Roadside Assistance (19 page)

“Change the subject
now,”
I hissed as he approached.

He sank into the chair next to me and placed his tray, covered with fries, a cheeseburger, and a container of chocolate milk, in front of him. He placed an extra order of fries on Chelsea’s tray.

“I never knew chocolate milk went with a burger and fries,” Chelsea quipped, smothering her fries in more ketchup.

“You should try it.” He shook his milk and then opened it. “What were you ladies discussing while I was gone? You looked engrossed in an intense conversation.”

“Nothing,” I said, swiping a fry from his tray. “How was the beach?”

He shrugged. “Boring as usual.”

“Boring?” I asked, nonplussed. “How can the beach be boring?”

“It’s boring when there’s no one there your age to hang out with, your dad controls the only TV and watches the news incessantly, your mom complains constantly that he watches too much TV instead of talking to her, and your cell phone doesn’t get a signal unless you drive twenty minutes away to town.” He bit into the burger. “Someday I’ll drag you down to our beach house. You’ll agree with me — it’s boring.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chelsea give me a knowing smile. I glanced past her and found the crowd at Whitney’s table watching us, probably trying to figure out why Zander was sitting with Chelsea and me. I was certain they echoed Chelsea’s earlier comment about Zander’s slumming.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, wiping his chin. “The house is nice, and I appreciate that we have it. But I don’t understand why my parents insist I join them for every trip. I’m going to be eighteen in June. Doesn’t that make me old enough to stay home alone without setting the house on fire?”

I snickered, lifting my bottle of water. “You have a point there.”

“It’s a family thing,” Chelsea said, waving a fry for emphasis. “They’re trying to get as much time with you as possible before you run off to college next year and leave them with an empty nest.”

Zander frowned.

“What’s that frown for?” I asked.

“College is a sore subject.” He chewed a fry.

Chelsea and I exchanged curious expressions.

“How’s your sister?” he asked her.

Chelsea swiped a napkin across her mouth. “She’s doing well. She’s getting straight As and dating some guy who makes her happy.”

“Cool.” He ate another fry. “Is she going to law school next?”

“Oh, yeah.” Chelsea smiled. “Christina’s brilliant. I’m sure she’ll be a big-time lawyer. How’s Andrew?”

“Doing great,” he said. “Same as Christina —straight As, nice girlfriend. My parents are pleased as punch.”

I studied him, wondering what he meant about college being a sore subject. He was going, right?

“And your little brothers?” he asked.

She laughed. “They’re fine too. Now you have the Morris family update.”

I looked past Chelsea and found some of the members of Whitney’s table still watching us. “I think your friends miss you.”

He turned toward the other table and waved, causing his friends to nod before quickly looking away. “They’ll get over it.”

I felt a sharp pain in my shin as Chelsea kicked me under the table. I shot her an evil look and she cupped her hand over her mouth to stop her laughter.

“So, are we on for tonight?” he asked me, moving a few fries through the lake of ketchup on his plate.

“For …?” I asked.

“Hanging out in the garage. I’m going to drop the heads off at the machine shop today. I thought we could start cleaning the parts.” He lifted his burger and grinned at me. “Or if you don’t want to get your pretty hands dirty, you can keep me company while
I
start cleaning parts.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You did
not
just call me a girly-girl, did you?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Did I?”

“Those are fighting words, Stewart.” I swiped one of his fries and poised it, ready to fling it at his head. “Take it back or I’m going to bean you with this.”

“Okay, okay.” He held his hands up in mock surrender. “I take it back. I’m not calling you a girly-girl. You’re a worthy mechanic who can fix my car all by herself.”

I bit into the fry. “Don’t overdo it. I’m not going to fix your car all by myself.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “We can fix your dad’s AC after we finish my car. Fair is fair.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” I said, ignoring Chelsea’s grin out of the corner of my eye.

“Are you riding home with me?” he asked. “I’ll even let you come to the machine shop if you’re nice.”

“Oh, boy. You’ll even let me go to the machine shop?” I fluttered my eyelashes. “What a dream come true.”

He wagged a fry in my direction. “Only if you’re nice.”

“I’ll ride home with you, but I can’t guarantee I’ll be nice,” I said. “It depends on my mood.”

Chelsea looked between us, her eyes wide. I couldn’t even imagine the comments she would have to share with me when Zander was gone.

The bell blasted through the cafeteria, and we stood, packing up our trash. Zander piled up Chelsea’s tray, his tray, and my trash and then headed for the can.

“He’s totally smitten with you, Em,” Chelsea said with a grin. “You guys are such a cute couple.”

“We’re just friends.” I hoisted my book bag onto my shoulder. “Please don’t start any rumors.”

She nodded toward Whitney’s table. “I’m pretty sure the rumors have already started without my help.”

I groaned.

“Why are you upset?” Chelsea asked as we started toward the exit. “The hottest guy at school offered to give you a ride home. You should be celebrating.”

“We’re friends, Chels,” I whispered as he approached. “Just friends.”

“I guess I’ll meet you in the parking lot after class?” he asked, falling into step with us. “Absolutely,” I said.

“Excellent. See you ladies later,” he said before disappearing into the sea of bodies in the crowded hallway.

Thursday night, I kicked off my flip-flops and jogged up the stairs. The past couple of days had flown by with a strange turn of events. Zander had driven me to and from school and had joined Chelsea and me for lunch. Both Tuesday and Wednesday night we’d spent more than two hours in his garage, talking and laughing while washing off parts of the Dodge’s engine. He never
said anything about the parts I’d washed while he was out of town. Apparently he hadn’t noticed that I’d been in the garage while he was gone or he’d noticed and it didn’t bother him.

