I would never hurt him like my mother did. If his heart felt an airless reaching like mine, then how could I even think about leaving? I was determined to be the opposite of my mother in every way. It's what drove me to shake off all my silly fantasies and focus. My biggest worry was hurting my father someday, and he was too good a man to deserve that.
So, I refolded my section of the newspaper and studied the articles. Some journalists used creative leads while most stuck to single-item or summary leads.
The newsprint blurred and I was back on campus under the full moon. Ford's gray eyes caught the silvery light and twinkled. The air was chilly and dried leaves crumpled underneath our feet. I felt safe, the ramrod straight set of his back telling me I was his responsibility. Except when he looked my way and a wildly charged current leapt between us.
"Just imagining things," I muttered.
"What was that, darling?" My father looked up from the Arts & Style section again.
"Did you want one of those pears? They're ripe; I checked earlier," I said.
He gave me a quizzical smile, then shook his head and returned to his reading. I forced my eyes back over the headlines and tried to find the trick I needed to write my own grabbers.
Not touching, but aware of every breath, shift, and accelerating heartbeat.
I jumped up from the table and went to butter my piece of toast. On the way back to the table, I slipped a blank grocery list page under my plate along with a pen. There had to be some way to express the distance and absorption I felt all at the same time when I was near Ford.
"Working on an article?" My father asked. "I remember when you used to sit here and write fairy tales. I was forever helping you spell words like 'enchantment' and 'dastardly.' Bet you don't use those words enough now that you're all grown up."
"No one uses the word 'dastardly' anymore. Unless, for some reason, you're describing pirates," I pointed out.
My father chuckled. "If anyone could, it'd be you. You're so much more creative than you're letting yourself be, Clarity."
I groaned. "I thought you were supposed to save the lectures for after coffee."
"No lecture, just an observation," he said.
I folded up the scrap of paper and shoved it in my back pocket. "Well, here's an observation: I've got a great opportunity for an internship at Wire Communications and you promised to help me with the application, but you haven't even picked it up yet." I pointed to the neat folder I had placed on the edge of the kitchen island.
My father glanced at it and gave me a pained look. "Why do you want to work there?"
"First off, it's just an internship. And, secondly, it's just an internship at one of the largest media outlets in the Midwest." I dropped my hands to the table in exasperation.
"You don't have to worry about internships yet, Clarity. It's not even Thanksgiving break. Actually, though, we need to talk about Thanksgiving," he said. My father folded his paper smoothly and laid it aside.
I held up a hand. "No. No talking about the holiday until you promise you will help me with this application. I need to pick the perfect cover letter, the best examples of my writing, and recommendations. And I don't want to wait until after break because everyone else will. I want to stand out and show them I'm dedicated. Besides, we never do anything for Thanksgiving."
"That's what I want to talk to you about," my father reached for my hands. "We've been remiss with our holidays the last few years."
"I don't mind. I'm not a child anymore," I reminded him.
He squeezed my fingers. "Even more reason for us to take the time to celebrate. You need to let yourself be a kid again, even if it's just during the holidays. You're much too serious, Clarity."
I narrowed my eyes but knew I would never win this fight. We had it almost every day. My father thought I was too serious, too focused, and that I was going to miss out on my life. I thought he was sentimental and pinning his abandoned desire to paint on me. We'd go ten rounds about what we each thought the other should do, and then let it blow over until the next day.
"How about we make a deal?" I asked.
My father let go of my fingers and steepled his hands together. "Ah, a deal. Does it include you finding a creative outlet and letting a little more balance into your life?"
I swatted at him even as I thought about the scrap of paper in my back pocket. "Nice try, but we're skipping the lecture today and going straight to negotiations."
He laughed and sat back to cross his arms and give me a regal stare. It didn't quite work with the remainder of his red hair still fuzzy from sleep and his bathrobe tight over his belly. "Fine, I'm listening."
I grinned. "I will help you cook a full Thanksgiving meal, decorate the house from autumn leaf garlands down to a cornucopia centerpiece, if you help me complete my entire application for Wire Communications."
"Turkey, stuffing, gravy, the whole works?" he asked.
"Even acorn squash with nutmeg," I promised.
My father's eyes twinkled. "Throw in one original poem and it's a deal."
"No poem, no short story, just the entire Thanksgiving experience."
"Fine. Deal." My father stuck out his hand and we shook on it. "Now what's this about a short story."
"Dad!" I laughed but shifted so I could feel the folded paper in my back pocket again.
#
The armchair was half-hidden behind the archive stacks in the basement of the library. Above it was a porthole window, a trace of the old building before the new addition. That was why the tiny alcove was an anomaly in the architecture and the perfect place to curl up and work on my secret project.
The scrap of paper was now taped on the inside of a spiral bound notebook. Page after page was crossed with a slashing X as I had written and rewritten the beginning about eighteen times. I wanted it to be perfect.
Each word felt like a tiny puzzle piece that had to be turned and fitted precisely. I loved agonizing over them and watching beautiful sentences form.
The best feeling, though, came from the moments when the pen took off and I filled half a dozen pages with inspiration. My mind soared and I felt the smile on my lips even though I was all alone.
Every time my phone beeped to remind me of the time, I felt like I was coming down from a great height. Gravity was heavier as I trudged up the stairs and crossed the courtyard that joined the library with Thompson Hall. It was my new routine to work on my secret project until it was time for Ford's class. If it had been any other class, I would have skipped it and stayed in my little library alcove, scribbling away forever.
No one knew where I disappeared to, and that was part of the thrill. I hadn't told anyone, not even Jasmine or Lexi, and I certainly was not going to please my father with news of my creative endeavor. If he knew I was writing a short story, he would yell it from the rooftops.
"Did you find that link I sent you about traditional story structures?" Ford asked as I walked into the lecture hall.
"Yes, thank you! Kurt Vonnegut sums it up so well. I loved how he described the shape of stories. Especially Cinderella," I said.
Ford smiled, and for a moment I forgot about the multiple levels of students behind me. There was only his stubbled grin, and the crinkled lines of it around his smoky gray eyes. The man had black lashes that could ensnare me.