Everything can change in a heartbeat.
I’m in love with a boy who loves me back.
I walk down the hall to peer into the living room. The TV drones on, tuned to an early a.m. infomercial. My father sits on the couch, his arms crossed and his chin dropped on his chest as he sleeps. Blake had called him hours before to say he’d bring me home when I was ready. He’d insisted, so a search party wasn’t sent out for us. My father hadn’t even argued.
I leave him sleeping.
After showering, I put on my pajamas and head for my room. My gifts from my birthday party have been piled on my dresser, including the laptop from my mother. A gift bag sits on my bed—the one my father had brought to the hospital—and I open it. He must have talked to George, too. He bought me an expensive tripod to go with George’s camera.
“Do you like it?”
My father stands in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. I can’t read his expression. He’s not cold, but he’s not giving much away, either.
I glance at the package in my lap and nod. “Very much. It’s perfect. George told you he was giving me the Nikon?”
His forehead wrinkles in confusion. “That camera was George’s? I thought it was yours.”
“You didn’t talk to him?” I ask, surprised.
He shakes his head slowly. “No. You never go anywhere without that thing. I thought maybe the tripod would come in handy.”
“It will,” I say.
Last year he’d given me tickets to an amusement park. I hadn’t been to one since I was little, and I’d never used them, and eventually I gave them away. But he’d put thought into this gift. My father had noticed something I loved.
“I see you,” he says, as if he’s read my thoughts.
Maybe sometimes. It’s a start. I can give something in return.
“Dad, you know how I applied to Boston University’s photojournalism program? I got accepted.”
He only looks surprised for a second before he pulls me off the bed to give me a bear hug. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”
And he is proud. It’s all over him, and I wonder why I waited so long to tell him or anyone else.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“How about we celebrate tomorrow? I’ll take you out to dinner.”
“What about Mom?” I ask.
He lets me go. “Quinn, we need to talk. Maybe after we both get some sleep.”
“I think we need to talk now,” I argue, crossing my arms.
He shoots me a warning look. “Don’t push it. You stayed out all night without calling, and I’m trying to cut you some slack here. Like I said, let’s get some rest.”
I watch him walk away from me. I should let him go. My emotions are spinning all over the place. That’s exactly why I can’t let him go.
“I’m not a kid anymore. You can’t just tell me to obey.” I raise my voice. “You said she was never coming back. I was eleven and my heart was broken and I wanted you to tell me she still loved me. Do you remember that? You told me she was gone and I needed to grow up and stop wishing she’d come back.”
He glances over his shoulder. “You said it yourself. You’re not a kid anymore, Quinn. Adults make mistakes. I’m sorry I disappointed you, but I’ve done the best I could.”
He leaves, closing my door behind him.
I shout, “You should’ve tried harder!”
Footsteps pause in the hall, and then fade as he walks away.
* * *
It’s a school day, but I decide to skip. I think I’ve earned it after the night before. I sleep the morning away and wake to an empty house. My father’s left a note. Quinn—Fixings for veggie omelets in the fridge. I’ll be home late. Dad. A man of few words.
His idea of an apology?
After eating and dressing, I head to the hospital. George is asleep, and I drop my purse and camera bag on the floor and settle in. Oxygen tubes run into his nose, and he’s hooked to an IV for the first time I can remember in a long time. His skin appears thin, as if the slightest scratch could puncture it. The signs have been there all along. I’ve just been ignoring them.
His eyes open, and for a moment he looks lost. I step toward the bed, and he focuses on me. Then he says, “I’m not dead yet. Stop looking at me like that or you can get the hell out of here.”
I squeeze his hand. “Shut up, old man. You scared the crap out of me yesterday. The least you can do is put up with a few tears.”
“Not a chance,” he says, but he squeezes my hand. He gestures to his table, and I pour him a cup of water from a plastic pitcher. He’s more worn-out than he’s letting on, because he lets me tip the straw to his lips while he drinks. He frowns. “Not much of a birthday yesterday, was it?”
I pull my chair closer so I can hook my legs on the rail of his bed. “The best-laid plans . . .”
“What happened?”
He grills me on everything that unfolded after he collapsed. I blush when I get to the part about Blake finding me in the woods, even though I leave out most of the details. I don’t fool George.
“So it’s like that, is it?” He chortles when I suddenly find the wall behind him fascinating. “You’re in love with this boy. Blake.”
He doesn’t sound judgmental. In fact, he doesn’t even sound surprised.
“You knew,” I accuse.
“I guessed. Something in your voice whenever you mention him. How you mostly avoid talking about him. He the boy in the picture?”
