Page 72 of Shortcake
Truthfully, I didn’t think of the memories of my dad while he was here very often. “He was fun. I remember that. He always wanted to play. Our Mom ran a bakery and Dad…” I couldn’t remember what Dad’s job was. Just that he was home more often than my mom. “I think he bounced around with work a lot. He would declare pajama days randomly and we would all skip school to stay home and watch movies. And … I remember him letting us buy all kinds of candy.”
Conrad gave a somber nod. “So, he was afundad. But that’s not always the same as agooddad.”
I gulped. “He was only fun on the days when he wasn’t hungover.” While I didn’t say it, I also had a strong suspicion that on those ‘fun’ days, he was actively drunk. I vaguely recalled the faint spicy scent of whiskey on his breath those days. “More often than not, Dad was cranky. Tired. And he’d dump some cereal in a bowl before shoving us out the door and onto the school bus.” I was six. In first grade. Thank God for Neil who was old enough to watch out for us and make sure Finn made it onto the pre-school bus first.
Then there was the fighting. The screaming matches that we’d hear late at night between Mom and Dad. In a lot of ways, life got better after he left. Even if it was tricky for Mom to juggle parenting all on her own while also running the bakery.
I cleared my throat. “So yeah. I guess he was a pretty shitty dad, even when he was present.”
“And you think he magically became a great dad for her?” Conrad asked. There was no judgment in his voice. Just pure curiosity.
I nodded. “He wastherefor Hope, not us. We didn’t know it at the time, butshewas the reason he left us. He found out about her existence and had to go take care of her.”
“Huh.”
Huh. That was all he said in response.
“What?” I pressed.
I genuinely wanted to know what was going through his head. Especially since Conrad might have been the only truly objective voice of reason I could talk to about this whole ordeal. Even Enzo had a weird stake in this game. She wasn’t just my best friend… she was also Finn’s. And actually, she and Finn were friends for longer than she and I were friends.
Calculated and measured, as always, Conrad examined me for the beat of a single, long breath before he said, “It’s just, you said your dad ‘had to go take care of her.’ Which means, she probably lost her mother at a young age pretty tragically.”
I hadn’t ever really thought about her mother. At least, not outside of the context of her being the “other woman” tomymother. “I… guess so.”
“And she had no other siblings? Other than the four of you?”
I shook my head. “Not that I know of. Unless my dad has athirdsecret family. I seriously wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Huh.” He crossed to the fridge and grabbed a beer.
Again with theHuh. I was beginning to hate that one syllable. It wasn’t even a real word.
I narrowed my eyes, leaning my hip against the counter as he held up a bottle of SeaDog Blueberry Ale, brows raised. “Want one?”
“Sure… if you tell me what thoughts are swirling in that brain of yours.”
“I haven’t been hiding any of my swirling thoughts,” he said. But he didn’t meet my eyes as he popped the cap off the beer and handed it to me. And I witnessed the red flush deepen at the back of his neck.
Whatever he was about to say, I didn’t think I was going to like it. I tipped my head back, taking a swig, then stared at my red painted toes in my flip flops as Conrad went on.
“I’m just picturing what her life looked like. She lost her mom—who I’m guessing passed away, but I suppose she could have left, too. Hope had no sibling support like you had growing up. And her only guardian, according to you, wasn’t exactly a good parental figure. It just… must have been a hard childhood for her, don’t you think?”
I looked up just in time to drown in the dark pools of his eyes. I remembered those eyes locked onto mine in the darkness as we writhed in bed years ago. I remembered the soft press of his lips against my neck and the low groans of pleasure.
I could still feel it like it was yesterday.
His gaze bounced between my eyes like he was trying to literally read my face. His undivided attention felt like being woken up by a warm tide licking at your toes at the beach.
“What were you like when you were my age?” I wasn’t sure why I asked the question. It just came out.
He gave a breathless laugh. “At your age? I was already a dad. I’d been a dad for years.”
“Okay, fine. What were you like before you were a dad?”
A bemused smile fought against his scowl, and he pressed his lips together. Beneath the scruff at his jaw, the most delicious crevice threatened to dimple against the corner of his mouth. “Young Conrad was, as my daughter might say,extra.”
“Youwere extra?” I repeated, with a snort. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I find that hard to believe.”
