Page 88 of Wanted You More

He walks in, studying the mess of things I’ve got scattered. I’ll be home for a month before the spring term starts, so I’ve made myself at home again.

“You didn’t answer my question about your finals when I asked at dinner,” he says, sitting on the edge of my bed and picking up a pair of my jeans to fold. He frowns at all the tears going up the thighs but doesn’t say anything.

I’d been a little out of it at dinner. Wolfe was saying something about Raven, his girl friend. Two words, not one. Apparently, she convinced him to help with set design for the drama club’s spring play. They’re performingGreasefor the millionth time, which my brother always complains about. I guess it only takes a freckle-faced redhead to get him to be a team player.

Been there, done that.

Flattening out the wrinkles from one of my sweaters, I carefully fold it and set it aside with my growing collection. When I see the pink one I bought on my spontaneous shopping trip with Bailey, I make a face and grab something different. “I passed mostly all of them.”

Dad pauses on the shirt he has. “Mostly? You didn’t pass all of them?”

Anytime grades are brought up, I know the conversation will never end well. “I passed my classes. Isn’t that good enough?”

His sigh is what greets me. “Austen, what happened? You were on top of everything last we talked. You had that study grou—” He stops himself, frowning when he sees my face. “You never had a study group, did you?”

Unless he considers studying with Kennedy a couple times in the library, then no. “I did study, but you know me. I’ve never been a great test taker.”

Plus, I spent most of the semester hungover, high, and in someone else’s bed. My father doesn’t need to know that.

Dad sets the shirt down on his lap. “I know you’ve struggled with that, but there are options. That’s why there’s the tutoring center.”

As if I’d ever step foot in there. “I don’t need a tutor. I’ll just focus better next semester. Promise.”

I’d try, at the very least. I told him I’d give college one year. After this term, I’ll figure out how to break it to him that it’s not for me. How hard can that be?

“What was your final GPA?” He sees me cringe before I can stop myself. “Do I even want to know after that look?”

Does an academic man who wants me to live up to his standards want me to tell him that I scraped by with a 2.0 this term? Probably not. I remember getting a bad score on a spelling test when I was little and having to practice twice as much with Mom while she cooked dinner.

I’d felt dumb whenever I got a word wrong and had more than one day where I ended up crying on the little wooden chair I used to sit on while she asked me each word. It never took much to frustrate me because everyone seemed to know I could do better.

Everybody but me.

“It’s not like I need to keep up my grade point average to hold on to a scholarship,” I offer weakly, thinking that’ll somehow help.

It doesn’t. “That’s no excuse. Did you put any effort in? Come on, Austen. I know you’re taking Professor Kamala’s class in the spring. I can’t have you slacking and using me as a reason to scrape by.”

“How do you know I’m taking her class?”

“She told me.”

I stare at my laundry, debating on asking why she told him. “I wouldn’t use you like that. Don’t you think if I wanted to, I’d take one of your classes?”

Dad considers that before letting out a small breath. “You’re a smart girl. I wish you’d apply yourself more often, like your mother always did.”

A ping of pain settles into my chest and sinks into the bottom of my stomach. Why does he have to do that? “That’s not fair. Mom was basically a genius. I can’t be her, Dad.”

His eyes lift. “Nobody can be.”

That hurts worse.

Forgetting about my laundry, I get off the bed and wander over to my dresser, where a few drawers are open. “Do you and Professor Kalama talk a lot?”

It takes him a moment. “We’re coworkers. We talk whenever we see each other.”

I know there’s more he’s not telling me. As soon as I turn to face him, he evades my eyes and focuses solely on the pile of laundry left behind on the bed.

All he tells me is, “Nobody couldeverreplace your mother. She was one of a kind.”

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