Page 58

Twenty

“Yourdadaskedmeout on a date,” I say as I roll a line of deep-blue paint onto the wall.

“And?” Wren dips her roller in the pan then drags a diagonal line across the wall.

“And I said yes.” My mouth goes dry. “Because he’s so ugly I figured I’d take one for the team.”

She rolls her eyes. “Right.”

“And,” I continue, recalling my conversation with June and the plan that followed, “first, I wanted to know if that bothers you. Someone like me going on a date with him?”

“You’re asking my opinion?” she asks, dumbfounded. “Why?”

“Duh. You’re his kid. You’re part of this whole weird thing. And, I’m not a poet, but I want to, I don’t know, make sure you won’t be mad or lash out or something. I’m not trying to be your mom or anything—not that I should be anyone’s mom, right?” I laugh; she doesn’t. “I just want to make sure you’re good with it.”

“I’m not going to cut myself because you go out with my dad,” she says.

I give her a look. “Not funny. But, I don’t know, you’ve had a lot of stuff happen. I just—I don’t want to be another thing, you know?”

Her roller stills on the wall, and she looks at me, unreadable expression on her face making this feel more . . . more. Nobody around me ever asked how their actions made me feel. My dad never consulted me before he went apeshit then AWOL; Glory never asked how I felt about her downing a six-pack then disappearing all night; Zeb sure as shit never got my opinion on the pills he dumped down his throat and snorted up his nose. Everyone always just did whatever they wanted, letting me deal with the leftovers like a picked-over dinner party in hell.

“All I’m saying is that I don’t want you to look back and think about me going out on a date with your dad and it be something bad. Like you-you—I don’t know, you’d rather he-he—” I’m stuttering like June under pressure, and I want to pound my head against the wall.

Wren puts me out of my misery. “Scotty, I don’t mind,” she says with a small smile. “I think you’d be good for him.”

“Yeah?” I ask, relieved.

She smiles fully, resuming the movement of her roller. “You think I want a dad that’s married to birds? You’re, like, a full step up.” She flicks her eyes to mine. “Plus, a kid would maybe be lucky to have you as a mom.” I still, mid-dunk of my roller in thepan, looking at her. When she notices: “You know, if they were desperate.”

I laugh softly, ignoring the weird flippity-floppity feeling in my belly. “Aside from you basically calling me mommy-of-the-year material,” I tease, “I know you don’t want your dad to know about what’s going on, but the truth is, even though I don’t have a fu—” Her dark eyelinered eyes narrow. “—nnel of knowledge of how to deal with a kid, not telling him is even screwing with my less-than-moral compass.”

She nods, resigned look on her face as she sweeps another blue streak across the wall.

“I want you to go to therapy.”

Her head snaps to me, eyes wide. “What? No, Scotty. Please.”

“Yes.” It was June’s idea. Actually, June’s idea was to tell Ford right away, but when I explained why I couldn’t, she said I needed someone more equipped. “I looked it up. I can take you without being your guardian. I made an appointment for next week at a place over in Rocky Ridge. Nobody should recognize us.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You do,” I say, dragging my roller across the wall. “We can tell your dad.”

She lets out an ugh-like groan.

“Fine.” She sloshes the paint around the pan too aggressively with her roller, making it splash over the edge and onto the acrostic-poem-covered floor. She looks at me, like she’s daring me to say something; I look right back, daring her to tempt me.

I put my roller down and grab a gift bag, offering it to her.

She sets her roller in the pan and wordlessly takes it, pulling out a bag of rubber bands, a fidget spinner, and a journal. Her eyes lift to mine.

“I read these might help,” I explain. “The rubber bands are for your wrist; you snap it when you get the urge to . . . When you hurt. It helps, I guess. I read. The rest are self-explanatory.” I bat my tongue around my mouth, uncharacteristically uncomfortable as her eyes go from me to the things.

She opens the bag of rubber bands, pulling out two before setting everything else to the side. She offers me one.

My eyes narrow.

“For when you hurt.”