Page 32 of Ladybirds

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.

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