Tonight, we’d ridden to youth group together and stood side by side while preparing toiletry kits for the local battered women’s shelter. Although Chelsea insisted Zander and I were dating, I felt a very close friendship forming. Instead of discussing only cars, we’d moved on to music, television shows, and movies, and I was surprised to find that we had similar interests there too.

When I got home, I popped my head into Logan’s room and said hello and then continued on to my dad’s door. I tapped lightly, and after receiving an invitation I stepped into his room and found him sitting on the sofa, watching the evening news.

“Hey,” Dad said, patting the cushion next to him. “How was youth group?”

“Good,” I said, sitting down next to him. “How was your session with Pastor?”

He shrugged. “It was okay. He said it was productive, so I guess it was.”

I studied his brown eyes, wishing he would open up to me. “So what does that mean really?”

“It means we talked about a lot of stuff, and I felt relieved after the session.” He gripped the remote and began channel surfing.

“What does that really mean, Dad?” I pressed on. “What are you discussing with Pastor Keith?”

“Stuff,” he said, his eyes trained on the television. “It’s really not that exciting.”

“Why don’t you share it with me and let me decide if it’s exciting or not?” I bit my bottom lip while he flipped through the channels, settling on a channel displaying two men fishing. I would never understand how watching two men sitting in a boat was entertainment.

After a minute or two, my father glanced at me. “How was youth group?”

“I already told you it was good.” Anger flared inside me. “Why are you changing the subject?” I snapped. “I asked you about your counseling session and you won’t answer me. Does that mean you spent the hour complaining about me and what a lousy daughter I am?”

He winced. “Why would you even think that?”

“Because you won’t talk to me!” I stood, jamming my hands on my hips. “Why are you so secretive, Dad? What are you hiding from me?”

“Hiding from you?” He laughed. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

“What else am I supposed to think?” I threw my hands up in frustration. “You won’t tell me anything about your sessions.”

“I haven’t told you because it’s not about you.” He pointed to his chest. “It’s about me and what I’m going through. It’s about my grief and my broken heart.”

Tears filled my eyes. “I lost her too, Dad. Maybe I need to hear you talk about your grief so I can figure out mine.” I sat on the arm of the sofa and wiped my eyes.

“I’m sorry, Emily,” he said softly, touching my knee. “I’m not good at expressing my feelings.” He hit a button on the remote, killing the television. “I can tell him things and not worry about his judgment. With you, I worry too much about what you think of me.”

“That’s ridiculous. I couldn’t ever think badly of you.” My voice quavered and I cleared my throat. “You’re my family. We’re in this together, right?”

He nodded. “Maybe you need to talk to someone.”

I shook my head. “I’m doing okay.”

“But you’re spending all of your time with Zander,” Dad
said. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you two get along, but you need to be with girls your age too.”

I blinked, taking in his words. “Are you serious? First you criticize me for spending too much time in my room. Now you’re going to complain that I’m not spending time with the right people. You’ve got to be kidding me, Dad. I can’t seem to do anything right when it comes to getting out.” I stood. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation again. I’m going to bed.”

“Emily,” he called.

I ignored him and opened the door.

“Emily Claire!” he snapped.

Sighing, I closed the door and scowled at him. “What?”

His expression softened to concern. “I worry that you’ll get hurt again.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “Is this about Tyler?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

“Well, I’m a big girl and I can handle my friendships.” I gripped the doorknob. “Zander and I are just friends. We have a lot in common, and we enjoy each other’s company. I don’t think we’ll ever be more than friends, so you can rest assured that I’ll be fine.”

He shook his head. “Emily, you’re my daughter. I worry about you. All I’m saying is I think you need to be around girls too. Spending all of your time with a guy could get you hurt.”

“I don’t just spend time with him. I also spend time with Chelsea and I’m in youth group. What more do you want from me?”

“Emily —”

“Why is this turning into a lecture about my social life?” I asked, getting angrier by the second. “I asked you about your counseling session, and you give me the third degree about my friends. This is stupid.” I yanked the door open. “Good night.”

“Emily!” he called after me.

Ignoring him, I continued down the hall and locked myself in my room. Dropping to the floor, I pulled my knees up to my chest and fought back the tears flooding my eyes. Questions swirled through my head. Why wouldn’t my dad talk to me? What was so secretive about his grief?

I lost Mom too!

More than ever, I wished I could talk to her face-to-face, tell her how I was feeling and ask her how to get Dad to talk to me. I felt a mixture of guilt and anger — guilt for being nasty to my dad but also anger with him for not sharing his thoughts and feelings with me. I should be the one he talked to, not a pastor who hardly knew us. Dad and I were family. We should be holding each other up.

Tears streamed down my cheeks, and I glanced toward my bed, spotting an unfamiliar box underneath it. When I’d moved in, I’d slipped a few boxes under the bed without checking the contents.

Intrigued by the box marked “Claire,” I yanked it out. I grabbed a pair of scissors and slit the packing tape from the corners.

I opened the box and found some of my mother’s belongings: her favorite novels, a purple scarf she wore after her hair had fallen out, a framed photograph of her and my father standing at the altar after their small wedding, and an album filled with her favorite family photos.

With tears streaming down my cheeks, I held the scarf to my nose and breathed in, hoping to find a whiff of her scent remaining on the thin fabric. The slightest scent of her perfume filled my nostrils, and I closed my eyes, trying to uncover my last memory of her. I dug deep into the depth of my mind, struggling to remember the sound of her voice saying my name.

And it came to me — her tiny voice croaking from the hospital bed, “Emily, I love you. Always remember I love you. Forever.”

Looping the scarf over my shoulders, I swallowed a sob and rooted through the box, looking for something, anything, to make me feel closer to Mom again. Something to hold close to my heart.