“You’re back early.”
I cup my left hand in a visor over my eyes. The sprawling pine tree in our front yard does little to block the August sun, even at nine in the morning.The Longest Rideby Nicholas Sparks folds closed in my lap as I leave my spot on the porch steps and approach his truck. It sputters as vehicles with two hundred thousand miles do when he slows on the gravel and shifts into park.
“I came to unload my gear,” Jack says through the rolled-down window. He pops open the door and rounds the side of the vehicle, stopping at the tailgate.
Jittery nerves ping-pong inside my abdomen as I shuffle from ankle to ankle. “So, how was it?”
With a big scoop, he transfers a heap of equipment to the dirt runway we call a driveway. I’m expecting answers like “Great” or “Fun.” “Relaxing,” maybe. Not a confession.
“We had a fire.”
I drop my book to the dirt. It sends a puff of dust billowing around my flip flops.
“At your campsite?” I gasp.
“I’m fine, Hayes. See?” He splays his arms out wide as if I haven’t already done a thorough sweep from the tips of his hair to the steel toes of his boots. Same analysis I do every time he comes home. No cuts, scrapes, or broken bones that I can see. But…is that soot under his fingernails?How did I miss it until now?
“What happened?”
“It was a common mistake. The pyro kid I went with just wanted to have a little fun.”
A kid?I thought he said he was going with friends.
A stinging feeling spreads across my chest at the quirk of his lips. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him look that happy. Years, even… and the fact that it was a result of him spending time with someone else’s kid rather than his own has envy curling itself throughout my body until I’m having to clench and release my fists in tight balls.
“I brought you something.” He breaks the silence between us. Even his voice has a melodic dance to it.
A smooth slab of wood rests in his open arms when I build up the nerve to look at him.
When he transfers the flat lumber to my hands, my fingertips brush the underside. The outer layer feels sandpapered to soft perfection.
“A piece of driftwood?”
I don’t mean for it to come out sounding ungrateful, but what am I’m supposed to do with it?
He clears his throat. “I thought maybe… we could make a swing out of it?”
I tug on my ear, still unsure of what to say.
“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head and turns away. “It was a stupid idea.”
“Wait.” I stop him. Grip the gift tighter as he tries to take it from my hands. “It’s not stupid, it’s just… I’m fourteen, not five anymore.”
It’s his turn to catalog my appearance. The peaks of his eyebrows squish together. He threads a hand through his hair and ash flakes onto his cheekbones. I don’t think he’s even noticed how much I’ve grown until this very moment.
“Right. No, yeah, I know,” he stutters. “Forget I said anything.” His tailgate lurches shut with a sudden shove, but I grab his arm, stopping him from jumping into the driver’s seat.
“Dad, wait.”
The name slips from my lips in a desperate ploy to get him to stay.
“I want to,” I say. “Let’s build a swing.”
This time he smiles forme. And I don’t really care if a swing is a little juvenile or maybe five years too late. I’m no longer thinking about what I was hoping would happen from this conversation. All I can focus on is that he thought of me.
Present Day
My mouth stretches wide in a yawn. How many times has it done that now? I’ve lost track.
