Page 198 of The Fake Date Agreement

I woke him in the middle of the night, and he has to be up at six to get ready for work, but he will sit by my side until five if that’s what I need. “Thanks, Dad.”

Chapter 47

Tobie

The first threedays of spring break I spend in bed watching movies on my laptop.

I can’t stop shivering, my joints ache, my body is heavy, and no matter how much sleep I have, it never feels like it’s enough.

All I brought with me to Lawrenceburg was my laptop, phone, the important chargers, and, thankfully, my thyroid medication. That’s it. So I also spend those days as a scruffpants, digging into all the sweatpants and PJs I didn’t love enough to bring with me to college.

“You hungry, Junebug?” Dad calls up the stairs, our familiar pattern over the last three days.

I stretch and sit up in bed, telling myself it’s okay that I slept until eleven.

Rest when my body needs it doesn’t make me lazy.I mentally repeat a chant my old therapist taught me soon after my diagnosis.

“Only if you’re making something for yourself.”

“I am.”

I’m not sure I believe him. If I said I was hungry, and Dad had a meeting, he would cancel it to make me food and deny there was any such meeting if I asked about it.

Twenty minutes later, he knocks and walks in with a tray. “An omelet with spinach and feta,” he says. “And juice.”

He made the same omelet the day before—it’s one of my favorites.

“What happened to making yourself food?” I ask as he places the tray in my lap and crosses the room to pull back the drapes and open the window.

“Just decided I wasn’t hungry after all.” He sticks his head out.

“What are you doing?”

“Chasing away any doves you have out there before they make a mess on my car.”

I laugh, and he flashes me a smile on his way to settling on the green velvet armchair I’d snuggle up in on winter nights with a blanket and a book. It sits between two large bookcases bursting at the seams.

My room is exactly how it was when I moved out. The books were too heavy for me to take to college, so I brought a handful of my favorites and bought more in Lamont.

At the bottom of my bed is the knitted throw that belonged to my grandma who passed before I was born. My room is in natural shades of brown, green, and beige. I loved this bedroom before I moved away for college, and I still do.

For the next several minutes, I dig into my savory breakfast as Dad flicks through one of my books.

“We broke up weeks ago,” I tell Dad when I’ve finished eating.

“I guessed as much,” Dad says, returning my book on Greek heroes to the shelf.

“How?”

“Marc told his parents that you were having some problems.”

I smile wryly at him. “Small towns, huh?”

He returns my smile. “Small towns.”

I put my fork down to play with my glass. Dad doesn’t demand to know more or ask.

He just waits.

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