Page 39 of Pretty Savage: Defy

“Do you mean it?” I ask, clasping my hands together. I’m already picturing it. Carrson and me out on the open road. Motels and gas stations. Deliberately making wrong turns so no one can find us.

“We’ll leave right after this,” he answers. “That way you can see your dad. Explain what’s happening so he doesn’t worry. I—”

The squeak of the nurse’s shoes stops whatever he was going to say next.

She leads us to the media room, which has three large TVs along one wall and windows on the other. Tables and chairs are scattered around the room, covered with board games, dominoes, a chessboard abandoned mid-game.

My dad sits away from the noise of the TVs, where a couple of patients guffaw over an old episode of Friends. There’s a cup of coffee by his elbow, and he’s dressed in loose athletic pants and a plain gray T-shirt.

The clothes are a relief. I’d expected him to be in a fuzzy robe and slippers. Something worn and defeated. Something that would make him look like a patient before he looked like my father.

“Laurel.” A smile breaks over his face, but it disappears the minute he spots Carrson behind me.

“Dad.” I lean over and kiss his cheek, trying to ignore how thin and papery his skin has become. “I’m so glad to see you.” I make my voice brighter than it feels. “This is Carrson, remember? He helped get you in here.”

My dad, a man so friendly people jokingly referred to him as the unofficial mayor of our small California town, stares at Carrson with a stony expression.

Carrson nods politely. “Good afternoon, Mr. Turner.”

He’s smart enough not to offer his hand.

Dad doesn’t bother to answer. He just glares at Carrson like he’s found a snake coiled at my feet.

I pull a chair close to him. “How are you?”

“Better.” He pats my hand. “I’m completing the steps, but my sponsor says not to rush them. That it’s more important to sit in the uncomfortable feelings, to let them process.”

Sponsor.

Where had I heard that recently?

“How about you? How’s college?” Dad continues. “I got the letters you sent. So many of them.” His smile falters. “Sorry I didn’t write back. I couldn’t. Not until I had happier things to tell you.”

“It’s okay,” I reassure him. “I’m just glad you’re making progress.”

I mean what I say. Dad does look better. His light blue eyes are more alert. Dark blond hair neatly combed. His skin is brighter, his cheeks more filled out than the last time I saw him.

“School’s good,” I answer his question. “Straight A’s.” I say it with a note of pride and leave out the part where those grades feel like a minor miracle. Most kids spend freshman year figuring out laundry, dining halls, and how to survive an eight a.m. class. I spent mine trying to survive Samantha’s hands around my neck, Jackson leering at me, and the deeply inconvenient problem of falling in love with Carrson.

Carrson.

I still haven’t told him I love him. There’s never been the right time, or maybe I’ve been waiting for a moment when saying it wouldn’t feel like handing fate one more weapon.

“Dad.” I hesitate. “I have a question for you.”

Fabric shifts as Carrson moves closer, curious too, although he hasn’t asked what prompted this visit. Not through all those miles or during any of our conversations. I kept waiting for him to bring it up. When he didn’t, it left me wondering if it was because he trusts me, or if he simply knew that with enough patience the answer would reveal itself.

I should learn that from him. Patience. Unfortunately, curiosity has always been the part of me least interested in survival. Once a question gets under my skin, I pick at it like a scab, not stopping even when the answer makes me bleed.

“Why did you bring us to Ashfordville this past summer?” I ask. “Why there, of all places?”

Dad rubs a finger over his thumbnail, already bitten short and jagged. “You were getting rejected from all those schools. The ones that had let you in before wouldn’t take you when your grades tanked after…” He trails off, his eyes darting over my shoulder to Carrson, like he’s not sure how much he’s allowed to say.

“It’s okay.” I lean forward and put my hand on Dad’s knee. “Carrson knows.”

I expect that to soothe him, but it only makes his mouth turn down unhappily. “I didn’t want you to lose out on your dreams. Especially when it wasn’t your fault things went bad.” He covers my hand with his, holding it against his knee. Then he lowers his voice, glancing at Carrson like he doesn’t want him to hear this next part. Like it’s a secret. “I knew some people at Ashford University. Had some old connections there. I called them about you. Asked for a favor.”

“Oh, you mean from being a principal? In California?” I search my memory, trying to find a mention of Ashfordville, some passing comment, an old college friend maybe, but there’s nothing. “That’s how you knew them?”