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“How’d you injure your leg?” I asked.
“It was a knee replacement,” he said. “Arthritis.” There was a pause before he dropped his next question. “I heard you were shot.”
I kept my face impassive, though warning bells were sounding loudly in my ears.
“How’d you hear?” I demanded.
“I was notified,” he answered easily. And there it was. He really didn’t care enough to keep tabs on me. The Army had told him. There wasn’t any emotion involved on either end, just an information dump.
“What are you doing here?” was my next question.
He sighed, glancing around the apartment in an effort to stall. “This is a nice place.”
I shrugged. “Landlady wants to have dinner every now and then. And apparently she wants to let everyone know that I’m staying here.”
“Don’t give her a hard time,” Dad said in a low voice. “I’m glad she told me.”
I let that one slide. If he had wanted to reach out, he could have done so at any point over the last eight years. There were times when I had felt alone out there in the desert. I would have welcomed his voice, even with his complaints about what I had chosen to do with my life. But there had been silence, and I had gotten the message loud and clear.
“Look, I don’t have anything to say,” I began, staring into my coffee cup.
“I messed up,” Dad blurted out.
I glanced up, not having expected something so honest.
He shook his head. “When you were growing up. I messed up.”
“I know,” I said, cutting him off. This wasn’t anything new. He had given me the same speech over and over again when I was a teenager. He was worried I wasn’t going anywhere good. He was worried I wouldn’t make anything of myself. He was worried that I wouldn’t live up to whatever impossible standards he set.
Dad looked away, his eyes settling on the couch. “I think I pushed you away.”
I chose not to respond to that, although it was more appealing than the familiar critiques of my character.
“I just want to say that I’m glad you’re back, and if you want a job at the lumberyard, there’s one waiting for you.”
He was offering me a job. I desperately needed something to pay the bills and start saving if I ever wanted to get out of this town again. When I’d left, my dad was working there as a manager. He had encouraged me to apply for a position, hauling logs and sweeping floors. I hadn’t been interested then, and I wasn’t sure if I was interested now. Then again, it seemed more appealing than sitting home alone with my own thoughts.
“You still work at the lumberyard?” I asked, completely ignoring his first statement. If he was really glad to have me back, he was going to have to prove it. One kind remark wasn’t enough to combat eight years of neglect.
“I own it,” Dad answered. “I bought it four years ago. Porter runs it for me, and I’m sure we can find a job that’ll work around your injury.”
I paused. Gina hadn’t mentioned this at all. It was an honest offer. Plenty of rich kids got all the good things in life by working for their parents. I wasn’t interested in a yacht or a Harvard education, but some food in my pantry would be nice. I couldpotentially go to work for my dad, save up enough to get a fresh start, and leave Singer’s Ridge behind for good.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
“Okay.” Dad finished his coffee and stood up. “If you ever want to come by for supper or any other reason, my door’s always open.”
“Same house?” I asked, because there was always the chance that he had moved.
“Same house,” he confirmed. “Go easy on Mrs. Washington.”
I nodded. The last thing I wanted to do was berate an old lady for talking to my dad. It seemed like that was the only way we learned anything about each other—if someone told on me. Whether it was Gina, the Army, or my landlady, other people were conspiring to mend our fences. But it would take more than family, the government, and well-meaning townsfolk to bring Dad and me back together again. I would consider his offer of employment just as a means to an end. I wasn’t going to be stopping by for supper or for any other reason.
He let himself out and shut the door. I sat for a long time, staring at the chair he had been sitting in. For years, I had wondered what our next encounter would be like. Would we fight again? Would he apologize? The reality had been less dramatic than I had expected. Nobody threw anything or raised their voice. It seemed like nothing had been resolved either, and even though we had finally seen each other’s faces, we weren’t any closer than we had been when I was thousands of miles away.
4
ALY
