Page 8

He stood by me, no matter what.

That was something I couldn’t say about anyone else, really.

“Yes, sir. I’m sure.” I keep my voice calm and even. “I’m almost done in here, so . . .”

My voice trails off, eyes wandering the space in the same way I know he is—especially when I hear his slightly defeated sigh over my choice in decor.

Posters of famous paintings cover the walls—mostly Vincent van Gogh, some Paul Gauguin as well—Are You Jealous? and his painting of Van Gogh. A small collection of Monet postcards above the worn dresser, perfectly aligned. Next to them there’s a photo of my dad and me at a track meet several years ago. His arms are folded behind himself and he’s not smiling, but I am; my eyes are sparkling. And trained on the person who took the photo.

The rest of the room is a mess, but I don’t mind it. Boxes litter the corners, barely making a walkway across the room—mostly shoes and clothes.

Thankfully, my father doesn’t say anything, only uncrossing his arms and shoving his hands in his pockets as he looks over at me again.

“You know I’m doing this for you, Lillian.” He sighs heavily, and it weighs down my shoulders more. My body feels as if I could slip into the hardwood. “Everything I do is for you.”

I nod, but my stomach cramps slightly. Shifting on my feet where I’m still kneeling by the bed, I carefully avoid his searching gaze.

“I just want you to be safe and well taken care of.”

“I know,” I manage to breathe out.

“And the way we do things now is to help you. Maybe it’s better if you just stay with me.”

“I don’t—” I cut myself off, shaking my head as I push to stand up. “I think some independence is good.” The line is a word-for-word copy from Dr. Winthrop.

“Allowing you to finish school is a lot for you already.” He rubs his eyes and looks down at his watch.

“Why Waterfell?” I ask.

“What?”

The question is less about him not hearing me and more about him believing my question is stupid. “I mean, why did we move here, specifically?”

“The job turned up, and I knew you wouldn’t go to school without me nearby.” Not true. But there’s no way he’d let me. “And there’s a few guys on the team I have my eye on. Might be beneficial to backdoor some deals to the agency.”

Barely hearing him, still not understanding it, I say, “Okay.”

He looks at me for a long moment again, before grabbing something from his back pocket and putting it between us.

A phone.

“I figure you’re going to need one,” he says, but my entire body is frozen. A mix of shame and embarrassment is covering up all my excitement. My phone was the first thing he’d taken last year after . . .

“Thank you,” I offer, reaching for it before he can change his mind. The case that I once had, with a faded “Watch Me Van Go” sticker on the back, is gone, a plain black one in its place. “I appreciate it. And the town house. It’s . . . thank you, sir.”

His jaw clenches in time with one fist, before it uncurls and he scrubs at his clean-shaven jaw. He finally pronounces, “It’s what we agreed on. But you know the rules—graduate first, then we can discuss your options. Stability is more important than art.”

I nod. But I can’t stop the slight lilting pitter of my heart at even the possibility that—

“Maybe this will . . .” Something strangled, dancing on the edge of vulnerability, comes through his voice. “Maybe this will help.”

Maybe you won’t sleep away half of the days and spend the rest locked in your room.

Maybe you won’t have so much trouble navigating everyday things.

Maybe you won’t need me so much.

“You’ll come see me every day before practices. I want access to your grades as well. And dinners once a week.”