I chuckle and then sober. “Yes. I was waiting for someone.”
There’s an awkward pause, as if she’s hoping I elaborate. I don’t like talking about my family. But who am I to deny her an answer when my goal was to get her to realize not all men have one-track minds.
“Let me put it this way… I needed some space from that person, so I gave up my seat. But if it makes you uncomfortable, I can switch back.”
She jolts her hand out. “No! It’s fine.”
But what’s not fine is the way she white-knuckles her armrest seconds later.
CHAPTER FIVE
HAILEY
14 years old
Atruck door swings shut outside my bedroom window. I’m sprawled on top of my plaid comforter. Aunt Karen’s cackle echoes from the living room where she’s been watchingFriendsreruns for the last three hours. Which means… No.
It’s the end of August and the middle of fire season. There’s no way it’s him.
I convince myself to get up and look anyway.
Jack doesn’t come home, even on his rest and recovery days. But when I pull back the gauzy curtains, I see him. He’s dressed in casual clothes, popping open the tailgate of his Toyota Tundra.
Between the slight slump of his shoulders and the weathered lines on his face, he looks older than my friends’ dads. Like he’s lived a thousand lifetimes in the span of my fourteen years.
What is he doing?
He trudges through a blanket of pine needles that make up the landscape of our backyard and squats when he reaches the shed door. There’s a rock the size of an orange, large enough tohide a key beneath it but small enough to blend in with the others. He palms the top, unearthing the silver object, and returns the rock to the same spot. The door swings wide with the latch undone. He disappears for a moment before stepping back out with a heap of fabric and an armful of long poles.
I should go talk to him. Find out where he’s going.
I push away from the window and pad down the hallway. Aunt Karen is too engrossed in the TV to even notice me slip outside.
I stop on the last plank that meets the steps of the front porch and say, “Hi,” with enough volume to make sure he good-and-well hears me.
He drops his first load of camping equipment in the bed of his truck, then pauses. “Hey, Hayes. Where’s Karen?”
I pretend it doesn’t bother me that he still calls me by my nickname. It’s the one used by the closest people in my life, of which he is not.
I hoist my thumb behind me. “She’s inside. Got hooked on an old series with a love triangle situation. The guy forgot to use oven mitts and pulled a pan of tater tots from the stove with his bare hands.” I chuckle. Even repeating it back sounds funny. But it must not be his kind of humor. He doesn’t return my smile.
I stuff my hands in the back pockets of my jean shorts. They fidget if I leave them at my sides.
“Going somewhere?”
He eyes his packed belongings. “Yeah.” His back is my view as he ducks inside the shed. “I’m going camping with some friends this weekend.”
I perk up. Camping’s something I wouldn’t hate doing with him, but he’s never had the time.
“That sounds fun,” I say.
I wait for him to invite me. To show a small sign that he’dlike to spend time together on his days off. But he just says, “Yeah. It should be.”
He retrieves a fishing pole and cookstove to add to his pile while I just stand there.
I’ve learned by now if it means enough to me, I have to fight for it. And while I feel vulnerable putting myself out there, it’s the only way I’ll know my answer.
“I could come along. Help give you an extra hand with that tent?”