I’m in love with a boy who loves me back.
I walk down the hall to peer into the living room. The TV drones on, tuned to an early a.m. infomercial. My father sits on the couch, his arms crossed and his chin dropped on his chest as he sleeps. Blake had called him hours before to say he’d bring me home when I was ready. He’d insisted, so a search party wasn’t sent out for us. My father hadn’t even argued.
I leave him sleeping.
After showering, I put on my pajamas and head for my room. My gifts from my birthday party have been piled on my dresser, including the laptop from my mother. A gift bag sits on my bed—the one my father had brought to the hospital—and I open it. He must have talked to George, too. He bought me an expensive tripod to go with George’s camera.
“Do you like it?”
My father stands in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. I can’t read his expression. He’s not cold, but he’s not giving much away, either.
I glance at the package in my lap and nod. “Very much. It’s perfect. George told you he was giving me the Nikon?”
His forehead wrinkles in confusion. “That camera was George’s? I thought it was yours.”
“You didn’t talk to him?” I ask, surprised.
He shakes his head slowly. “No. You never go anywhere without that thing. I thought maybe the tripod would come in handy.”
“It will,” I say.
Last year he’d given me tickets to an amusement park. I hadn’t been to one since I was little, and I’d never used them, and eventually I gave them away. But he’d put thought into this gift. My father had noticed something I loved.
“I see you,” he says, as if he’s read my thoughts.
Maybe sometimes. It’s a start. I can give something in return.
“Dad, you know how I applied to Boston University’s photojournalism program? I got accepted.”
He only looks surprised for a second before he pulls me off the bed to give me a bear hug. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”
And he is proud. It’s all over him, and I wonder why I waited so long to tell him or anyone else.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“How about we celebrate tomorrow? I’ll take you out to dinner.”
“What about Mom?” I ask.
He lets me go. “Quinn, we need to talk. Maybe after we both get some sleep.”
“I think we need to talk now,” I argue, crossing my arms.
He shoots me a warning look. “Don’t push it. You stayed out all night without calling, and I’m trying to cut you some slack here. Like I said, let’s get some rest.”
I watch him walk away from me. I should let him go. My emotions are spinning all over the place. That’s exactly why I can’t let him go.
“I’m not a kid anymore. You can’t just tell me to obey.” I raise my voice. “You said she was never coming back. I was eleven and my heart was broken and I wanted you to tell me she still loved me. Do you remember that? You told me she was gone and I needed to grow up and stop wishing she’d come back.”
He glances over his shoulder. “You said it yourself. You’re not a kid anymore, Quinn. Adults make mistakes. I’m sorry I disappointed you, but I’ve done the best I could.”
He leaves, closing my door behind him.
I shout, “You should’ve tried harder!”
Footsteps pause in the hall, and then fade as he walks away.
* * *
It’s a school day, but I decide to skip. I think I’ve earned it after the night before. I sleep the morning away and wake to an empty house. My father’s left a note. Quinn—Fixings for veggie omelets in the fridge. I’ll be home late. Dad. A man of few words.
His idea of an apology?
After eating and dressing, I head to the hospital. George is asleep, and I drop my purse and camera bag on the floor and settle in. Oxygen tubes run into his nose, and he’s hooked to an IV for the first time I can remember in a long time. His skin appears thin, as if the slightest scratch could puncture it. The signs have been there all along. I’ve just been ignoring them.
His eyes open, and for a moment he looks lost. I step toward the bed, and he focuses on me. Then he says, “I’m not dead yet. Stop looking at me like that or you can get the hell out of here.”
I squeeze his hand. “Shut up, old man. You scared the crap out of me yesterday. The least you can do is put up with a few tears.”
“Not a chance,” he says, but he squeezes my hand. He gestures to his table, and I pour him a cup of water from a plastic pitcher. He’s more worn-out than he’s letting on, because he lets me tip the straw to his lips while he drinks. He frowns. “Not much of a birthday yesterday, was it?”
I pull my chair closer so I can hook my legs on the rail of his bed. “The best-laid plans . . .”
“What happened?”
He grills me on everything that unfolded after he collapsed. I blush when I get to the part about Blake finding me in the woods, even though I leave out most of the details. I don’t fool George.
“So it’s like that, is it?” He chortles when I suddenly find the wall behind him fascinating. “You’re in love with this boy. Blake.”
He doesn’t sound judgmental. In fact, he doesn’t even sound surprised.
“You knew,” I accuse.
“I guessed. Something in your voice whenever you mention him. How you mostly avoid talking about him. He the boy in the picture?”
