No new notifications.
This shouldn’t surprise me. Why would Matt wake up and send me a text on this random Sunday after nothing but weeks of radio silence?
I spend hours every day trying to find the right words to say, staring at the keyboard on my phone, but I can never find them. I want to explain to him why I did what I did, but I just… can’t. How can I give him an explanation when I can’t even give myself one?
This is one breakup I don’t know how to fix. Especially because he was always the one who found a way to fix things before, whether it was showing up at my doorstep with flowers or pulling me aside to talk in between classes.
I don’t know how to fix this on my own. And, maybe, there’s some small part of me that doesn’t want to.
I burrow down into the couch as the guilt swims over me, washing that thought away, the move making this additional betrayal of my mom’s wishes feel just that much worse.
“Hey!” my dad’s voice thunders unexpectedly from the kitchen, nearly giving me a heart attack.
He is usually working overtime by the time I get up on Sunday. I wasn’t expecting to see him until our weekly Hank’s date, gorging ourselves on their Sunday Special.
And… I definitely wasn’t expecting to see him in this.
It takes me a second to fully process what I’m seeing.
“Where’d you get the new outfit?” I ask, and he cranes his neck to look down at himself, a smirk playing on his lips.
My dad, the six-three, pickup-truck-driving, thick-beard, arm-full-of-tattoos guy, is standing in the kitchen wearing an ancient pink flowery apron. An ancient, pink, flowery apron I remember my grandma wearing. But never quite like… this.
I try to shake my head at him, but I am laughing so hard, I can barely breathe. Before he can protest, I hold up my phone and snap a picture, wiping away the laugh-tears with the back of my hand. “I can see the caption now. ‘Who wore it best?’ ”
“I spent my morning slaving away making pancakes, and you’re going to fart around on your phone instead of eating them with me?” He points a butter knife at the stack already sitting on the kitchen table with a defensively dignified look.
He’s got a point.
I push myself off the couch and pocket my phone, the smell of the pancakes pulling me across the room and into the kitchen. “I thought you’d already left for work!”
“Sitting there texting… didn’t even compliment my new apron…,” he grumbles as I slide into one of the kitchen chairs, an empty white plate resting in front of me. When his back is turned, I pull the list out of my pocket and unfold it, putting it carefully on the table next to me, hoping either he sees it and says something, or that I’m bold enough to just ask about it.
I feel my heart hammering in my chest. I know it’s hard for him to talk about her. I know it’s hard for us to talk about her.
But if he can move out of this house and get rid of her stuff, and pretend going to bingo night isn’t a big deal, then he should be able to at least do this.
I force a huge grin as he spins back around, syrup and butter clutched in his hands. I use my fork to get a pancake from the top of the mound as he sits, scooting his chair into the table. “You’re killing it, Dad. The apron really brings out your eyes.”
“I thought the exact same thing!” he says, laughing.
“You staying late tonight?” I ask as I cover my pancakes in a layer of syrup before handing the bottle over to him.
“Yeah,” he confirms as he takes it from me, slowly swirling the syrup onto his plate. “You know how it is with weekends… fewer guys… double the pay.”
“So, no Hank’s?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
He nods, looking sorry. “No Hank’s.”
“But we’ve got pancakes!” I say quickly. I hate making him feel guilty.
He smiles and holds up a forkful. “We do have pancakes.”
Then… his eyes follow mine down to the table where the crinkled piece of paper sits. Am I going to pass out? Maybe.
He raises his thick eyebrows as he points in its direction. “What’ve you got there?”
I swallow my mouthful of pancakes and cautiously pick it up. “I found this yesterday. When I was cleaning out the closet.”
I hold it out to him, and he reaches for it, nodding as his eyes run down the piece of paper, his expression unreadable. I stay silent, waiting for him to talk. “Yeah. I remember this.”
“You do?” I ask, trying not to appear too excited. I know by now that I’m definitely walking on eggshells. He’d do anything to get out of a conversation about Mom, and I usually would too. But I can’t now. Not this time. “Did you, uh…?” My voice trails off, and I have to force the words out. “Did you help her with it?”
He smiles faintly. “Yeah. Me and Johnny both did. Nina for one or two, but she was away at that camp for most of the summer. I even came up with a couple of them. We went on a day trip to the beach and rode on roller coasters until she wasn’t afraid of the drop. A whole bunch of stuff.”
My eyes land on number twelve: “Kiss J. C.,” and I give my dad a big grin. “Plus, number twelve certainly worked out well for you. Did you come up with that one?”
He snorts, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, right.”
I see his face change the longer he looks at it, his eyebrows furrowing,
