Chapter 23 #2
“Dad’s out back in his workshop and then he’s got bowling league, and Jesse is out at some concert in Providence with his girlfriend, so it’s just us.
” He waves the spatula at me and Biscuit, who is so deeply mesmerized by this belly rub that his head is hanging over the side of the cushion.
His tongue lolls out of his open mouth and over his top teeth.
“Jesse lives here too?” I ask.
Theo nods. “He’s saving up to buy a place of his own at some point. But I think he doesn’t want to leave Dad in this big house either. Since Mom…you know, it’s been just the three of us…” Theo shakes his head at the dog. “Well, and that fool.”
“I can’t imagine leaving my mom right now either, so I get it.”
“Not with the ghosts.”
“Or, you know, because my father sucks.”
Theo adjusts the timer on the stove, then comes over to the window seat. To Biscuit’s chagrin, he shoos the dog from the cushion and settles beside me. “Have you talked to him at all?”
“Not beyond a few text messages. And he’s barely responded to those.”
He nudges my knee with his. “I’m sorry.”
I shrug hard. “Is it okay to hate one of your parents?”
“I think it’s a requirement at our age.”
I snort. “No, I mean like, really hate. Like maybe I want to cut him out of my life.” He’s my father and I know that’s supposed to mean something, but it doesn’t feel like it to me.
When I think back on my childhood, my memories mostly involve my mom.
If Dad was there, he was like wallpaper, just kind of faded into the background.
He didn’t teach me how to drive, or talk to me about boys, or try to get me to care about sports, or anything else that TV and movies make you think fathers are supposed to do.
He paid the bills, I guess, but not without Mom’s help, and now that he’s no longer in the same house as us, it seems like he doesn’t want to take any responsibility for me at all.
It’s hard not to wonder why. Sometimes, he feels like another iteration of Marjorie and the others. Someone else who didn’t think I was worth much of anything.
Theo’s mouth dips down on one side. “I think you’re allowed to feel whatever you need to feel about this situation.” When his knee bumps mine again, it stays there. “Because this all royally blows.”
His words are validating. “It really does.” I bite my lip for a second, and wonder if it is not my place to pry. But then I remember that I’ve kissed this boy multiple times. Whatever we are, it comes with prying privileges, doesn’t it? “How about your dad?” I ask.
Theo gives me a confused look.
“Did you finish your video?”
He waves a hand, as if to bat the question away. “We’ll get to it.”
I turn on the seat so I can sit with my legs crisscrossed. He gently takes my ankle and pulls one leg across his lap. Then he starts to tie and untie my shoelace. “Have you told him? Like really told him, what you want to do?”
“He knows.”
“Does he?”
Theo’s frown tips deep like a waterfall. It makes him look so melancholy that it hurts my heart. “He has been raising two kids by himself for over half a decade. I don’t need to make things harder for him by being difficult.”
I rest my hands over his so he has to stop fiddling with my shoelace. It forces his eyes to my face. “I’m not sure that pushing for the future you want is being difficult,” I say carefully.
He shakes his head, and the movement makes me itch to catch all that wavy hair in my fingers. “It’ll be fine.”
“Theo—”
He stands, and my leg drops off the cushion. “Can we talk about something else?” The strain in his voice plucks at my insides.
Thankfully, his dad answers that question for us by trudging into the kitchen from the backyard. He nods at me. “Amity.”
I wave.
As he turns to Theo, Mr. Hargrave digs his hand into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. “You kids need money for dinner?” He holds out at least three twenties to Theo.
Theo pushes his dad’s hand gently away. “We both have jobs. We’re good.” He flourishes his hands toward the oven like his father just won the appliance in a game show. “Plus, I’m cooking dinner.”
“Frozen pizza?” his dad asks.
“My specialty.” Theo takes a bow, then glances over at me. “I know it doesn’t sound like much, but I know how to jazz them up so they taste way better.”
His dad ruffles his hair. It’s easy in this moment, without the stress of all the renovation at my house, to see how much this man loves his son.
It only makes me more certain that he would listen if Theo really tried to talk to him.
“He’s not kidding. His frozen pizzas are better than half the fresh ones around here. ”
He tells us he’s grabbing his bowling jersey and then he’ll be out of our hair. I notice as he leaves that the sixty dollars is sitting on the counter.
When the pizza’s ready, we head up to Theo’s room. It’s the first one at the top of the stairs, and I hover in the doorway while he sets down the food on his desk.
I can’t help but think about what going into his room means. Especially when we’re alone in his house. Does he expect that something is going to happen? What if I’m not ready for that?
Those worries fade a little when he waves me in and leaves the door to the room wide open.
He has his bed horizontal to the TV. “It’s so much more comfortable to watch this way.” He demonstrates by sitting up with his back against the wall. I decide not to point out that the headboard would have the same effect.
There are books stacked all over the place—some about graphic design, others about paranormal activity, but most of them are sword-and-sorcery fantasy or horror novels.
His desk is covered in devices I assume are for ghost hunting, and on the nightstand that sits at the foot of his bed is a model version of a 1967 Impala.
The exact car from the show Supernatural.
I point to it. “Is Supernatural as fictional as Ghostbusters?!”
“Yeah, but it is a hell of a lot closer to the truth.” He turns on the TV and cues up an episode. “I’ll show you.”
We settle in on the bed with our backs to the wall and pizza slices on plates in our laps.
I discover as I take a bite that his dad was not exaggerating. “What kind of magic did you cast on this?” I mumble.
The pride in his face makes him look five years younger, like a little kid who got an A on their test. “You’ve got to let the pizza defrost first. Then you heat it at a higher temp. Plus I add fresh toppings and a bit of olive oil and Parmesan to the crust.”
I take another bite and have to suppress an actual moan.
It would never occur to me to take something that is seemingly already done and improve upon it.
It’s a reminder that everything is not black and white.
There are always shades of gray. A frozen pizza can be made to be fresher.
Maybe my house isn’t simply haunted or not haunted.
After finishing a piece, I set my plate down and look at him. “I’ve been reading back over Mercy’s diaries when I have some free time at work.”
“Oh?” He arches a thick eyebrow.
“I think things happened a little differently than your theory.”
He takes a big bite of his slice. “What do you mean?”