MY PHONE RINGS THE NEXT DAY AS I’M WALKING through the rain to my car after work. I dig it out and check the screen, hope blooming in my chest. It disappears as quickly as it arrived when I see my sister’s name.
“Hey, Rach.”
“I know you don’t want to talk about Mom,” she says, diving right in as usual. “But she called me last night, upset. She wanted my advice.”
I slow my pace, even though it’s now pouring and my clothes are almost soaked through. Rachel hasn’t mentioned our mother since the disastrous visit ten days ago. On the way back from Sutton, I told her everything Mom said, everything I said, and exactly how fed up I was over the entire situation. Rachel wasn’t exactly thrilled about Mom and Gary’s engagement news either, and she even agreed that maybe going there was a mistake. So I’m not sure why she’s telling me this now.
Still, I’m curious. “About what?” I ask as I finally reach my car. I unlock it and get in, shivering in the cool, dry air.
“About you,” she says. “And what to do about you. She said you’re ignoring her calls.”
What to do about you. Like I’m some sort of problem to be resolved. And it’s true—she’s called me three times since I stormed out of her house, and I’ve ignored every call. I know if I answer, all I’ll get is another earful of excuses.
“You’re right,” I say, dabbing at my dripping arms with a napkin. “I don’t want to talk about Mom, and I also don’t want the two of you plotting about me behind my back. Forget it, okay? Now can we talk about something else?”
She lets out a sigh. “Fine. I’m just saying, I don’t think she’s planning on backing off this time. She’s pretty determined to talk things through with you and—”
“Rachel.”
“—I’ve been thinking about it and maybe her and Gary getting married isn’t the worst idea. I mean, we used to really like him when we were kids, and she obviously loves him if she agreed to—”
“Rachel.”
“Okay, okay, sorry.” She’s silent for a moment, like she’s trying to come up with a topic that won’t set me off. “How’s that cutie boyfriend of yours?”
Bad choice. I haven’t had a chance to tell Rachel about the breakup. “Not my boyfriend anymore.”
“What? Why?”
“Take a guess.”
“Oh, Morgan,” she says, and the sympathy in her voice makes my eyes well up. “He found out about the shoplifting? Was he really mad?”
I blink and focus on the windshield, following the networks of raindrops as they stream down the glass. “He told me he was done, and I can’t really blame him. He also accused me of stealing something from his house.”
Another pause. “Did you?”
“No,” I say a little too forcefully. But I can’t blame her for asking any more than I can blame my friends and Eli for being suspicious. I’ve done bad things, so of course people are going to assume the worst of me until I manage to prove myself again.
“I believe you,” Rachel says, and I know she means it. Lying to her is nearly impossible. She could always see through me, and vice versa, even over the phone. “And Eli will too, when he cools down and thinks about it.”
I shake my head, even though she can’t see me. “He’ll never trust me again, Rach. Neither will my friends. They might say they do, but deep down they’ll always wonder if I’m being straight with them.”
“It’ll take some time, but keep working on them. Eventually, they’ll stop wondering and start focusing on the amazing person you are outside of all this. You had a bad year, that’s all. It happens. You’ll find your way back.”
“I hope so.” I start the car and flick the wipers on full blast. “Listen, Rach, I gotta go. Can we talk more about this later?”
“Of course,” she says. “I’ll be here. Bye, Morgan.”
“Bye, Rach. And thanks.”
We hang up and I drive home slowly through the rain, feeling comforted by my sister’s support. We’re hundreds of miles away from each other, but in some ways, it’s like we’re still huddled on the couch, a few short inches between us as we share our secrets and lives.
I smell the smoke as soon as I step off the elevator, and somehow I know it’s coming from our apartment.
Panic flares in my chest and I rush down the hall and push open the door. I’m greeted by a cloud of white smoke, the acrid smell of burning, and the blaring smoke alarm. Dad’s in the kitchen, waving a dish towel toward the open window. Dirty dishes cover the counter, and there’s a whole chicken sitting in a roasting pan on the stovetop, smoke still rising from its very crispy-looking skin.
Without saying anything, I grab the broom and use the tip of the handle to turn off the hallway smoke alarm. My ears ring in the sudden quiet. Poor Fergus must be hiding under my bed, but I don’t have time to worry about him right now. I go back to my father, who’s now glaring at the chicken like he wants to stab it with a steak knife.
“Dad, what the hell?” I cough and wave my hand in front of my face. I thought he was done with trying to cook. It’s safer for everyone that he doesn’t. Clearly.
