“Do you think that matters?”
“In your case, yes. Your regret’s so obvious.”
“I’m not sure regret absolves bad choices.”
“Maybe not, but it helps you grow. And when it’s genuine, it lets the people you wronged know that, deep down, you care.”
She’s not talking about me anymore; she’s talking about Dad, and the hurt saturating her voice makes my chest feel as though it’s splitting open. God, did he express regret when he called earlier? I mean, I’m pretty sure it’d be too little, too late, but I hope he showed Meredith more remorse than he showed me. A thousand apologies won’t make up for what he’s done, but a little contrition might besomething.
“I’m so sorry, Mer. I wish there was something I could say that’d fix this.” But there isn’t—all I can offer is my support and my love and, maybe, my treats. I nudge her. “Tomorrow morning, I’m going to bake us something decadent, something buttery, full of chocolate and sugar, and you and I are going to eat every bite of it.”
She gives me a sad smile. “I can’t think of a better way to spend the day.”
***
Except the next morning, when I burst into the kitchen ready for a day of cheering Meredith up with my most mouthwatering confections, I find my dad sitting at the breakfast bar. He’s wearing yesterday’s suit—so he didn’t come home last night—and he’s sipping coffee from the World’s Best Dad mug I gave him for Christmas a decade ago.
The irony.
Meredith’s sitting on the stool adjacent to his; I imagine a gulf of tempestuous water between them. She appears bedraggled, like she hasn’t slept a second, and she’s holding the mug we shared last night. I wonder if she’s washed it, or even bothered to refresh her tea. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s nursing the cold dregs she steeped eight hours ago.
“Morning, Jill,” she says, a little too merry, a put-on in an effort to reassure me, I think. At first, it rankles. Like,Oh, hey, Meredith’s her usual chipper self? Maybe this whole broken-home thing won’t be so bad after all.But then I realize her false cheer’s more for her benefit than mine.
Sometimes, faking it’s the only way to survive.
“Jillian,” Dad says, an acknowledgment that’s infuriating in its austerity.
I ignore him in favor of pouring myself a cup of coffee. It’s the good stuff, rich and bold. My mouth is dry as burnt toast, and my hands shake as I add heaps of sugar and a generous splash of milk, then take a timid sip. Incredibly, it helps.
I stand across the counter from where my parents sit. Neither of them has said a word beyond their greetings, but it’s clear they were talking before I came into the room. Dad’s got the shreds of what was once a napkin sitting in front of him. Meredith must’ve used the last of her energy when she said good morning, because she’s leaning against the countertop now, eyes unfocused.
“Where’s Ally?” I ask.
“With Marcy,” Dad says. “She offered to babysit while we… sort things out.”
My sister’s with the Holdens—with Max, Marcy, and Bill, maybe even Brett, Zoe, Oliver, and Ivy. She’s probably snoozing while they feast on french toast, carrying on the way they do. Lucky Ally. I swirl my coffee in its mug, then clear my throat. “So… have you?”
“Have we what?” Mer asks, zombielike.
“Sorted things out?”
“It’s not that easy,” Dad says.
“I never thought it’d be easy. In fact, I imagine it’s going to be really hard. On all of us.”
He expels a mighty sigh. “I know you’re upset.”
“I’m more than upset—I’mcrushed.”
He looks away. “You’re seventeen, Jillian. I won’t explain my motives to you.”
“God, please don’t. There’s nothing you can say that’ll make me understand what you’ve done or why you’ve done it. Seventeen or not, I know what love is: hard work and sacrifice, common ground and compromise. I know that love is the same as giving someone your heart, and trusting them to cherish it, to hold it like it’s made of blown sugar. I know about love, Dad. Max showed me.”
He says nothing.
“He and I are together,” I go on. “Without him, last night would’ve been—” There’s a sob climbing my throat, keeping me from finishing my thought.
“Last night would have been unbearable,” Dad finishes, and finally,finally, his voice roughens with penitence. “I’m sorry, Jill. I shouldn’t have let you drive away. I shouldn’t have let you think talking to Meredith was your responsibility. Much as I hate to admit it, I shouldn’t have let you believe you needed to lie about Max. And I shouldn’t be saying these things now, when it seems like I’ve got no other choice, but I mean them.” He stops to survey me, part hopeful, part fearful. When I don’t respond, he goes on. “I’ve got a lot of rebuilding to do in the way of your trust. I hope, one day, I’ll be able to earn it back.”
