
“I’ll miss you too.” Reaching out, I settle my hand over his, giving it a squeeze. “I got a B on my American Government quiz.”
