“Evergreen College information packet and application,” he says. “You should get started on it within the next week or so.”
“The guidance counselor still wants me to schedule a meeting.” I dump a cup of fresh, flour-coated blueberries into the batter. “He meets with all the seniors in the fall to discuss college planning.”
“You already have your plan.” My father pours a cup of coffee. “Doesn’t he know that?”
“Yes, but he still wants to meet.”
“He’s probably not accustomed to students taking the single choice, early decision option.” My father sits and opens the college packet.
“What’s that?” Darius pushes away from the counter and approaches to look over my father’s shoulder at the application. “Single choice, early decision?”
“It means Nell is only applying to Evergreen College, and she’s doing so based on the strength of her junior year grades.” My father passes a brochure to Darius. “She’ll get accepted easily, but the early application will get it all settled well in advance.”
Darius leafs through the brochure. “She’s going to the same college where you teach?”
“It makes the most sense.” My father peruses the application. “She can live here and commute to campus, so we’ll save money on room and board. With luck, she’ll get a strong financial aid package too. We might not have to worry about tuition at all.”
Tilting the bowl, I stir the batter hard enough to smash all the blueberries. Darius is looking at me again. His gaze is unlike any I’ve ever felt before—penetrating and deep. Like he could strip a person bare, if he wanted to.
No wonder his photographs are all so raw. He doesn’t just look at the world. He sees it.
“Evergreen has a great undergraduate program.” I grab the muffin tin from the cabinet. “Especially the history department.”
“I’ve heard.” Darius sets his empty glass in the sink.
“Nell’s extracurricular activities aren’t as strong as they could be, but her academic record and letters of rec should make up for that.” My father slips the paperwork back into the envelope. “And her personal essay, of course.”
“What are you going to write about?” Darius asks.
“I don’t know yet.” I pour the batter into the muffin tins. “So how many miles did you run this morning?”
“Probably three or four. I’ve been circling the park and running over to the bridge and creek bed.”
“You took the long route.” I mix up a bowl of brown sugar, butter, and cinnamon. “That’s about a mile from here if you go right at the bottom of the hill.”
“Did Nell tell you she used to run cross-country?” Taking his glasses off, my father reaches for his coffee.
“No, she didn’t.”
Feeling Darius’s glance again, I duck my head and sprinkle streusel topping on each muffin. This should be a normal conversation about a high-school girl’s plans and activities, but every comment is a weight pressing down on me.
“For almost two years.” My father sips his coffee, faint remorse etching his features. “She was good too.”
“What made you stop?” Darius’s question is layered with a hundred more, almost as if he’s as curious about me as I am about him.
Unease tightens my chest. My father still hasn’t told him what happened, or Darius would already know the answer.
Before my father can respond with the truth, I quickly say, “Just got busy with other stuff. Do either one of you want eggs this morning?”
“I’ll take a couple scrambled.” My father rises to get the carton from the fridge. “You should go on a run with Darius sometime, Nell.”
I huff out a laugh. Yeah, wheezing and gasping alongside a super-fit war photographer sounds like a bang-up way to start my day.
“No, thanks.”
“You’re welcome to join me,” Darius says.
“It would do you good to start running again.” My father sets a pan on the stove. “You used to love cross-country.”
The regretful note in his voice brings up a bunch of old emotions I’d rather forget. Anger, guilt, pain. Unbearable sorrow.
I hadn’t loved cross-country. I’d done it. I’d liked the adrenaline rush and the accomplishment of finishing a few miles, but I haven’t missed it.
“I leave at five and run for half an hour or so.” Darius reaches for a mug. “I’m planning to go again on Monday.”
I put the muffin tin in the oven and close the door. I’m suddenly conscious of the roll of extra flesh on my belly that I hide with oversized shirts.
It’ll be embarrassing to even try running again, especially alongside him, but it wouldn’t hurt to get more exercise. Maybe it will even help. I had enjoyed the freedom of running, and God knows it’s been a long time since I’ve felt free.
“I guess I could give it a try.” Gathering up my used utensils, I put them in the sink. “Maybe.”
“Sure. Just let me know.”
The fact that he’s so accommodating while I’m being such a snot makes me feel worse. “I need to get ready for school.”
I hurry upstairs. If my father hasn’t told Darius about my breakdown, he’ll likely hear it from someone at school. Probably sooner rather than later.
And if he knows, he’ll look at me with sympathy, if not outright pity. I couldn’t stand that.
I don’t know how I want him to look at me or think of me, but it’s definitely not with pity.
Over the weekend, Darius starts doing stuff around the house—tightening loose doorknobs, replacing the broken porch railing, fixing the leaky bathroom faucet, repairing the uneven leg on the kitchen table.
Granted, it’s stuff that should have been done ages ago, but the resulting noise makes me even more aware that my father and I are no longer alone. There hasn’t been another person in our house since my mother died.
On Sunday afternoon, I get ready to leave for one of my twice-weekly grocery store trips when I realize I don’t know what kind of food Darius likes. He’s been eating whatever I serve for dinner or whatever’s in the fridge, but out of politeness—and to keep my father happy—I should ask if he wants me to buy anything in particular.
I pull on a sweatshirt and grab my keys from the dresser. I head downstairs, pausing to twist the newel cap at the end of the banister. The wooden cap doesn’t budge.
With a frown, I twist it again. Irritation ripples through me. Does he have to fix everything?
I stalk through the foyer. His brand-new black SUV, bought off the lot a few days ago, is still parked in the driveway. He’s not in the kitchen or the living room, but the door to my father’s office is open. Only Darius would have the right to occupy that room when my father isn’t home.
Stopping in the doorway, I scan the familiar surroundings. He’s standing beside the fireplace, his camera bag open on a table in front of him and his head bent.
My heart stutters. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t notice me at all. Tension lines his body, a coiled energy like that of a predator. His attention is unerringly directed at his camera. He flexes his hands at his sides.