When he shuts the fridge, rests against the counter, and pulls out his phone, my shoulders slump.More work?But then he shocks me. Music blasts from the phone speakers, bouncing off the walls and thrumming in my ears. I recognize the song instantly.
“You listen toThe Byrds?”
My dad points to his ear, mouthing, “Sorry, can’t hear you,” even though he totally can. He pulls off his tie, undoes his top shirt buttons, and,oh my god, swings his hips from side to side. And, actually, he’s got good rhythm.
“This is amazing!” I chuckle.
The sight of him bobbing his chin to a beat back and forth, dramatically, is something I never thought I’d see.
He grabs my hand, pulling me in for a spin, and shouts, “Of course I listen toThe Byrds! I’m your father, aren’t I?”
I laugh as I twirl, but a sudden heaviness presses my shoulders. His words seep into my mind, filling a gap I didn’t realize was there.Father.I’ve never heard him say it out loud. I don’t think I’ve even said it out loud.
“To everything, hmm, hmm, hmm,” he sings, guiding me loosely across the kitchen. “It’s a crime to every purpose, under eleven ...”
My jaw drops. “Those are not the words!”
“Of course they are.” He spins me again, catching me just before I hit the kitchen counter, then continues, “A time to build it, a time to fake it.”
“Oh my god, no!” I yell, cracking up and stopping to curl an arm around my cramping stomach. “That’s so not how it goes!”
Seriously, I wish Mom could see him right now. I don’t know if she’d lose it like I am, or if she’d just roll with it—dancing right beside him, belting out whatever words come to her, right or wrong.
When I manage to stop my laughing fit and breathe again, I look up at him, and he grins. He’s still dancing, solo this time, and it’s everything I always imagined a typical dad would look like—a little awkward, but mostly sweet and a lot goofy. But this is better than anything my imagination could have given me.
I get to see his styled hair falling out of place, the lines around his mouth and eyebrows wrinkling as he chuckles and makes silly faces he doesn’t even realize he’s making, his suit coming untucked, shoes sliding across the kitchen floor. I know this is real—I can see it,feelit—but I don’t understand why it’s also like a distant dream. Or how such a simple moment suddenly hurts.
But it does. So much.
The longer I watch him, the deeper an ache builds inside my chest. Like someone’s slowly shoveling piles of sand into my lungs. And, soon, my whole body is weighed down.
The room goes quiet. So quiet, my head spins.
“Blue?” My dad’s voice is soft, like an echo, but I see him coming closer. A warm hand rests on my arm, and I lift my chin to find him staring down at me. “Hey ... you all right?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, but my throat burns through the word. “I think I—I think I just need some water.”
He stays in place, inspecting my face, but after a second, his hand falls, and he moves to the fridge. When he returns with a glass of ice-cold water, I drink it so quickly I get brain freeze.
After setting the glass down, I face him again. It’s a little easier now, as the heaviness in my chest becomes gradually more bearable.
He fidgets with his collar. “Bluebell ...”
“Sorry,” I mutter, pushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “That was fun and awesome, and I don’t know what happened—”
“I do.”
My brows knit, but I stay quiet.
“Blue, I’m sorry.” He chews on his lip and shakes his head. “I’m just ...god, I’m so, so sorry.”
I swallow, and the burning in my throat moves to the backs of my eyes.
“I wish ...” He blows out a breath. “Heck, I wish I could go back and be there for you. I would do it. I would do it in a heartbeat if I could.”
“So why weren’t you?” I push out. I don’t want to blame him or to ruin the time we’re getting now, but it’s so hard not knowing. “Why weren’t you there when you should have been?”
He presses his fingers to his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. “I want to tell you, believe me. You deserve to know. But your mom—”
