Page 45 of To Belong Together
The tattoo? He rubbed his hand over the chest of his shirt. A vague memory from the hospital surfaced. “That’s not fair.”
The tattoo was only a symbol of his dedication. He’d carved time out of his schedule for vacations, made sure his sisters were well provided for, and most recently, moved across the country to be closer.
“You were a lot less judgy when you were gone,” she said.
So she didn’t consider his move a good thing. No wonder. When he’d lived farther away, it’d been easier to hide the truth from him.
And he was the one who was supposed to stop with the drama. “I’ll see you at the rehearsal dinner.” He disconnected.
He’d once summed up who he thought Erin was, and daughter had topped the list. She’d asked for his identity in return. If he’d answered, brother would’ve been one of the top roles he named, yet he’d fulfilled the position so poorly he’d been kicked out of his own sister’s wedding.
Out of little Katie’s wedding.
Either he wasn’t who he thought he was, or blood didn’t run as thick as people claimed.
15
Aweek had passed, but the ramen Erin packed for lunch still reminded her too much of soup and her last conversation with John. She couldn’t stomach it. She walked to the fast food joint a block from work, mulling over the disagreement once more.
Around him, she said the dumbest things. He was right—he’d never been less than respectful … until he’d accused her of being a gold digger.
But she could forgive that, couldn’t she? After all, she’d refused to fix his car, resulting in his accident. And she’d accused him of being interested in her because she’d made him soup.
Ridiculous.
When she finished eating, she trudged back to work, the burrito and nachos weighing her down like sandbags. She liked John. She’d liked him from the start, but unless she set aside this idea that men couldn’t appreciate her for who she was, she’d never do anything but pick fights with him.
Not that he’d come around again to allow another fight.
The squawk of a car’s sudden stop turned her from the door of Hirsh Auto. A sedan idled, askew, with one tire on the terrace, the driver’s side front tire on the road. Hadn’t the apron been cleared of ice? Yet the car seemed to have skidded in a failed attempt to turn into the lot.
An all-too familiar car.
She sprinted as the driver’s door opened—and the car began to roll.
Dad’s gray head appeared as he emerged from the car. He stumbled for footing as the vehicle edged forward at a mile or two per hour.
She ran into the street and caught him before he lost his balance. Thankfully, Hartley’s main drag had four lanes and a low speed limit. Traffic had room to navigate around them. She half-dragged him away from the car.
At the curb, he sat in the rut his tires had imprinted into the snow.
Hopefully he’d be safe enough while she stopped the car, which had advanced another two feet. She doubled back, caught the still-open door, and hopped into the driver’s seat to hit the brakes. After slamming the car into park, she turned off the ignition.
If only she could linger in the quiet to catch her breath and slow her heart rate.
Hands shaking, she climbed back out. Dad remained seated, looking as stunned and shaken as she felt.
“What were you doing?”
“The brakes are bad. I knew it.”
No. They’d worked fine for her. He’d hit the wrong pedal or misjudged the distance.
“You’re not supposed to be driving.”
At the accusation in her tone, his expression clouded.
Grief rose over her panic, like one wave swallowing another out on Lake Superior. He hadn’t done this on purpose. Her anger wouldn’t help him remember the lesson. This was their reality, their ever-worsening reality.
