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Which I like. Well, I should like it.
But every time I hang a dress in the empty closet, I feel a twinge of something I can't place.
I can see my clothes here.
I can see myself studying at this desk.
I can see myself waking up next to him.
That's not in the cards. But it's a nice image anyway.
For a while, I let myself fall into fantasies of a life we could have. Talking all night, sleeping arm in arm, waking up together, fixing each other breakfast, kissing goodbye on our way out the door.
It wouldn't be like it was with other guys.
I'd trust him to give me space.
To listen.
To cook me dinner.
I've never had that before. I've never had someone take care of me.
When I was a kid, yes, my parents did their best. But their best wasn't enough.
Dad was on the road a lot. Mom worked a million hours. They had help, a nanny and a housekeeper who took great care of us, not that I remember much about her besides her tendency to run Spanish and English together and the smell of cinnamon.
She always made coffee with cinnamon.
When Dad stopped touring, he started spending more time at home. He went from never being around to always being around to, one day, not being around anymore.
I know what happened now. How he let his doctor talk him into taking painkillers after a surgery. He thought he was recovered enough for it.
He wasn't.
After that, my parents were different. Even though Dad went to rehab, came back stronger, stayed sober for the next two decades, even though he's sober now.
They started to look for the signs of addiction in us. They started to look carefully at Damon and me. He rebelled. I got in line.
Straight As, track and field, clean room, no needs. Because that year Dad was struggling and all those years Damon was struggling after—
No one ever saidDaphne, thank goodness, you're so easy, thank goodness, you're not as difficult as your brother, because if you were, I'd fall apart.
But it was in the air anyway. I couldn't ask more of Mom. She was trying to juggle work as a doctor with a husband and son who struggled with addiction. And Dad wasn't there to help.
And even when he was—
I love my father. I do. We're close now. I understand now.
But I'll never trust him the way I did when I was a little girl.
I guess that's normal. A part of growing up. Don't most girls see their dad as their knight in shining armor?
At some point, we realize our parents are human beings with flaws and foibles.
My point just came a little earlier.
Back then, I wasn't old enough to understand what was going on or why I felt drawn to Jackson. I wasn't even old enough to want him, really. It was a different sort of attraction. Based not on his strong jaw or his muscular frame but on some essence of his personality.
