Page 15 of Seven Percent of Ro Devereux
She studies my face, and it makes me want to hide. “You think Miller will stick to a script?”
I bite my lip, then set the scary truth in the air between us. “I have no idea what Miller will do.”
My phone buzzes between us. Sawyer Devereux:Who is it???
Maren glances at the screen, then up at her house through the windshield. “I don’t know if this is good or bad,” she says, “but I was just thinking, on the drive home. MASH has only been live for a week, and half that time it was glitched out and wouldn’t even load. It’s not like it’s Facebook or Instagram. I mean—not yet.” She offers me a little smile like I might be offended, but I’m not. “So, it’s not this universal thing yet. Not everyone has it.”
I’m not sure where she’s going with this, so I just say, “Right.”
“But Miller had it,” she says. “He took the whole survey, or he wouldn’t have been there for you to match with.”
I blink at her, trying to parse what I’m actually feeling from the roil of emotions in my gut.
“He cares,” Maren says. “He’s paying attention.”
Esther is in one of her rare cuddly moods. When I come in from the driveway she’s curled in my dad’s lap like a ginger croissant, snoring softly. Vera’s in the armchair across from them, and she mutes the TV when I close the front door.
Dad hasn’t spoken a full sentence to me all week, but now he says, “We watched the livestream.” I’m still in the entryway, sandals kicked off and my feet bare on the cold tile. “What happened? Who is he?”
We stare at each other. I can imagine what he’s imagining: some faceless guy with his arm around my shoulders, an unpredictable stranger, capable of anything. Someone like Declan Frey, maybe.
“It’s Miller,” I say. I have no commentary to add, so I don’t.
All the tense air rushes out of my father, his shoulders slumping. For a moment, he actually closes his eyes. “Oh, thank god,” he says. Because to him, Miller is safe and familiar. Someone he can trust with his one remaining nuclear family member. To me, Miller’s something else.
“Dad,” I say, not moving any closer. I glance at Vera and she nods, like she knows where I’m headed with this. Dad looks up at me, one hand on Esther’s rounded back. “I don’t want to go through all this with you mad at me.”
“Honey,” he says, “I’m not sure I want you to go through all this at all.”
I bite my lip, and he pats the couch next to him. When I sit down, Esther cracks an eye open to register my presence, then shuts it again.
“I’m doing this,” I tell him. He hasn’t turned any lights on yet and the living room is getting dark, crickets just starting to sing through the cracked windows in the kitchen. “I have to try. Vera understands,” I say, gesturing at her. She gives me a little look, like,Do I?But I barrel on. “Why can’t you?”
Dad looks at Vera, but if she disagrees with what I’ve said she doesn’t show it. A gift she’s always given me: she’ll correct me in private, but never in front of someone else.
“I understand how important this is to you,” Dad says slowly. He’s still in his work T-shirt,Beans on the Lakestitched on the pocket and a smudge of jam at the hem. “But I’m also your dad, and it’s my number one job to keep you safe. Can you understand that?”
I nod. “I am safe.” It feels true in the bodily sense, all my limbs intact.
“This is going to be overwhelming,” Dad says. “You know that, right?”
“It’s going to be worth it.”
“I hope so.” He rubs Esther between the ears, and she lets out a gravelly purr. He looks at Vera again, sighing before he turns back to me. “I know I can’t keep you small forever, Ro. Or keep you in this cabin with me forever, or keep you the same forever. But I thought I’d get one more year before you left for the real world. Before all that stress found you.”
“I can handle stress.”
He smiles, but there’s something sad about it. “I know you can. Of course you can.”
“Then what?”
He drops a hand onto my shoulder, big and warm and familiar. “I’d just rather you didn’t have to.”
I swallow, think of Maren.You don’t have to put yourself through this.
“Pete,” Vera says gently, and we both look at her. “Mind if I have a moment alone with our girl?”
Dad hesitates, but then nods and stands from the couch. He places Esther in my lap and brushes a hand over my hair, leans down to kiss the crown of my head before he leaves the room. I close my eyes as he does it: smell his aftershave, feel the scratch of his stubble. We’re okay, I know.
