Page 45 of From Now On

He’s not coming.

My response is a quiet “Oh.”

My first test of being a braver, bolder,betterversion of myself is a complete failure.

“It’s just a bad weekend for us,” my father continues. “Noah has a baseball game and Lily started gymnastics, plus she’s got a birthday party that Saturday. We’re short-staffed at the station and they really need me on call.”

I’m silent. I shouldn’t be surprised, considering he’s never made much of an effort to show up before. Somerville isn’t exactly a short trip from Phoenix.

But Iamsurprised. It never occurred to me that my father might skip my college graduation. I thought our monthly phone call schedule meant something—was adding up to something—and that he finally cared about having some semblance of a relationship with me. He made the ten-minute drive to my high school graduation with his new wife and new baby.

I could look at a calendar and count exactly how many conversations we’ve had since that June. Just like I looked at a calendar and added up the amount of months I spent with Ben.

I was wrong about my dad caring. Just like I was wrong about Ben.

My dad’s still talking. He sounds more cheerful than when I first answered, like telling me was an unpleasant task he’s taken care of. “We’ll throw a big party when you’re back home,” he’s saying. “You can wear your cap and gown—recreate the big moment.”

“Okay.”

I want to say something else. I want to tell him that it’snotokay. That I’m hurt and upset and angry. But those chaotic emotions have coalesced into a giant lump in my throat, blocking full sentences from coming out.

“Great. We can hammer out some details when we talk next. Tuesday, week after next, right?” He sounds proud, like I should be impressed he remembered the one day a month he’s scheduled to check in with me.

I hate that he considers it an accomplishment. I hate myself, for allowing him to think it is one. For accepting the scraps of affection he tosses my way rather than throwing them back in his face and demanding more.

Because I’m scaredmorewill revert into nothing.

“How is Ben?”

There’s some twisted irony to the fact that my dad rarely asks about Ben but chooses this call to do so. He met Ben once, when he visited me in Chandler sophomore year, mostly quizzing him on New England sports teams Ben doesn’t follow. Neither was that impressed by the other’s contributions to the conversation.

“We broke up,” I state flatly.

“Dad! Dad! You said we could take Bella for a walk” is what interrupts the noticeable pause of my father having no idea what to say. Usually, on the rare occasions he comes up, Ben is a safe topic.

“One sec, sweetheart.” My dad’s voice is a little muffled now, like he covered the phone with his hand.

Still, I hear Lily’s next words loud and clear. “But Mom said dinner is almost ready. If we don’t go now, then we won’t have time before dinner and then it will be dark and then it will be bedtime and then?—”

My dad folds like a cheap tent. “Okay, okay. Go put on your shoes and get Bella’s leash.”

A few seconds later, his voice returns to normal. “I’m sorry, Eve, but I’ve got to go. We’ll talk Tuesday. Have fun in your classes this week.”

I’m not surprised he forgot this is my spring break week.

But it does hit like another slap to the face. Another one I let land.

CHAPTER TWELVE

HUNTER

My fingers tap along to the opening chords of “Don’t Stop Believing” as I study one of the vintage postcards sealed in the surface of the table. There are dozens of them—decorated with palm trees and sailboats and piers. The one half-covered by my bottle of beer shows a convertible cruising along the Pacific Coast Highway with a surfboard sticking out of the back. Blue sea and blue sky are the only backdrop.

If Eve were sitting next to me, I’d point it out to her. Ask if she’s ever painted the Sound. I’ve never seen any of her art, and I really want to. When she was sketching in the car, she looked so peaceful. It kinda reminded me of Hart, how the ice is so obviously his happy place.

Except, with hockey, I feel like there’s less mystery. Yeah, some guys are naturally more talented than others. But there’s also a huge element of hard work. And that hard work consists of the same things. There’s no sense of secrecy, like with the yellow sketchbook Eve was working in. Trying to guess what she would draw kept me entertained for a good hour.

Flowers, like the ones painted on her pants? Birds? Cars? Abstract shapes? Does she consciously decide or is it like skatingfor her, when your muscles know exactly what to do without you making a conscious decision?

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