There was a smear against one wall. I hosed that down too.
Me, I’d already washed until I was pinker than was comfortable. Again.
I had to throw away Dad’s robe.
Back inside my phone flashed with a missed call from Sean, but no message.
I almost called him back. Then I almost called him back half a dozen times more.
When he called again that afternoon I counted the rings until it hit voice mail.
No message.
Dad wasn’t due home for hours, so I filled the day with trashy reality TV and turned up the volume loud enough to feel. I was watching a woman who no longer had what I’d consider a human face taking her Chihuahua to see a psychic when I felt the slight shudder of the garage door lifting. I clicked off the TV and stilled in the recliner.
He’s not your father.
I flung myself out of the chair and ran to the garage, halting at the open door when he got out of his car. Dad. Too-long brown hair, grease-stained jeans, a Jim’s Auto Shop tee that showed off the beginning of a paunch. He had bags under his eyes, but he smiled when he saw me.
“There’s my girl.”
I barreled into him and held on tight. I couldn’t breathe enough of him in.
“Whoa. Miss me, or did you crash the truck?”
My face was pressed into his shoulder so my voice came out muffled. “Both.”
Dad released me to look at the truck. The damage from my little fender bender with Daniel’s mom was almost impossible to detect since we hadn’t started any of the body repairs yet. He’d think I was teasing. “I missed you too. In fact…” He reached in the pocket of his jeans and tossed me something that glinted in the overhead light. Keys. “I’m not gonna lie, it needs work.”
I read the logo and looked up at him, not really believing the word carved into the black leather fob. I’d completely forgotten his note about bringing me something. I owned a 1967 Triumph Spitfire Mark III convertible. Dad got me a Spitfire. I should be flying, grinning to the point of pain. But I wasn’t.
I stood staring at the shiny key in my hand, tracing the jagged little teeth that would start my Spitfire. I was glad it needed work. Between choosing a brand-new model and a clunker, I’d pick the clunker every time. In that moment between reading the name on the fob and looking up at Dad, I saw the rest of my summer. My sneakered feet next to Dad’s booted ones, tapping together from underneath the Spitfire while some awesomely bad Hall & Oates song blasted through the tinny garage speakers. Sharing takeout while arguing over engine specs. Mini road trips to salvage yards for parts. Seeing Dad smile at me the first time I brought the whole thing roaring to life, proud of me.
All of that was worth more than the car.
He’s not your father.
Mom’s words were a relentless rhythm banging in my head. Slamming around in my skull with greater and greater intensity the longer I watched him. My father. Not my father.
“That’s all I get, huh? One hug?”
He got everything. All that I had. I felt my eyes begin to prick as I went into his open arms, holding him, and by sheer force of will I kept them dry.
“Nothing will ever mean more to me.”
Dad laughed. “Now you’re overdoing it.”
I squeezed my fist tight around the key to my dream car and followed Dad into the much brighter lights of the kitchen.
“All right, let me get a look at you.” Dad maneuvered me around by the shoulders, twisting this way and that. “Nasty sunburn. It looks like your face had a fight with the stove and lost.”
“I know.” I tried to smile at his teasing, but I was suddenly so choked up I had to look away. “Are you hungry? There’s half a frozen lasagna left.”
“My favorite. Let me change, then we can start making plans for your Spitfire.” He dropped a kiss on my head and headed for his room.
Down the hall I could hear Dad opening and closing drawers. He was whistling. Happy. Because I knew he saw our summer the same way I did. The last time I’d listened to him in his room, he’d been yelling at Mom, pleading with her. He’d told me that day that she wanted everything.Everythingmeant me. And not just me. She wanted to rend the only part of my family I had left. To say being his daughter was a lie.
The key slipped through my fingers, spinning as it fell, clinking as it hit the tiled kitchen floor.
