Chapter 16

Sara pulls into the driveway,knuckles white on the steering wheel. Her foot releases some of the pressure off the pedal—a vain attempt to stall the inevitable. A glance in her rearview mirror proves that her backseat is empty, but she knows he can't be far. He never is. "Seth?"

She doesn't jump when his voice materializes behind her; eyes meeting hers unflinchingly in the mirror. "Princess?"

Her teeth sink into her tongue, stilling the half-hearted protests that sit there. The house she grew up in is just ahead, silhouetted by the evening sun, and there isn't much time. "I know you live to make my life hell, but can you please, please just shut up while I'm visiting my father?"

There's a long pause—enough to make her glance to check that he's still there. She barely catches his clouded expression before he shifts into one more mocking and familiar. "Worried I might poke fun at his bald spots, are you?"

No. She's too busy stressing over the consequences of letting her defenses fall; too aware of how quickly the conversation can turn from casual pleasantries to mocking each of her life choices. She swallows, wishing she could blame the dust kicking up from her tires for the dryness. "Just promise to be quiet. Please."

He huffs, eyes sliding to the horizon. "Very well, then."

The relief is so great, it's physical—the flutter of eyelashes and a knot unraveling in her chest. "Thank you."

Seth doesn't respond, but she can feel his questioning gaze lingering the entire ride up the long driveway—only breaking away once the house comes into view.

Her father's house hasn't changed. The gabled roof, the rockers on the front porch, all give the impression of a picturesque country home. Sara knows better. The closer they get, the more the disrepair becomes apparent—chipping paint, broken and missing rails. She steels herself as she exits the car, knowing the inside is bound to be worse, and sends Seth one last warning look before heading up the front steps. He huffs in response, rolling his eyes and murmuring "so dramatic" under his breath.

When she opens the front door, it still smells of stale beer and spilled whiskey; still lacks the warmth that Oma's home had in abundance. No pictures on the wall, no cookies in the oven… the collection of bottles is absent from the coffee table, at least. Sara tries to give him credit for making at least that much effort. "Dad?"

His voice comes from the back of the house. "In the kitchen!"

She finds him in the fridge, fishing a bottle from the lower shelf on the door. Sara looks around, frowning. "Where's Belle?"

"Kennel. Got tired of her getting underfoot while I was cooking," he gruffs, grabbing the magnetic bottle opener from the side of the fridge and popping off the cap to his beer. "You want something to drink?"

Sara eyes it warily, wondering what number it is. "No thanks. It's a long drive." She doesn't bother asking if he has anything that doesn't come with a percentage on the label. Sitting at one of the counter stools, her attention flits to the adjacent living room where Seth is sneering down at the ancient blue and green couch.

He glances up at her; his expression saying everything his mouth doesn't.

Plaid.

Sara smothers a smirk.

"Bob's been asking after you. Wants to know if you'd be interested in some work over break at the Christmas tree farm."

"Oh." Bob was always looking for people to work, because no one ever stuck around. Mostly because he was a penny-pinching ass that liked to pay under the table so he could skirt under the minimum wage. "Thanks, but I actually have plans over break."

"Oh yeah? What plans are those?"

Her mind scrambles for an excuse, but the first and only thing that comes to mind is also probably one of the worst things she could bring up. "Jen needs help getting stuff ready for the wedding."

It's a mistake.

She knows the moment she sees her father's shoulders stiffen. "That right?"

Teeth sinking into her bottom lip, Sara says a mental prayer. "Yeah. Just a few things."

"Didn't even know she was getting married."

"It hasn't come up."

"Who's the sucker?"

It takes everything she has to resist correcting him. "You don't know him."

Roy sneers. "You tell him there's still time to run?"

"No," she says evenly, "because they're very happy together."

"For now."

Ignore it, she tells herself—a familiar mantra. Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it.

From the living room she hears a quiet scoff—Seth is staring at her father, lip curled in distaste. It isn't entirely unlike the look he gave the sofa.

"What's for dinner?" she asks, eager to change the subject to just about anything else.

Her father sees through her (he usually does) but lets it go. Sometimes, Sara wonders if he tries even half as hard as she does to keep the peace. "I got some Tri Tip and corn on the barbecue." He nods toward the fridge. "And some of Phylis' mashed potatoes."

Phylis is the owner of the diner in town. When her mother left them, Roy quickly became one of her regulars. Her cooking is as familiar to Sara as Oma's was, but never preferred. Her mashed potatoes weren't bad, though. Sara suspects she would probably find them a lot more appealing if they weren't served straight out of a styrofoam cup.

"Sounds good."

She sets the table with paper plates and silverware—metal but cheap. Sara wonders if he's still buying the Walmart bulk sets so he can use the cheap price to justify throwing them away instead of washing them. The only thing that feels like it's made to last is the steak knives. She puts the potatoes in the microwave while her father cuts the meat.

Seth watches her from a respectable distance—she can see his shadow at the edges of her vision—but keeps his word and remains blessedly silent. Sara hates that the absence of his voice feels foreign. When they finally sit at the table, and she's asked to pass the butter, she's mildly horrified to realize her father's voice inspires more anxiety than Seth's has in weeks.

It takes all of ten minutes before she's reminded why.

Roy doesn't look up from his steak when he broaches one of the many conversational land mines with the subtlety of a bull. "When do you plan on getting a real degree?" The knife in his hand doesn't pause—sawing through tendon and flesh.

The words cut; another scar hidden on her heart. Her hands plant themselves on the table to still their trembling. "It is a real degree." She wonders how many more times she will have to come home to this conversation.

