“Why?”
“Good career opportunities. Job stability. Nothing too unpredictable.”
For you or her?
Irritation scrapes my throat. I’ve never before questioned Henry’s decisions about raising his daughter. Aside from the fact that it’s none of my business, I’ve never had a reason to. But now Nell is a young woman who should have a say in her own future.
Maybe she does. Maybe this is what she wants.
Somehow, though, I don’t believe it. Can’t.
“I’m glad you’re here.” Henry claps a hand on my shoulder. “Been too long. I’m hoping to get some tickets to a Forty-Niners game. We’ll also have to do some fishing.”
An instinctive regret flashes through me—football? fishing?—before the psychic barrier dissolves and I remember I can go anywhere and do anything. Sometimes it still doesn’t seem real.
“Sounds good.”
After Henry leaves, I sit for a while longer. Every sensation has a heightened edge. The burn of scotch going down my throat. My fingers flexing on the chair arm. The needle scratching on the old vinyl record.
I take our glasses to the kitchen and wash them before heading upstairs to the guest room. After changing into pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, I sit on the bed with my laptop and attempt to work on the first chapter of my book. The publisher had offered me a ghostwriter, but I disliked the idea of handing my story over to someone else. Even if I still don’t want to write it myself.
I hear Nell in the room above me—the scrape of a chair, her footsteps, the rattle of something dropping on the hardwood floor. Evidence of her doing teenaged girl things like brushing her hair and writing in a diary.
Cutting. 911. Institutionalized.
I can’t stand that Henry did that to her, even if I get that he was trying his best to help and protect his daughter. I hate even more that I didn’t know about it. I have no idea what I’d have done but…something.
I stare at the blank document on the screen.
A door upstairs clicks. Nell’s soft footsteps sound on the stairs, pass outside my room, and continue to the first floor.
After a second of hesitation, I set my laptop aside and follow her downstairs. She’s in the kitchen, taking a bowl out of a cupboard. Her hair is loose down her back, and she’s wearing a fuzzy pink robe decorated with little bunches of grapes. She’d once told me that pajamas were her favorite thing to wear.
Did they let her wear fuzzy robes and flowered pajamas in the institution? Or was she forced to wear what they gave her?
My fists tighten involuntarily. Nell turns, startling at the sight of me in the doorway.
“Sorry.” I force my hands to relax. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I didn’t even hear you come down.” She indicates the bowl. “I was just getting some ice cream. Uh, do you want some?”
“Sure.”
She takes the container from the freezer, and I get a couple of spoons from a drawer. As much as I want to, I know better than to ask Nell about what happened—every time I’ve brought up something too personal, she shuts down or gets hostile. I won’t make that mistake again.
After scooping the ice cream and setting out the bowls, she sits across from me.
“Dad doesn’t like us to have a lot of sugary stuff in the house.” She digs her spoon into the ice cream. “So don’t tell him I always keep a pint of butter pecan hidden in the freezer.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” I nod toward the notebook on the table beside her, one of her new ones. “Homework?”
“No.” She scoops up another bite. Her eyelashes are so long they make little shadows on her high cheekbones. “I write stories sometimes.”
I don’t remember her enjoying writing when she was a child. Had I missed that about her, or did she start writing after her mother died? Or when she was in the institution?
“What kind of stories?”
She shrugs. “Usually about Winsome Swift. The original character I told you about. I illustrate the stories too. I guess it’s stupid.”
Something painful cracks inside me. “There’s nothing stupid about creativity.”
“Well, it’s not like what you do.” She glances up, her eyes wary. “Sorry I’ve been kind of a brat since you got here.”
“I’m sorry if I’m making things tough on you. That’s not what I want at all.”
“I know.” She mashes her spoon into her bowl. “I’m just not used to having someone else in the house. But after hearing what you told the class about what happened to you…I’d like it if you felt comfortable here. At home.”
“I do. Thank you. I appreciate your hospitality more than I can say.”
A smile tugs at her mouth. I haven’t seen her smile fully yet. If she did, she’d be even more of a beauty than she already is.
How could she cut herself? Where did she do it? Why?
Turning my attention to the bowl, I feel her gaze on me. I’ve sensed it before, her direct, pensive regard, as if she’s studying a puzzle she can’t figure out.
“I like your school.” I eat a bite of ice cream. “The teachers all seem dedicated and caring.”
“They should be.” She tilts her bowl and spoons up the last bit. “I’ve heard it’s hard to get a job at Monarch because they pay really well and only want to hire the best. The parents would throw a fit if they thought their kids were getting substandard teachers.”
“Guess I should be honored they hired me, then.”
“The other kids say nice things about you.” Nell sets her spoon down, consternation flashing in her eyes. “I think a lot of people thought you’d been hired because of who you are, but really…you’re a great teacher.”
“That’s good to hear. Thanks.”
“And if the offer still stands, I’ll go on a run with you next week.” She rolls her eyes slightly. “If you don’t mind me slowing you down.”
Though I hate that she quit cross-country because of bullying and cutting, her willingness to at least run is a good sign. Maybe she’ll find her way back to a sport she was good at.
“The offer stands. Just let me know what day works for you.”
“Okay.” She reaches for a napkin. The sleeve of her robe slides up, revealing her slender arm. I glance at her inner forearm in a quick, thorough search for scars. But her skin is smooth, so pale that a few blue veins show beneath the surface, and unmarred by imperfections.
No scars on her wrists either.
Christ, Nell. Promise me you didn’t look into the darkest pit of all.
I push back my chair and bring our bowls to the sink. “I should get to bed.”
“Me too.”
We start toward the stairs, Nell walking a few paces in front of me. When we reach the landing, she turns to face me.
“So…good night.”
“Good night.” Almost unconsciously, I start to run my hand over her hair the way I used to.
My palm barely settles on the top of her head before I pull it away. She’s still Henry’s daughter, but she’s eighteen. Doesn’t feel right to stroke her hair.
She blinks, as if my abrupt withdrawal startled her. A shadow falls over her eyes. She starts toward the stairs leading to the third floor.