A Midsummer's Nightmare

CHAPTER 24

Right after we got back to the house, I received a text message from Trace.

Hey sry havent called n a while. Em got a new job! How r u?

His timing was pretty uncanny. Dad was walking into the kitchen, leaving me standing in the living room, alone, without even a word. Like nothing had happened. Like I wasn’t there. It was like Trace knew I needed him. Like he knew how alone I felt.

I started texting back as I walked upstairs to the guest room.

Not good. Can I call u?

He replied quickly.

No. N a meeting. On a saturday. Its boring & its a long story. I can txt tho

Leave it to my brother to be texting under the table at some kind of important meeting. A good sister would have sent him another message, telling him she’d call him back when the meeting was over. He shouldn’t be texting. This was his job. All of that bullshit.

Well, I wasn’t a good sister. In fact, I was pretty goddamn selfish if you got right down to it. Yet another trait I’d gotten from my father, I guess.

There were so many things I wanted to say. So many stories I wanted to tell Trace. Feelings I wanted him to understand. But a text message can’t hold that many emotions. Or letters.

So I typed the only words that seemed to fit:

I liked dad better b4 I knew the truth.

It wasn’t easy explaining to Trace through text messages the whole story about my talk with Dad, but I managed. And while his attempts to comfort me were full of misspellings and incorrect punctuation, it felt good just to have someone listen. Or read, technically.

He told me he’d give me a call—a real voice-to-voice call—in the next few days, but I wasn’t going to hold him to it. Not that I thought he was lying or anything, but he had a wife now. A daughter. And at the moment, I was beginning to understand just how important it could be for a father to pay attention to his family.

Trace’s family came first. I got that. Even if taking care of them meant he couldn’t call me for several days, I wouldn’t complain. Not anymore.

Thingsll get better. Dont 4get hes still r dad. He fucked up but he luvz u

I didn’t reply to that one. Lately, everyone seemed to be telling me that Dad loved me. Everyone but Dad.

I put my cell phone on the nightstand and stretched out on the bed, squeezing my eyes shut. With all the things I’d learned, I knew that even when the summer ended, the nightmare wouldn’t. I was mad at Dad for so many things, but mostly I was mad at him for letting me see he wasn’t perfect.

I didn’t open my eyes even when I heard the door of the guest room open.

“Hey, Whit,” Nathan said. “Bailey and I are going to the movies. You want to come?”

“No,” I muttered.

“You sure?” he asked. “It’ll be fun.”

“I’m sure.”

The latch on the door clicked, and I figured Nathan had gone. But of course he hadn’t. The end of the bed sank a little beneath his weight, and I sighed loudly.

“What?” I demanded, opening my eyes and finding Nathan sitting next to me.

“Did something happen today?” he asked. “With you and Greg?”

Every bone in my body told me to scream, None of your goddamn business! But looking up into Nathan’s chocolate eyes, I just couldn’t. As much as I wanted to blame the Caulfields for the way Dad had changed, I knew now that he’d been flawed for a long time. And they—Nathan, Bailey, and Sylvia—had been good to me, no matter how I treated them in return.

“Yeah.” I sat up. “I tried to talk to him, but he just doesn’t care. I brought up the Internet stuff, and he said he was sure I could handle it. That was all.”

“I’m sorry,” Nathan said.

“There was more, but… You know, I think he’s always been this selfish, I just didn’t want to see it.” I pressed my fingertips to my eyes as the tears I’d fought off at Dairy Queen began sliding down my cheeks. “I hate this. I’ve spent years being an apathetic, coldhearted bitch, not caring about anyone. But he’s turned me into a sniveling little girl with Daddy Issues.”

He lifted his arms a bit, then hesitated. I shook my head and scooted closer to him, resting my forehead against his shoulder. He smelled like soap and spice, and his cotton T-shirt was soft against my face. His arms were around me then, hugging me. I didn’t cry long—just for a few moments. One of Nathan’s hands stroked my hair gently, the way someone should always do when they comfort you. The way mothers do in movies when their little girls wake up from nightmares. The way fathers on TV do when their daughters have their hearts broken for the first time.