“I got home early and thought I’d roast a chicken,” he says, still scowling at the bird in question. “I must have turned the oven up too high, because grease splattered everywhere and then it started smoking. It got worse when I opened the oven door.” He picks up the towel again and whips it around, but it does nothing to diffuse the murky layer of smoke. “I wanted us to sit down to a nice dinner together and finally have that talk, but I should’ve known better, I guess. Everything I touch these days turns to shit.”
He tosses the towel on the counter, sending an empty can rolling into the sink. I gape at him, surprised. He rarely talks like that, so self-critical and defeated. And he certainly never throws things around.
Slowly, like I’m sneaking up on a ticking bomb, I move over to the stove and peer down at the chicken. It’s overly crispy, for sure, but the juices on the bottom are running clear and the meat seems tender enough when I poke it.
“Let’s carve this thing,” I say.
Dad lets out a breath, and after a lengthy pause, he nods. I point to the chicken, indicating he should take care of it, while I drain and mash the potatoes. We work together silently, the range hood fan the only sound in the apartment. Well, that and Fergus’s hungry meow. He’s decided that leaving his hiding spot was worth a few scraps of chicken, which—surprisingly—turned out better than expected.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says a few minutes later, when we’re sitting at the table with our plates. “I had a bad day at work. A bad month, actually. My boss has been on me lately about my sales numbers, and business has been slower in general because of the damn construction that never stops on that street. And then the chicken . . .” He sighs deeply. “I guess it was the last straw.”
I press my fork into my potatoes. “Dad, you know you don’t have to cook for me.”
“I know. It’s just . . .” His fork drops to his plate with a loud clank, making me jump. “Damn it,” he mumbles, turning his head to the side, facing away from me.
My heart stutters. His behavior is freaking me out. “Dad?”
“Sorry,” he repeats. He turns back to me, his expression agonized. “It’s just that I’ve been worried ever since you got back from your mother’s. You don’t want to talk to me, and you look at me like . . .” He shakes his head and leans back. “Anyway, Rachel told me what happened, what your mother said to you about me, and I thought . . . well, I was worried you might be thinking about leaving.”
I have no clue what he’s talking about. “Leaving?”
“Yeah,” he says, blowing out another breath. “I thought after hearing about what a crappy husband I was to your mother, you’d decide to move out and go live with her and Gary. I mean, of course I’ll support you if that’s what you decide to do, but . . . well, I’d miss you around here.”
I’m starting to think there’s some kind of hallucinogen floating around with the smoke, because this conversation is far too bizarre to be real. “Why on earth would you think I’d want to live with Mom and Gary?” I ask, laughing at the absurdity of it. “I’d never do that, no matter how much Mom bad-mouths you. Besides, most of what she said probably isn’t even true. She’s just trying to paint herself as the victim.”
“No.” He rests his elbows on either side of his plate and rubs his hands over his face. “I’m sure it was all true. I wasn’t a very good husband to her. I took her for granted. Didn’t give her the attention she deserved. I shouldn’t have let you place so much of the blame on your mother. It was my fault too. Jesus, I practically drove her into Gary’s arms myself.”
“Dad, come on.” I don’t want to hear him blame himself for their marriage ending. Okay, so it takes two, like Mom said, but she didn’t have to dull her misery by cheating.
I put down my fork, my throat suddenly tight. Isn’t that what I did too, but with shoplifting? Am I really any better than her? Something Rachel said a while ago pops into my head: She did an awful thing, but she’s not an awful person. Okay, so maybe she’s right. Maybe Rita was right too, when she told me my bad decisions didn’t define me. If I’m more than my mistakes, if I can learn from them and start fresh, then the same is true for everyone. Even my mother.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to leave.” Dad glances up at me, the creases around his mouth deepening as he frowns. “I wouldn’t like it, but I’d understand. I mean, look at me. I can’t even cook a goddamn chicken.”
“I don’t care about the goddamn chicken,” I snap, shoving my plate away. “And I don’t want to live with Mom. My life is here. My friends, my job, school, you . . . This is where I choose to be. Okay, so you weren’t a good husband. I get it. I haven’t exactly been a good daughter either, but you still want me around, right?”
Dad looks at me for a long moment, and I’m almost afraid he’s about to say no, that I’ve made his life hell all summer and he does wish he could get rid of me for good. But then the worry lines in his face disappear and his lips form the barest hint of a smile. “Yeah, I still want you around. You and Garfield over there.” He gestures with his chin to Fergus, who’s sitting a few feet away, his huge green eyes taking in our every move. “I’ll always want you around.”
“Good. Then it’s settled.” I pull my plate toward me again and spear a piece of chicken. “Nobody’s perfect, and I’m not going anywhere.”
Dad nods and picks up his fork again, his shoulders finally loosening. Even with the leftover smoke still hovering, the air between us feels clearer than it’s been in a while.