We’re at the intersection just before Whittaker Farms when she speaks again. Her words are still sleepy, speech slurred, butthey strike my chest just the same. I peer over at her, and despite the wooziness in her eyes, Jordan’s gaze holds remarkable clarity.
‘Hope?’
She just yawns, her head starting to loll over, but I make out what she says next well enough for it to echo in my brain the rest of the ride into the property. ‘That there are still good dads left in the world. Still good men.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dearly Beloved
Jordan
Iwake up to the feeling of someone pulling my brain out through my ears.
It would actually (probably) be something more movie-scene perfect if not for that. I’m lying in a bed I immediately clock as not mine, in deep blue sheets that are all tangled round my feet, and light streams in through the window from the sun already claiming its space in the sky.
Unfortunately, I don’t have the capacity for that much natural light. I flop over onto my belly, which only makes the tangle more impossible, and groan into the fancy-pants memory foam pillow.
‘You alive?’ says a voice from below.
That catches my attention. I absolutely refuse to get out of bed, but I do wiggle over so I can see to the floor at the side of the bed.
Bleary-eyed and way too chivalrous, Rod looks up at me from a sea of various spare comforters and kids’ pillows. His hair is all tousled, the dark brown/almost black sticking up at every possible angle. He has on a grey Whittaker-Joyce High T-shirt and old football shorts. He’s got the look of an average zombie on his face, still half asleep.
The alcohol was the first truck to slam into my head. The shock from seeing him there is the second. We’re just friends, right? May and I have done this for one another before. Slept over at your drunk best friend’s dorm to make sure she doesn’t have to puke in the middle of the night and then chokes helplessly or something. But this feels different. Rod is not May. Rod is really not May.
‘Morning,’ he manages.
Okay, so obviously we have slept together. We have shared a bed. So why is it this moment where we clearly did not that has me at a loss for words?
‘Were you here all night?’ I croak. Bullfrog with a severed throat. Hot.
‘Yeah.’ This unusual bashfulness enters his voice. ‘You know. Someone’s gotta be there in case of … alcohol aftermath.’
‘Exactly.’ My answer is way too fast. Ugh. ‘That’s exactly it. Uh. I appreciate that.’
‘Of course,’ replies Rod. Now he just sounds downright awkward; we both do. He reaches around and scratches the back of his neck, his perfect biceps flexing inadvertently. ‘We have work in an hour. You should probably take something … I put ibuprofen and aspirin on the nightstand ’cause I wasn’t sure which one you used. There are a couple of water bottles there, too. I’m making toast, so eat some before we leave.’
I massage the spot between my eyebrows, down to the bridge of my nose, then adjust my shirt. It’s the same one I wore last night: Colt’s playoff jersey, over my tank top, with jeans. I’m grimier than the fucking troll under the bridge. As embarrassing as this is, it doesn’t escape me that Rod still has all my ducks in a row for me. He absolutely doesn’t have to do that.
‘Thank you.’ I glance down at the jersey. ‘This is … a choice.’
Rod blinks somewhat drowsily, then lets out a raspy laugh. ‘I got thoughts.’
‘What thoughts?’
He clambers to his feet. Brushing a hand over his face, he throws me a sleepy smile. ‘Never mind. But I’m gonna get the shower ready for you. There’s a toothbrush on the counter. Rebecca dropped some of your camp stuff off. Your chai tumbler’s there, don’t worry. C’mon.’
I watch him slip out the door, and as I listen to the sound of the shower turning on, I peel some of the massive knots of sheets off my legs, swing them over the side of the bed in slo-mo. Yeesh. I don’t think I’ve put away this much alcohol since sophomore year.
I make for the ibuprofen on the nightstand right away, snagging one of the bottles of water that Rod’s left beside it. I toss the pill into my mouth and chug it down before setting the bottle back down. It’s then that I notice a couple other boxes of pills nearby – one’s the aspirin, no surprise, and the other is labelled Zoloft. An antidepressant. The questions swirl in my brain, but I push them away. Concerned? Absolutely. Not my business.
I rub my eyes for the thousandth time, hoping it will spurme to wake the hell up. Which is when the dreaded words I drunkenly confessed to Rod flood back to me in dramatic flashes of memory.
You give me hope … That there are still good dads left in the world. Still good men.
‘Seriously?’ I mumble. I tug the Colt jersey over my head and fold it, setting it on the end of the bed. The very brief shit about Declan reminding me of my father was enough. Telling Rod that … it should have been too much. In any other circumstance, I’d have held it in, even while plastered.
I plant my feet in the carpet and haul myself to standing. ‘Fuck you, Dad,’ I say to no one in particular. Just for good measure. That’s the magical thing about him. He’s not here – hasn’t been, since ever – and he still manages to make my life hell.
