Chapter 6 #3
The lie tenses my shoulders. I can’t tell him the real reason. That I’m looking for a boy who might be a god. He wouldn’t believe me. I don’t even believe myself.
Dad scratches his rust-colored beard. His blue-green eyes run over me. There’s something skeptical in his stare.
“You came to see me?”
I nod with as much confidence as I can manage.
He grins. “Want to have breakfast?” He holds up the bag, shaking it. “Tacos! I have extras. Tabasco sauce too.”
My laugh surprises me. It’s deep and fond. Dad’s not a fan of spicy things. But, out of habit, he always grabs handfuls of hot sauce packets. In case Mom or I are around.
Even though, lately, I never am.
Guilt roils in my belly. I follow him to a nearby wall that’s a couple of feet off the ground. A massive Moreton Bay fig tree is planted on a raised bed, surrounded by smooth stone. The tree’s limbs stretch wildly in all directions. Roots poke up from the soil like thick serpents.
Dad passes me a soft-shell chicken taco.
“You look tired.”
I point to the heavy shadows under his eyes, his fair skin paler than usual. “Look who’s talking.”
“I’m supposed to be exhausted. I’m a working adult.”
“So am I,” I say through a bite.
“You’re barely eighteen.”
“Which is, legally, an adult in the state of California,” I remind him.
He fans a hand between us as I add Tabasco to my taco. The scent alone is too spicy for him. “Did you get the journal I left for you?”
I blink. “That was from you?”
“Um…yeah!” He chuckles. Broken sunlight peeks through the gaps in the tree’s leaves. “Remember all those songs you used to show me? The ones you thought were terrible?”
My chest warms like the earth under a cloudless sky. Shyly, I say, “Because they were, Dad.”
“They weren’t that bad.” He chews with a thoughtful expression. “I mean, you were fourteen, Auggie. Who writes great songs that young?”
“Stevie Wonder. Adele,” I list. “Taylor Swift.”
“Nobodies!”
He laughs again. A deep rising bass note that sends birds soaring. I don’t bother fighting the smile that inches up my mouth.
Dad opens his second taco. “Thought a new journal would give you inspiration. If you want to apply to UCSB’s music department, you need some fresh material to show them. Fall quarter applications are due by the end of November.”
I freeze, taco halfway to my mouth. “Dad.”
“You still plan to study music, right? UCSB has—”
“Dad, no,” I snap. My throat is tight as a fist. “I can’t.”
Disappointment carves its way through his furrowed brows, the hard line of his mouth. “Auggie, we had a deal. We agreed to a gap year. Take a breath and get a fresh perspective. Figure out your next steps.”
“And I am,” I argue, all my will keeping the tremble out of my voice. “But I can’t go to UCSB.”
“It’s a great university,” he says. “Your dream school.”
Our dream school, I want to yell.
The frustration licks hotly against my skin. I crumple up the unfinished taco. My hunger is gone.
Dad pulls a hand through his swoopy hair. It sticks up at weird angles. “Auggie,” he strains, his patience thinning. “You can’t put your life on pause forever. You have to stop giving up on yourself.”
“I’m not giving up,” I say, unconvincing.
“This isn’t the life you planned.”
He’s right. Because London planned it all out. From the applications to what classes we should take as freshmen to which dorm we’d live in. Everything. Now I can’t imagine stepping one foot on that campus. I’m not even sure where to start if I did.
Life and death don’t care about the plans you make. How detailed and organized they are. Most times, the future looks nothing like you imagined.
I wish I didn’t learn that so young.
“Plans change,” I whisper.
Dad’s smartwatch lights up. “I have to finish my shift.” He gathers our trash. Before he stands, he pushes my curls off my brow. Tips my head back until our eyes meet.
“I’m sorry this is hard for you,” he says, gentle and sincere. “But I’ll never stop wanting the best for you.”
He kisses the top of my head. Like he did when I was just a kid. On those days when I couldn’t get out of bed because the pain of grief was too heavy.
“I love you, Auggie.”
He disappears into the hospital before I finally say, “I love you too.”
I stay behind for a beat. I know what’s on the other side of those automatic doors: Memories. Cold rooms filled with loud machines. Sterile beds where bodies once were. A torrent of grief ready to knock me off my feet like a flood.
But I might find something else—the ferrier of souls.
My hands grip the hem of my shirt. How many times has Cary been here? Escorted someone’s soul away? Left behind a loved one to cry over a cold body? How many times has that cruel, hardened face been the one to guide someone to whatever happens after we die?
I need answers.
I need to see London.
In the distance, sirens approach. Their wail is a warning. Death is coming closer.
I can do this, I tell myself.
My pulse knocks hard under my jaw. All I have to do is take one step. Then another.
Before I can, from behind me I hear, in a taut, familiar, annoyed voice:
“Looking for me?”