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I don’t bother to turn on the TV. The movie isn’t the same without him. I wanted him to show up more than I wanted to watch the movie. I had convinced myself that he wouldn’t stand me up this time—that I mattered enough to show up, but I was wrong.
My hands are greasy from the butter, so I wash them in the bathroom. I turn on the water just as the front door creaks open.
I smile as I speed through rinsing my hands. I pat them dry on my pants because I don’t want to take the two extra seconds to reach for the towel.
“Dad?” I say, rounding the corner. But I immediately slow back down.
He stands in the entryway, staggering toward the bench. His hair is tousled, and the lighting makes his graying sideburns even more noticeable than usual. His eyes droop, dark shadows settling beneath them, begging for more sleep.
I inch closer, and the hair on my arm stands up. “Dad, are you okay?”
He looks at me with a sheepish smile. “Yeah. I just had a long day at the office.”
He reeks of alcohol.
“I have the movie set up, if you still want to watch it,” I say, grasping at straws.
So what if he went to the bar? He’s here now. We can still have our special movie night.
He rests his head on the wall with a groan. “I forgot about the movie.” He checks the time on his watch. “It’s getting late, and I have an early meeting tomorrow. Can I take a rain check?”
My chest is heavier than ever, but I force a smile. “Yeah. Next Friday?”
He nods. “Yes. I’ll make sure I’m here. I promise.”
I ignore the part of my brain screaming at me that he’ll forget again. Dad is under a lot of pressure from work and Mom. I don’t need to add to it. Once everything calms down, things will go back to normal. I just have to be patient.
CHAPTERTHREE
I slouch in my chair,resting my head on my hand as I stare out the window of Dr. Beckett’s office. There’s nothing to see outside, other than the side of the next building, but I’d rather focus on that than listen to Dr. Beckett’s questions.
Mom started dragging me here a couple of weeks ago, but I’m not in the mood to spill my guts to a complete stranger.
Our hour is almost up, and I’ve hardly said a word. If I respond at all, it’s with a shrug or a headshake. It’s the same language I used all weekend long with Mom.
“Your mom mentioned you applied to a school in New York. Have you ever been before?” she asks.
I applied to as many colleges on the other side of the coast as I could. As soon as I graduate, I want to be as far away from all of my problems as possible. It’s a fresh start where I won’t have to think about my past.
I check the time on my phone, and then I stand, patting my legs. “It looks like the session is over.” I hold my hand up to give a half hearted wave as I turn my back to Dr. Beckett and walk out of the room.
Mom is sitting on the bench in the hallway but jumps up when she sees me. Her pink smile is bright. “How did it go?”
I look at my feet and raise my eyebrows. “Oh, it went.”
She pats my shoulder. “Just wait here a second.” Then, she shuffles past me, balancing her overfilled purse, into Dr. Beckett’s office.
I let my back fall against the wall, looking at my phone again.
Mom tries to whisper, but with the door wide open and her struggle with volume control, I hear every word.
“Why hasn’t there been any progress?” she asks.
I can hear the hesitation in Dr. Beckett’s response. She’s trying to gauge how to respond to my overzealous mother. “Becca has to want to heal. It’s not something that you or I can force.”
“I don’t know what else to do. I’ve tried everything, and nothing’s working.”
I roll my eyes. Mom has tried everything. She’s been everything from overly attentive and coddling to frustrated and yelling when I don’t respond the way she wants. There’s hardly ever anything in between.
