Blue
It’s only temporary, I remind myself while I stare at him. He looks older than I pictured. His hair is more peppered than Mom’s, but it’s mainly the taut lines around his eyes and between his brows that give his age away. So different from Mom’s smooth, radiant skin. I think I see some of myself in him, like in the green hue of his irises, but maybe I’m just digging for similarities.
“Well?” My dad shifts in his seat, his grip tightening on the steering wheel as he focuses on the road.
My dad. So weird to think of him that way when I only found out about him three months ago. I knew he existed, somewhere in the world, but he’d never reached out to me until then. As my gaze travels over his face, my brow furrows. I’m not ready to refer to him asDad. Maybe I should stick withTimothy. I silently roll the name on my tongue, but no, that doesn’t sound right either. Too stuffy.Timthough. That could work.
“What do you think?” he mutters, nodding toward our surroundings.
Tearing my gaze from him, I finally look out my window. Picturesque two-and-three-story houses blur by as we pass them, shiny SUVs and sports cars nestled in their driveways. One after the other, each house is stacked closely side by side.
I chew on the inside of my cheek. “It’s ... different.”
“Like, good different?” He clears his throat. “Or bad?”
“Just different,” I whisper.
Wrapping my fingers around the two birthstones hanging from my necklace, I close my eyes. My heart aches for home already. For rough dirt beneath my bare feet. Endless miles of wild grass and sunshine. The taste of nature in the air.
I hear aclick, then my window slides down, and a breeze cools my face.
I glance at Tim.
He gives me a sideways look, then an awkward smile. “Your mom used to prefer the windows down. I don’t know if she still does, and heck, maybe you don’t. I just thought ...” His voice fades, and he taps the steering wheel with his index finger. “I don’t know.”
Closing my eyes again, I lean back against the headrest. “Thank you.” My hair whips against my cheeks, tickling my neck, and I smile as I think of home.
A few minutes pass, then we pull into a wide, stone-paved driveway. I squint at the house. Mom told me Tim is a successful lawyer and that he’ll have plenty of room for me. Still, this isn’t what I expected. Single men don’t usually live in the suburbs. Then again, I guess I wouldn’t know. In our little house in Northern California, outside the Redwood Forest, it’s just me and Mom for miles.
The engine shuts off, then Tim’s door opens and closes. An uncomfortable silence fills my ears. When the trunk opens and a softthumpindicates my bike hitting the ground, I slip out of the car. He’s propped the bike against the bumper to get the rest of my stuff. I move to snatch up my bags, but he beats me to them.
“Don’t be silly, Bluebell. I can take your stuff up.” He heads toward the front door before I can respond. “Your bike too,” he adds when I take it by the handles. “You can leave it for now. I’ll come back and put it in the garage in a second.”
“O-kay.” I stumble after his long strides, entering the house behind him and coming to a hard halt in the living room. It’s so ... formal. But it’s beautiful too. The ceilings are tall, and natural light pours through all the windows. A curved staircase sits on my left. There’s a fireplace at the opposite end of the room, and, on my right, a rounded archway leads to a huge kitchen.
My gaze lingers on a leather couch and loveseat—the same type of furniture my mom poured a bucket of red paint over at a PETA convention. She also once left a note on an acquaintance’s decorative fur pillow that said:With our thoughts, we make the world.—Buddha.
When I wander further inside, I spot photographs mounted on the walls and lining the mantel. There aren’t that many, I guess, but to me, everywhere I look, strangers’ faces stare back.
My feet drift toward the largest frame centered above the fireplace, and I pick it up. Tim stands in the middle wearing a burgundy sweater and dark jeans. A bright smile stretches across his face, and both his arms are draped over two other people. The woman on his right beams while she holds his waist with one hand and brushes her dark brown bob behind her ear with the other. My throat thickens as I take in the younger girl on his left. She has dark hair like the woman, but hers is pin-straight, falling to her chest. Her lips are curved, brown eyes glinting in the sunlight, one hand on her hip.
She looks about seventeen.
The same age as me.
“Your room is the first one on the right.” My head jerks toward Tim’s voice. He’s already halfway up the stairwell, but he pauses when I don’t answer, glancing over his shoulder to find me frozen, my fingers curled around the photo frame. His eyes flick toward it, and he fidgets with his collar. “You, uh, okay?”
I didn’t notice the silver band on his ring finger until now. My grip trembles around the glass, and I don’t know why. Of course he’s married. Why shouldn’t he be?
I can’t help but glance around the house once more with new eyes. No wonder he lives in a big place like this. He has his own family.
My words come out quiet. “Is this your daughter?”
When he avoids looking at me, I tell myself it’s just a question—one I already know the answer to just from his reaction. I also know what Mom would say if she weren’t thousands of miles away right now.She would tell me to focus on the present and find the good standing in front of me. She’d be right too. There is good in this: I have a dad, and he wants to know me. But that isn’t enough to stop the ache from spreading through my chest.
He has his own family.
“Her name is Kimmie. She’s my stepdaughter, yes.” He pauses, taking in my expression. After a second, he nods toward the picture. “The other woman, Rebecca, is her mom and my wife of ten years.”
