Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The cool air blows through my hair. I shiver, rubbing my arms.
“Hey, wait up,” Caleb says, following me down the front porch steps. In one swift move, he slides his suit jacket off and drapes it around my shoulders.
“I’m fine. My house is like three feet away.”
He adjusts it, making sure it covers me as much as possible. “It’s too far.”
I chuckle, peering up at him in the moonlight. There’s a strand of hair right above his eyes, trying to break free from his slicked-back style. I reach up to fix it, but it refuses to listen.
As I pull my hand back, Caleb stops it, covering it with his hand. He leads my hand to his face, resting it on his cheek. Then, he looks at me with his deep brown eyes. “I’ve missed this.”
I smile. “Me too.”
Everything else melts away when he looks at me. I’m mesmerized by him—his smile, his laugh, his dimples—I love it all. I don’t know what I did to deserve him, but I want to spend forever making sure he knows how much he means to me.
I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him softly. I can feel his smile against my lips, seconds before he kisses me back. When we break apart, he pulls me into a hug. My head rests on his chest as I listen to the beat of his heart.
“Caleb?” I say.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think I want to go to New York in the fall.”
He steps back, hands on my shoulders, staring me straight in the eyes. “What? Are you crazy?”
I shake my head.
“But that’s your dream,” he says.
“Not really. I wanted to get away from here—to run away from all of my problems. But I don’t think that’s what I want anymore.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want you to regret not going.”
“I’m sure,” I say. “I’m done running.”
His posture relaxes. “Then, what’s your plan after school?”
“I got into the college here too.”
He looks directly at me as if he doesn’t fully believe the words coming out of my mouth. “You want to go to school here?”
“I haven’t told my mom yet, but I’m planning on living at home instead of on campus.”
“Are you for real right now?”
I playfully push his shoulder. “Yes. I’m serious.”
“Your mom is going to lose it when you tell her,” he says with a laugh.
I smile wider. “I know.”
His gaze shies away, blushing. “We’ll only be an hour’s drive apart instead of a plane ride.”
I hate the subtle reminder of his family moving, but he’s right. We’ll be closer this way.
“You better not get tired of me,” I say.
“I could never.”
We lock hands and start walking toward my house. “I’m going to be at every show your band plays.”
“Even if it's packed and loud?”
“Especially then. Do you realize how many girls are going to be drooling over you? I’ll have to scare them off.”
“So in other words, you want to be my bodyguard?” He laughs.
“Someone has to do it.”
We reach my front porch and stall at the bottom of the steps.
Caleb gestures to himself. “You really think you can handle all this, Bec.”
I suck in a breath. “Somehow I think I’ll manage.”
“I’m going to hold you to that,” he says.
“I expect nothing less.”
His dimples pop as he looks at me, and my heart speeds up. He rocks on his heels and sighs. “It’s getting late, so you should probably head in.”
I frown.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“At this point, I think that’s a given.”
He dips down to kiss my forehead. “Goodnight, Becca.”
“Goodnight,” I say. Then, I trudge up the stairs. Pausing at the last step, I turn back. “Your jacket.”
“Keep it. It looks better on you.”
I chuckle. “I’ll give it back tomorrow.”
“Whatever you say, Bec,” he says with a wink.
I bite my lip and walk to the door before I can talk myself out of leaving.
Most of the lights are off in the house but light from the living room seeps into the entryway. Mom sits on the couch, and the glow from the TV bounces off her face. Her eyes are a little swollen and she has a crumpled tissue in her hand.
When she sees me, she smiles, but I can still see her sadness showing through—her loneliness.
“How was the dance?” she asks.
“It was good,” I say, stepping closer.
Her eyes fixate on the jacket wrapped around my arms. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
I nod. “We talked everything out.”
“I’m happy for you,” she says. “I’ve always liked Caleb.”
Guilt pulls at me. I’m happy right now, but she’s miserable. I feel the need to talk to her. To fill the gaps in her loneliness.
“You’re probably tired,” she says. “Why don’t you head to bed?” She’s giving me an out—permission to leave because she knows I hate small talk.
I wander closer, sitting down next to her on the couch. “That’s okay. Do you want to hear more about the dance?”
Her eyes sparkle. “I’d love that.”
Over the next week, I start to paint more like I used to. I don’t have to think about what I’ll paint. Every stroke comes naturally. I create sunsets, oceans, gardens.
But I also start to paint my family again—the memories of our happy times. The smiles. The laughter. The joy. I paint us the way I want to remember us years from now.
The scene I’m working on right now is one of my favorite memories from our last trip to the coast. We were playing volleyball on the beach. We were all pretty bad at it, but it didn’t matter—we were on cloud nine.
There’s a knock at my door.
“Yes?” I say.
The door opens, and I catch my breath.
Dad stands in the doorway. He wears a timid, tired smile, and his head hangs low. But when he looks at me, his eyes are clear, reminiscent of the person I knew months ago.
There’s a stiffness in the air from neither one of us saying anything. I can’t tell if he’s waiting for me to say something, or trying to think of what to say himself.
After a moment, I say, “Are you coming back home?”
His mouth parts like he’s about to talk, but instead he walks in and sits on the corner of my bed. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t have to explain. I know exactly what he’s talking about. He’s apologizing for ignoring me. For blaming me. For drinking. For hurting Caleb.
There’s a part of me that wants to be mad, but more than anything, I just want him back. I miss us.
He takes a deep breath, eyes on the floor as if he’s scared to look directly at me. “I’m going to rehab. I want to be a good father again. I’m not who I want to be right now. I need help.”
The thing about Dad is he’s like me. He has a hard time expressing himself, so the fact that he’s here now, telling me this, means a lot. It warms my heart.
I rest my head on his shoulder and take his hand, giving it a light squeeze. I don’t have to say much because I know that’ll mean more to him than words can say.
I firmly believe one day it’ll be like old times. We’ll be close again. Before we know it, we’ll be watching our silly little movies and laughing again. It’s only a matter of time.
As I hold his hand in mine, another thought creeps into my mind. If Dad is like me, and he can ask for help, maybe I can too. Maybe talking to someone about everything I’ve gone through isn’t a bad idea after all. Maybe it’s time for me to reach out for help.
I’m ready to heal.