She looks like she wants to say more, but my skin tightens and itches until I have to move, do something, go somewhere, anything but continue this conversation.
“I gotta go. See you later.”
Chapter Thirty-six
Lacey
“Hey, peanut,” Dad says when he walks in from the garage. He sets his bag on the counter, along with his phone and a to-go cup.
“Hey,” I call back from the living room where I’ve holed up on the couch doing homework.
“Something smells good.”
“I made chicken and dumplings,” I say back without looking up from my Physics book.
“Chicken and dumplings?” His voice moves closer, and I look up to see him taking a seat on the opposite end of the couch.
“Yeah?” I question, trying to determine why he looks like he’s worried.
“You used to ask for that when you were sick or having a bad day.”
Oh, that.
“School’s been a lot lately,” I say, dropping my pencil in the middle of the book. I smile brightly. “How was work?”
“Fine.” He studies my expression for a beat longerbefore he stands and goes into the kitchen. He pulls two plates down from the cabinet.
I unfold myself from the couch and walk over to join him. Dad hands me a plate, and we fill them with food and sit together at the dining room table.
We dig in, eating quietly for a while. This recipe was my grandmother’s on my mom’s side. I never met her, but Dad says it was my mom’s favorite meal. Which is how it became my go-to cure for a bad day. It’s just another one of those things that makes me feel closer to her, like we’re in on the same secret.
“I haven’t seen Vaughn around lately.”
My stomach swirls and clenches. I shrug one shoulder. “His algebra grade is a lot better.”
Dad has never been one to push me to talk. He’s let me come to him and share when I’m ready. Sometimes when he could tell I was upset, he’d sit with me in the living room. I’d watch TV and he’d work. But I knew he was there if I needed him, and his presence was enough. I have Claire for talking things out anyway.
But the way he looks at me now makes me think he isn’t going to drop this so easily.
“We aren’t hanging out anymore,” I admit.
My father nods slowly. “Boys are dumb at that age.”
My chest expands and warmth spreads through me. “You have to say that. You’re my dad.”
“Doesn’t make it any less true.”
I take another bite of dinner and try to let his words comfort the ache that’s been there all week. Knowing I didn’t do anything wrong doesn’t make his rejection sting any less.
After we eat, Dad helps me clean up in the kitchen.While we’re loading the dishwasher, he spots Mom’s bucket list and picks it up.
“This looks like your mom’s handwriting.”
“It is. I found it in those boxes you pulled from the back of the closet.”
He gives me a small smile, then focuses back on the paper. His smile widens the more he reads.
“Your mom loved a list. For years, I found her lists all over the house. Things she wanted to do, places she wanted to see, ideas for parties, baby names she liked…you name it, she had a list for it.”