The way no one ever had for me.

When the tears were done, I sat up, swiping my wrist across my wet cheeks and eyes. “I’m sorry. God, I’m ridiculous.”

“No, you’re not.”

We sat in silence for a long time, just breathing the stale air of the guest room together. After a moment, Nathan looked at me.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with Bailey and me?” he asked. “The movie’s a comedy. Maybe it will cheer you up.”

I shook my head. “No. I don’t think so. I’m just going to stay here and…”

He stared at me, waiting.

“And do something. I don’t know.”

“You think you’ll call Harrison?” Nathan asked. “Maybe he’ll come hang out with you or something.”

“Maybe.” No. “Have fun,” I told Nathan, pulling my hair over my shoulder and absently twisting the brown strands around my fingers. “I hope the movie is good.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding. He reached over and squeezed my arm before standing up. “Well, we aren’t leaving for half an hour, if you change your mind.”

Then he was gone.

Nathan and Bailey had already gone to the movies by the time I finally left the guest room that night. I was starting to get hungry, and Sylvia hadn’t called me down for dinner or anything yet. So I slumped into the kitchen and began digging through the cabinets, hoping I might find some Pop-Tarts to snack on.

I’d just located a box of strawberry ones—my favorite—when the screen door slid open and Sylvia walked in, wearing her swimsuit and laughing loudly. She stopped when she saw me, her cheeks turning instantly scarlet.

“Whitley,” she said. “Hey. I thought you’d gone out with the kids.”

“No,” I said, unwrapping my Pop-Tart. “I decided to stay home.”

“Oh, sorry,” Sylvia said, putting a hand to her mouth. I could see a small key dangling from a chain around her finger. “Sweetie, if I’d known you were staying here, I would have made something for you to eat. Gosh, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s cool.”

She walked past me and reached for the cabinet above the sink, sliding the little silver key from her finger and opening the lock.

Liquor cabinet.

Somehow, I couldn’t believe she kept alcohol in the house.

Sylvia pulled down a bottle of wine. “You sure you can fend for yourself tonight?” she asked, relocking the cabinet.

“Yeah. No problem.”

“Good,” she said, and she turned to me with a sigh. “Sometimes I need a night off.” She laughed and ran her fingers through her wet hair. “Okay. I’ll see you in the morning, Whitley.”

“See you.”

She smiled, and I noticed the bounce in her step as she headed toward the screen door. When she walked outside, I could hear the music playing. Familiar and sweet.

… Some people claim that there’s a woman to blame, but I know…

The door slid shut again, silencing the sounds of Jimmy Buffett and “Margaritaville.” But I’d heard it. I could have recognized that song by two notes alone. I’d listened to it so many times during summers at the condo.

I ran to the door, still holding my Pop-Tart, and peeked out through the screen. Dad was sitting in one of the lawn chairs, wearing his swim trunks, as Sylvia twirled and danced her way over to the table. She sat down across from him and opened the bottle of wine she’d just taken from the liquor cabinet, sipping straight from the top before passing it to Dad.

He lifted the bottle to his mouth, but his lips were already moving, forming the lyrics of the song.

He was singing.

And Sylvia was laughing.

And they were drinking.

It was like a scene from a movie I’d watched over and over and over again. That was Summer Dad sitting out there. The Dad I’d missed. The Dad I’d assumed was gone. But he was here. With Sylvia.

I stepped away from the door, fists clenched.

All summer I’d looked for him. My laid-back, laughing, best friend of a dad. But he’d been here all along. Two months, and I hadn’t seen him. Now, he sat just outside with his new fiancée, living his new life.

I swung my fist into the side of the fridge. Then again. I left my Pop-Tart on the table and ran back upstairs, slamming every door between there and the guest room.

I’d missed him. I’d missed him so much, and he’d been there all along. Just not with me.