Page 70 of Shortcake
“We didn’t think it was a secret,” Liam said, his eyes cutting nervously to Neil. “We just assumed you were coming, too.”
I met Finn’s gaze across the table. They didn’tallassume that. Not Finn. “Why should we go?” I asked.
When I was only met with their stares, gaping at me like I was some petulant child, I repeated myself. “I’m serious. Why should we all go to this wedding when he couldn’t even be bothered to call us on our birthdays for decades, let alonevisitus once.”
Mom’s face softened and she reached out, draping her hand over mine. “Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that you four are stronger than your father ever was or ever will be. The truth is, you don’t have to go, Addy. No one will make you. But if you ever want a relationship with your dad, it’s most likely going to have to start with you contacting him.”
“Because Dad’s chicken shit?” My throat was tight as I said the words. I meant it as a joke, but there was a lot of truth to it, too.
Mom gave me a sad smile and squeezed my hand with a nod. “Yep. Because your father is a chicken shit.”
Everyone gave soft laughs around the table, myself included. But as the laughter receded, all that was left in its place was a nausea churning in the pit of my stomach.
I didn’t want to be here anymore with my family. I didn’t want to talk about Hope or Dad or all the ways he lacked as a father. Or how when it came to him, not even once did we get to be the kids. Even now, it was apparently up to us to find a path to forgiveness and healing.
I needed to get away from my family. I needed them to get out of my house.
I stood quickly, starting to clear what was left of everyone’s plates, even when they clearly weren’t done. “I’m not feeling very well.” My voice barely sounded like my own. “Can we skip dessert?”
It took a moment before they all stood and silently made their way out of the house. I didn’t follow them. I didn’t even say goodbye or bother ushering them out the door. Because I knew that even another minute of that conversation or seeing their faces and I’d probably end up yelling or crying.
Or both.
I joined Conrad in the kitchen, bringing the rest of the dishes out to the sink. “You really don’t have to do that,” I said.
“I like doing dishes,” he said with a shrug.
“Nobodylikesdoing dishes.” I rolled my eyes and reached out to snatch the sponge from his hands. “Maybe you tolerate them—”
“Hey!” he laughed, then quickly lifted his arm above his head so I couldn’t reach the sponge. I hopped, trying to snatch it out of his hands, but dang he was tall. And they didn’t call me Shortcake for nothing.
“Don’t try to take this simple joy from me,” Conrad said, seriously. “Doing dishes is my passion.” If it hadn’t been for the smallest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, I would have taken him very seriously.
I gave one more hop, trying to reach the sponge and failed miserably. Finally, I sighed. “Fine. You can do the dishes, you weirdo. But let me at least dry and put them away.”
I snapped a towel off the oven handle and went to work hand drying the clean plates and stacking them in the cabinets.
“That’s usually Harper’s job,” he said. I sent him a glare until he added, “But I guess she can have the night off.”
I needed something to keep me busy. If I just went down to hang out with Eleanor and watch a movie, my mind would wander and I’d probably end up doing something stupid.
Like emailing Hope, drunkenly, in the middle of the night.
I’d already come dangerously close to doing this multiple times. Three email drafts were saved in my inbox.
“Just so you know, you don’t have to talk to me… but you can. I’m a pretty good listener, despite what my daughter’s probably told you about me.”
I smiled a little. “She actually said that you two used to spend a lot of time together. Before…”
“Before my mother died, we did. Mom would always claim she wanted some alone time in the house and push us out the door, but I knew she was just letting me have my private time with Harper. When I wasn’t on call, we’d go on nature walks out on Long Island. Or beach days and Nathan’s hotdogs in Coney Island. We’d go see a Brooklyn Cyclones game—”
“BrooklynCyclones?”
“The minor league baseball team there.”
“Ah,” I nodded. I loved a good minor league game. Cheap tickets, and even cheaper beer. Low stakes. No rowdy fans ever got into fights over minor league games like they did at Red Sox-Yankees games. “Why’d you two stop hanging out so much?”
“Harper got older. She wanted to spend weekends with her friends, not me. Or when weweretogether, her nose would be buried in her phone, snapchatting the friends she wished she was with. Plus…”
