Page 15 of Gifts

“It’s four o’clock. Time to get up.”

She still doesn’t give me a glance. “I’m good.”

“It’s nice out. Let’s get out and do something.”

“I’m tired.”

I shoot straight with everyone and it’s time I start doing it with her, too. “I talked to Ms. Lockhart this week.”

Her head pops up and her eyes go big.

I don’t give her a chance to speak. “I’d met her once before but didn’t know who she was. I stopped to change her tire last week.”

She starts to frown.

“She’s pretty,” I offer the understatement of the century. Keelie’s fucking gorgeous.

That finally gets a rise out of her. She sits straight up in her bed and raises her voice. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m going to take her to dinner.”

“What!” she exclaims, her voice so high I’m surprised she didn’t shatter the fucking windows.

“I’ve decided that’s happening tonight.”

“Are you crazy? You cannot date my counselor.”

I enjoy the most reaction I’ve gotten out of my daughter in months. “Sure I can.”

“No, Dad. You can’t. It’ll be embarrassing.”

“Why?” I smirk, leaning into the door jamb. “Is she a bitch at school?”

“What?” She shakes her head a little. “No, not at all. She’s super cool and everyone who has another counselor wishes she was theirs.”

“Then it won’t be embarrassing.”

“Dad!”

“Get up and get ready. You’re going to dinner with us,” I inform her.

She gasps. “I am not going to dinner with you and Ms. Lockhart!”

“Your choice.” I reach for her door handle. “You staying home, burrowed in bed is a surefire way to guarantee we talk about you all night. She said she’s got little kids, so I assume they’ll be coming, too. You tag along—we’ll talk about the weather. You stay home—we’ll talk about you. I’m leaving in an hour.”

She starts to scramble out from under her covers in desperation. “Dad, you can’t—”

I don’t give her a chance to finish and slam the door as I announce, “I’m getting in the shower. Be there or be talked about.”

“Dad!” she yells again, but this time it’s drawled out into a million syllables.

When her door flies open to protest my plans, I’m in the process of shutting mine from across the hall. “See you in an hour.”

The last thing I see is my beautiful daughter standing in her bedroom doorway. Her chestnut hair is disheveled, she’s wearing pajamas that hang on her more than they used to from the weight loss she couldn’t afford, and her green eyes look tired. She’s a ghost of who she was months ago.

But moments later when I hear her bedroom door slam and banging around in her private bathroom, I smile.

I have no idea if pissing off my teenage daughter will work out in the end, but I’m sick of doing nothing.

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