“You have to recognize that he’s a dangerous—”
“I actually don’t have to recognize anything, especially things that aren’t true. Where’s the danger, Dad? In the last ten years he’s been in Beaver Creek, where has the danger been?”
“He seriously harmed someone, Addie.”
My brain feels like it’s going to explode. I run my fingers over my eyebrows. How many times can I have this conversation before I leave this town entirely? What happens if I can’t convince anyone of the good I see in Zander?
What if he’s right and it is useless?
I drown a strawberry in whipped cream and plop it into my mouth. I focus on chewing so I don’t start rage-crying. When I think I’m capable, I finally swallow.
“Okay, yeah, when he was nineteen, he got into a bar fight where he snapped after years of abuse and it ended terribly. But he did his penance for that. He feels awful about it, and I’ll give you that he should, but even the man he hurt managed to forgivehim. Do you expect him to just lie down and die because of something he did thirteen years ago?”
“I know you may feel like this man has worked himself out, but these people do not change. If he was capable of violence once, he is capable of it again.”
“Then tell me why, of everyone I’ve dated, he is the man who has never hurt me. He’s always listened to me, he’s never made me feel uncomfortable or like my consent would be ignored, he has never once raised his hand to me. I refuse to let his past define him. You and the town would do well if you opened your minds.”
“I get that you feelrighteousabout this, but I’m worried about you. We’re all worried about you.”
“That’s the whole issue, isn’t it? The town just doesn’t like outsiders, especially when they could one day hurt their precious, damaged golden child.”
He shakes his head, reaches out for my hands. I don’t let him have them. “Adelaide, please listen to me.”
“I’ve listened. I don’t thinkyou’relistening to me. Zander’s put in the work. He’s done time, community service, therapy. He’s spent years unpacking how his parents treated him and how the system failed him. He could be bitter and angry but look at what he’s done. Look at the life he’s made for himself. Does that mean nothing?”
“Not when it comes to my only daughter.”
“Your only daughter is telling you this is the first time she’s felt real love.” The tears come, and I try to blink them away, but they slide down my cheeks. “Dad, this is the first time I’ve felt like I deserve to be loved since Mom left. Do you know how crazy that is? The guy whose parents didn’t even love him is showing me that I’m not some silly girl who is too much.”
Dad looks down at the table. He stares at his clasped hands, every age spot and wrinkle. I lick my lips and taste thetart sweetness of the strawberries. I’m not sure I’ll ever eat strawberries again. His eyes are watery when his gaze returns to mine.
“I didn’t know you felt that way.”
“I have for years. I didn’t realize until Zander came into my life and loved me with no condition. I have a lot of really stupid hobbies and I say a lot of things without thinking…he loves that about me.”
“I love that about you too, Ads.” Dad blinks. The guarded look in his eyes slips away. The weight on my chest shifts. “I have to go. We’re not done with this, but I appreciate you saying this to me.”
“Of course, Dad,” I whisper.
I don’t get up when he does. He comes around the table and wraps his arms around my shoulders, kisses my forehead. He lets himself out. The tears fall in earnest. I want to believe I made a dent; that somehow my dad will suddenly understand this imperfect mess I chose.
I just don’t know.
Once I’ve cried myself out and stayed at the table in the same position for so long my body hurts, I spray whipped cream directly into my mouth. It doesn't make me feel better. My eyes burn and my nose aches.
I push away from the table and head upstairs to get changed. I cry in the shower. Isobin the shower. And then I pull myself together and decide I want all these stupid basic tiles gone.
I shove myself into an old pair of gym shorts and a ratty tank top. My hair gets thrown up into a messy bun. I have no makeup on and my eyes are red and puffy. I do not expect this to be the moment my doorbell rings. For a moment, I freeze, but ultimately decide I don’t care.
On the other side of my stained-glass door is Peggy Browning.
“Oh, God, hi.”
Peggy takes one good look at me and her charming grin—with teeth, that I somehow didn’t notice until now, slant inward the same as Zander’s—turns into a frown. She barges into my house in the most polite, grandmotherly way I have ever witnessed. She puts her bag on the floor, then ushers me by the upper arm to the back of the house.
“Come, come,” she says. “We’re going to the garden. Everything is better in the garden.”
I forgot, back when I first had tea at Peggy’s house, that she wanted to see my garden. She has one in her own backyard, just much smaller and limited to a bed in the back corner. She was eager to see my Gardens of Babylon, as she put it.