Her father doesn't bother to hide his scoff, his fork dragging a piece of meat through a trail of gravy on his plate. "A waste of money, that's what it is."

She bites her tongue, stilling the words that sit—burning—at the tip. It's not your money. It's not your life.

"You gotta be able to take care of yourself, Sara." He takes a swig of his cola, ice clinking against the glass. Sara is beginning to suspect it's laced with whiskey. "You ain't got that boy to lean on any—"

She cuts him off. "I don't want to talk about David."

"Well, you ought to," her father snaps. "I told you, Sara. I said you were getting in too deep with that boy and now he's gone and left you high and dry."

"He didn't leave, Dad! It's not his fault he can't remember!"

"Bullshit," he spits, an angry flush crawling up his neck and darkening his cheeks. "He's playing you like a fool, because that's what people do when they get the chance!"

She wants to argue—wants to scream—there is a lifetime of bitterness ready and waiting to be fired from her tongue. It would feel so good to finally let it go; to let the words fall like bombs from her lips and watch the shock on his face when they land, but she doesn't.

She can't.

In a family torn apart by death and abandonment, he's the only one left. As much as she wants to, she can't bring herself to sever that last remaining tie.

At the end of the table, sitting in the empty chair opposite of her father, Seth is silent. With his elbows on the table and his hands folded in front of his mouth, his eyes burn with a stillness that leaves her on edge. She had begged for his silence, but now—in face of her father's judgment—she wishes he would say something (anything) so she might feel just a little less alone.

Sara stands. Her meal's only half eaten, but she's not hungry anymore anyway. Even if she was, starving would be better than staying. "Thanks for dinner."

There's a flash of... something on her father's face. Maybe it's regret, but she suspects that's just her wishful thinking. "Wait a minute, now. Where are you going?"

"Home, Dad." She's already bringing her plate to the sink, her father a shadow at her back. "I'm going home."

When she turns to grab her purse from the counter, whatever softness she thought she glimpsed in her father's face is gone—replaced with something pinched and painfully familiar. "So, that's how it's going to be, then? I say something you don't like and you're just going to up and leave?!"

She's so, so tired. The anger she felt earlier has cooled into apathy. "Yeah, Dad. That's how it's going to be."

His sneer is ugly, fueled by a cursed combination of beer and bitterness. "That's what's wrong with your generation! Thin skin!"

Sara stares at him—the red creeping into his cheeks, the dilated pupils of his eyes—and knows the argument he's goading her into won't be won by anything she says. "Goodnight, Dad."

He keeps talking; more insults hurled at her back as she leaves. When the front door closes behind her, she can still hear his muffled curses from the porch step. Sara ignores it, feeling numb as she settles into the driver's seat. She can see her father's silhouette through the thin curtains, feet pacing and hands wild.

She turns the key in the ignition.

As she pulls onto the gravel drive, Seth speaks—a phantom voice from her backseat. "You failed to mention the part where your father is a complete arse."

She fights the urge, the instinct, to defend him. "Do you have to sit back there? It's weird."

A blink later and his form fills the passenger seat, the dim light from the console casting shadows over his features. "Does that mean we're not talking about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about," she snaps. She hates that her voice is as rough as the gravel crunching beneath her tires. She hates the burning in her eyes even more.

Seth is silent, but Sara can feel his gaze. They pass the mailbox, and she turns off the driveway onto cracked asphalt. In the distance, she can see the faint glow of the highway. Minutes pass, and Sara thinks he may (for once) leave it alone.

She always has given him too much credit.

"You know, I had a dear friend with a similar situation once. His father was a right piece of work."

"Good for him."

"I'm doing my very best to do the empathy thing you lot prattle on about. Do you mind?"

"Yes, yes I do. I mind. Can you please just drop it?"

"Well, I suppose since you asked so nicely," he grumbles.

A moment of silence, and then it spills out of her like a flood. "God, he's just such a—and it's not like he's even paying for it!"

Seth tsks, voice dripping with disgust. "Deplorable."

"Why does he even care?! He's never cared. Never. Now, suddenly, he's all invested in what I do with my life?" She shakes her head, fighting back the tears threatening to spill. "God, he's such a, a—"

Seth cuts her off, his words strained. "Sara, pet, perhaps you should pull over."

The glare she sends him is swift, but sharp. "You're the one who—"

"Yes, but you're damn near double the speed limit, and I'd rather prefer you stick around a bit longer."

Immediately, her foot relieves pressure off the gas—her mouth going dry when she catches sight of the speedometer. "Oh. Thanks." Then, his words registering, she adds, "And I'm not your pet."

He chuckles, but Sara doesn't dare take her eyes off the road to read his expression. "Course not, Princess."

Sometimes, she swears she could strangle him. "I'm not that either."

"Sure you are. It's in your name."

"In my—what are you even talking about?"

"Your name." Sara can practically hear his eyes rolling. "Honestly, have you never looked it up?"

His meaning strikes her, and she can't suppress the groan that leaves her lips. "Oh. My. God."

"Ah, there it is. The sweet sound of understanding."

"How do you even know that? Like, do you just browse baby name books for fun?"

She can see him shrugging from the corner of her eye. "Live long enough and you pick some things up."

"Like baby names?"

"Like languages," he snips. "Honestly, did you think I've been hanging around your flannel loving lot this entire time? The world is a big place, seeing it has been one of the few upsides to my irritatingly persistent condition."

Sara turns onto the highway, checking over her shoulder as she merges. "I really don't understand the vendetta you have against flannel."

"Simple. It's flannel."

"It's comfortable."

"It's hideous."