Page 31 of Room to Breathe

I ignored it with everything in me. “I’ve heard nothing about Thanksgiving. I’m guessing my mom isn’t hosting anything. Going to yours would be easier.” Normally we had my aunt, her husband, and their three kids over. They lived a couple of hours away. My mom’s parents had both passed about five years ago. And my dad’s parents lived all the way on the other side of the country near my dad’s sister. We rarely saw them.

“Easier for you, maybe,” he said with a laugh.

“Is your grandpa coming?”

“He sure is.”

I cringed. “Yeah, maybe I won’t be passing that message on to my mom. Your grandpa scares me.”

“You’d rather be alone with your parents, who are being weird?” he asked.

“You make a good point,” I said.

“So theyarestill being weird?”

“Yes.” Whispered conversations. Tense standoffs. I knew it wasn’t nothing.

“Wait, that car you were telling me about? You think the two are related?”

“I don’t know.” I hadn’t seen the car for a few days. So it probably was just someone visiting family. Or they saw me staring and realized I was onto them, so they were being more careful. I wasn’t onto anything. I had no idea why they’d hang out there. “Maybe. Probably not.”

“Sorry,” he said.

I shrugged. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Let me know when you’ve cracked the case.”

Chapter 13

Now

I was back on theground, lying on my hoodie, the binder propped on my knees as I stared at the blank page in front of me. A character letter about my dad wasn’t as easy as my mom had made it seem when she asked me to write this.

“A character letter?” I’d said. “What does that even mean?”

“Just a nice letter about your dad. Something we can give his lawyer to pass on to the court. A memory or something.”

“A memory?”

“Something that makes him seem more…” She trailed off.

“Personable?” I asked.

She narrowed her eyes. “Relatable,” she said. “A father. A dad.”

Why was I having a hard time? It wasn’t that I didn’t have positive memories of him—he was a really good dad. But I couldn’t seem to conjure up the good feelings that went with them. And I knew that my feelings were supposed to play a part in this letter. Probably the most important part.

A memory.

We’d gone to the zoo a couple of times when I was a kid. He made funny voices at the monkeys. Was that relatable enough? Sometimes he’d read to me before bed. That act was sure to erase any negative opinions anyone might have about him, I thought sarcastically.

One of Beau’s AirPods was in my right ear. I hadn’t been listening to the music too carefully—I was trying to think—but something in my subconscious kicked in, because I realized this was the third song in a row from the playlist I’d made him months ago.

It was like he’d been waiting for me to notice, because the second I looked over the top of the binder at him, he met my eyes. He had the book open in his lap.

“It’s good music,” he said.

“It is.” Which reminded me. “How is Brady?”