6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Summer
I look at the time on my computer screen. It’s nine o’clock at night. Chloe left four hours ago—I think. It’s hard to know for sure when time has blended together over the past couple of days.
Dad said he would be home for dinner earlier but given how he stormed into the house and left without a single word, I had a feeling that ship had long sailed.
I should feel more upset than I actually am. If being honest with myself, I’m hardly upset. I’m actually quite thankful Dad hasn’t come back home. Not that I don’t want to spend time with him or catch up. But I need time to myself.
A heavy weight of fear and sadness are mingling in my body. Fear of upsetting Dad about dropping out of college, and sadness because I miss Mom. Everything feels empty. I feel empty.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and blow out slowly. My heart starts fluttering because all I can see behind my closed eyes is a very attractive singer with gorgeous gray eyes staring back at me.
The last thing I should be doing is thinking about a guy. Not when I have a million things I need to do. At least, it feels like a million. Mom’s funeral, figuring out my career path, heal. But for some reason, what little conversation Alec and I had keeps whirling through my mind.
He didn’t ask for details about my mother’s death or why I was sitting alone on a bench. Not once did he mention how red my eyes were, and I know they were as red as a sunburn because I pulled up the camera on my phone and flipped it so I could look at myself when he left. The only thing he did was try to comfort me and make me laugh. He made me forget.
He made me feel normal.
It’s bizarre looking back at my life. I know I had a good, normal life. But I can’t shake the feeling inside of me that my life was actually a lie. And I can’t pinpoint why I feel this way.
I shuffle to my bed, hoping that even just a little bit of sleep will help clear my head. When I pull my covers to my shoulders, I think about Mom and what it truly feels like to lose here.
Honestly, it just feels like she’s at work or the grocery store. That she has only left for a short time, like she always did. It feels like she’ll walk in the front door at any moment with a pile of mail or her hands full of plastic bags stuffed with this week’s dinners. But that isn’t the case. She’s gone, and I’ll never see her smile again. I’ll never see her eyes light up when she notices me. I’ll never be able to go to her for advice or feel her hugs. I can’t ask her what I am doing wrong.
The more I remind myself of this, the harder her death sinks in. The tears begin falling, soaking my face, my pillow, my shirt. They don’t stop; I can’t get them to stop. Not until my eyes slowly drift closed, and I fall into a deep sleep.
***
My eyes flutter open, quickly followed by a yawn. Strands of hair stick to my cheeks from the tears I shed before falling asleep. Or is that drool? I can’t tell. I pull the hair off my cheeks and roll onto my back, watching the ceiling fan spin around and around.
Loud grumbles come from my stomach, vibrating my arm that lays flat across it. I wasn’t very hungry last night. Although, I did browse through the refrigerator, only to find it relatively empty.
That doesn’t surprise me. Mom was always the one who did the shopping.
I stay in bed a little longer, not having much energy to get up. For some reason, all I think about is what time Dad came home last night. Or did he?
Finally, I force myself out of bed, gather clean clothes, and go take a hot shower. Once I’m finished, I brush my teeth and throw on a little bit of mascara before I head downstairs. I pause halfway down the stairs when the smell of pancakes hits my nostrils.
With a smile, I hurry down the rest of the stairs to find Dad at the stove, attempting to make pancakes. Going by the plate off to the side, full of odd-shaped pancakes—some completely crumbled—he’s failing at the making part.
I walk into the kitchen, stopping at his side. “What’s this?” I ask even though it’s obvious.
“Pancakes. They aren’t anything like your mother’s.” He doesn’t look at me. I frown, allowing silence to take over before he continues, “I know I promised dinner. Unfortunately, I was stuck at the office longer than anticipated. You were asleep when I got home, so I figured I would make you something to eat this morning to make up for it.”
Stuck at work, right.
I want to ask him why he stormed angrily into the house yesterday during his shift. But I don't. Instead, I look back at the plate of sloppy pancakes and bite back a laugh. They look horribly unpleasant, but the gesture is still heartwarming.
With a small smile, I say, “Thanks, Dad.”
I give him a much-needed hug, but my eyes narrow at how his body stiffens, wondering if I have done something wrong. The long breath he releases wipes that thought away, when his body relaxes.
He turns and places a small kiss on the top of my head. “I’ll make you a plate.”
I nod, blowing out a breath myself. “Thank you.”
The kitchen chair scrapes lightly against the tile floor as I pull it out and take a seat. Dad brings over a plate of pancakes, topped with strawberries and whipped cream. The way Mom would always make them. My heart is heavy once again wishing she was here.
Dad takes a seat across from me and shoves a bite into his mouth. I do the same, taking a smaller bite. A few chews later, I make a face.
“Dad… these are the worst pancakes I’ve ever had.”
He chuckles deeply, showing the small wrinkles around his mouth. “Yeah. They sure are.”
He picks up a napkin on the side of his plate and wipes the crumbs off his mouth before standing up and reaching into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. My heart falls into my stomach as I watch him slide a twenty-dollar bill across the table.
“I have to head to work. Grab yourself something to eat.”
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I nod with a smile of appreciation. Except, that’s not how I feel. Accepting this twenty only leaves me feeling useless. But I don’t have much of a choice right now, seeing as there aren’t many options in the cabinets or fridge for me to eat, and I don’t have a job.
Dad cleans his plate. “I’ll see you later. How does pizza sound?”
I smile for real this time. “Pizza sounds amazing.”
“Great,” he says, then heads toward the front door. I call out to stop him before he leaves.
“What time are you getting out of work?”
His eyes drift into the living room, looking at the grandfather clock and then back at me. “Around six.”
My lips press together. “I’ll see you then.”
He nods before turning around and closing the door softly.
And just like that, I’m left all alone again.