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Zara’s lips froze shut. She hadn’t gottenfar enough into this plan to figure out what to say. Her brain spunthrough half a dozen possibilities.
Because I drove up to see Dane and tellhim I want to be with him, and I … I fucking love him.And thenDad would start shouting and lock her in her room and probably havesomeone beat the hell out of Dane for good measure.Because I’min love with someone, and he doesn’t love me, and what’s thefucking point?And then Dad would start shouting, lock her inher room, decide she couldn’t be trusted to go to college and sendin a psychiatrist to tell her to stop being a disappointingcrybaby.Because I’m not any good at anything, not evengetting the guy I love to want to be with me.
Fuck.
The tears spilled out before she could findthe best strategy, and she put her hands over her face. “I don’twant to do marketing!” When a beat of silence followed, without asingle shout, she added, “I hate the classes. I’m not good at them,Dad.”
“Christ’s fucking mercy, this is theproblem?” Her father’s exasperation bordered close to amusement,startling her enough to bring her head up. Adam was halfway aroundhis desk and reached her in another step. “All right, enoughwaterworks. Come here.” He pulled her up into a hug, which onlyrestarted the sobbing. Zara didn’t even feel as if she was the onecrying anymore. She was a hapless bystander as her tear ducts tookover her body. “Oh, sweetheart, fine. We’ll find you a nice artprogram. Do you want to come back to that damn design thing yousulked about senior year?”
“N-no.”
“Thank God for small favors.” He kissed herforehead.
“Bradley has studio art.”
“I told you I wanted you to try somethingelse. That’s all! If you were this unhappy, why didn’t you saysomething? Or hell, change the major and tell me at graduation. IfGia isn’t about to pull that stunt, I’ll eat my damnsocks.”
“Because…” she trailed off in ashrug.
“Because you’re the good twin?” He capturedher face with his hands and studied her, lines creasing hisforehead. “I love you, sweetheart. But I worry so goddamn muchabout you.”
“What?” This much affection didn’t seem likea reasonable reaction to some minor hysterics, and some sane chunkof her head sounded a warning bell. “Why?”
“You ask me that? You’re here crying aboutwanting to be an artist. You haven’t even crashed one of the carsor set anything on fire.”
“That would’ve made you angrier.”
“You’re the only one who bothers worryingabout that. Haven’t you noticed?” Adam chuckled, and his heavy armsettled around her shoulders, steering her toward the kitchens.“The others I could drop in a Southside alley with a nail file anda roll of pennies, and they’d scrap their way out one way oranother.”
She blinked, not sure how to take that. “AndI couldn’t?”
“You could. But it would do you more harmthan good. Now, let’s get you some ice cream. I’ll see about a noteto the college, swearing there’s a family emergency. You can take afew more days off. It’ll be good to have you home.”
“You don’t like having any of us home,” Zarasaid with deepening suspicion. He’d led her to the vast, echoingkitchen and pointed her to the breakfast nook, where she watchedhim dig through the freezer across half an acre of granite andhardwood. Fallon followed and sat next to Adam at attention untilhe stopped and tossed her something, which she raced offwith.
“I don’t like havingallof you home.The screaming and caterwauling gets hard to ignore. But, in onesand twos, you’re quite pleasant. If you don’t bring home anotherdog. Ah, here we are. Your favorite.”
“Why are you being nice, Dad?”
“Because I’ve had a fucking nightmare of aweek. Month, really.” He carried over a carton of cookies and creamand two spoons. “You wanting to be a penniless artist ispractically a relief.”
“I can’t be penniless until I spend my trustfund.”
“Which you will do, on canvases and paintsand an ugly gallery you’ll call modern, and then on booze andbroads when you can’t make ends meet.”
“I’m not gay, Dad.”
“Well, you might be eventually. Once youtire of the pussy bastards who go to art galleries.”
“Yougo to art galleries,” Zarareminded him. For all that he acted like she’d found art by someunfortunate accident, he’d been the one to take her to the ArtInstitute nearly every Saturday in elementary. Then their dancelessons got longer, and Saturday afternoons with Dad fell intomemory, save a few scattered day trips here and there through highschool.
“I’ve been a pussy since your mother draggedme to the altar.” He shrugged, chuckling. “Art galleries were theleast of my concessions. And a good place to meet yourstepmothers.”
Zara finally laughed, and he grinned withhis usual devil-may-care expression that simultaneously charmed andterrified people around him. “I missed you,” she said betweenbites.
“I miss you too, kiddo. The others don’t putup with my humor nearly as well.” They ate silently for a fewminutes until his cell phone rang. He scowled at the screen, thenslid it back into his pocket. “Zara…”
She set down her spoon with a sigh. “I knewit. You only bust out ice cream if you’re buttering meup.”
