What the fuck am I supposed to say and do?
I drop my tote and it lands on the tile. He whirls to face me, and the first thing I notice is he doesn’t smile. His eyes fix on me, widen—fuck, are you surprised that I’m here or that your daughter has changed in a year—and then his gaze grows intense.
I wait for him to do something—he used to always come give me a hug—but today nothing. Just that freaking black stare.
I pull the earbuds out. “How long have you been here?”
His eyes flash and his features tense, as if he was expecting something else from me.
He rakes a hand through his hair in an anxious, uncomfortable way, and then stills. Shit, he’s doing it again. Not talking and staring at me.
Yep, pretty striking resemblance, wouldn’t you say, Pop? It must suck to have to see it, since you’re so committed to not being my dad. Maturation is a bitch. I couldn’t look more like you if Mom made me from an Alan Manzone kit in the garage.
The tension in the room becomes suffocating as I wait for him to do something with this fucking awkward moment. He’s the adult; shouldn’t he save us?
Come on, Alan, why don’t you say something useful?
Like, hello, I’m your dad.
Or maybe, hello, you’re my daughter.
I’d settle for I know I’ve been gone a year, I’m sorry I was a prick, but I’m your father…
Stupid, Kaley, that’s never going to happen.
“Well, hello to you, too, Kaley,” Alan says affectionately, and for some reason it has the power to make me flush. “I just got in to LA a few hours ago.”
“Does Mom know you’re here?”
“No, I wanted to surprise her.”
He smiles.
Oh fuck, he doesn’t know anything.
“Oh, there is definitely going to be a surprise here today.” I debate whether I should get out of the house now, and then hurry to the kitchen.
I start rummaging through the refrigerator, not because I’m hungry but because I need something to do as I try to figure out my next move. I don’t know if I should stay—if Mom is going to need me—or if I should get the hell out of here before the fun starts.
I hear sound behind me. Crap, Alan followed me. I pull out some sort of ready-made pasta salad, slam the fridge door, and grab a fork from the drawer.
After popping off the lid, I lean against the counter, poking at the noodles, wishing Alan away and wishing I were the priority so that we could finally get a few factoids out in the open about who this baby’s daddy is.
Fuck, that’s all my mom needs, for me to have this confrontation now. I shove a too-large forkful of pasta in my mouth and choke it down.
I can feel Alan watching me eat, and it’s completely unnerving.
“You used to like me a little, love,” he chides good-humoredly.
A stupid joke; how the fuck does he do it? Why am I the one feeling as if I’m in the wrong?
I take in a steadying breath.
I’ll do my line.
“Very little,” I murmur, not looking up from my food.
That earns me a smile.
Alan relaxes back against the kitchen island. “You look good,” he says, more in his natural, charming way. “How do you like living in Pacific Palisades?”
Really? After a year? That’s what you want to know? Meaningless bullshit you could get from reading my Facebook page.
“I fucking hate it here.”
His eyes widen, surprised. Don’t act like you never heard the word before, Alan.
“How’s your mother been?”
Everything inside me turns over and erupts.
That’s it for Kaley time.
You look good.
How do you like it here?
And now you’re ready to blow past me, Alan, to pump for information about my mother.
I slam the pasta container on the counter. “I’m out of here.”
Before he can respond, I’m into my bedroom. I lock the door behind me, lean back against the wood, and clutch my stomach. It feels like someone has knocked the air out of me and I can’t pull in oxygen.
I stare at my room, not knowing what to do. Somehow I find myself in the bathroom. I take a quick shower to wash the smell of sex from my body, put on fresh clothes, and then grab my Vans from the closet.
No sounds for the rest of the house. Crap, it’s still quiet. What’s going on out there? I grab my cell from the bed.
Me: Alan is here.
Mom: I know, sweetheart.
I stare at the screen. Well, that wasn’t helpful.
Me: What do you want me to do? I can stay if you need me to or I can spend the night at Zoe’s.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. I stare at the screen, biting my nails, watching the little bouncing dots that tell me Mom’s typing. Why is it taking so long to answer that one?
Mom: Text me when you get to Zoe’s. Text me in the morning. I love you, baby girl.
I shove some stuff into a small duffel and head for the door, grabbing my tote from the entry hall before I hightail it into the driveway.
So much is running through me. The seeing-my-dad aftereffect. Guilt over abandoning ship during my mom’s moment of crisis. That hideous crackling uncertainty of life about to change and spin and not knowing in what direction.
The sense that tomorrow everything will be different in my world—I don’t know how, but Alan is here about to go through one of my mom’s classic bombshell moments—and my entire world will change.
It will all be different.
Like it was when my mom left Neiclass="underline" poof, up and gone.
Like when my mom left Alan—hasta la bye-bye, no warning—and married Jesse before she’d even unpacked.
Like when my mom had Khloe and a week later I found movers in the house and we were taking apart our life in Santa Barbara with Jesse.
When Chrissie makes a move—which isn’t very often—she moves boldly and unexpectedly.
It’s going to be the same with this latest Chrissie life-altering moment. Everything is going to be different. My mom, my dad, my sisters and brothers. Everything—but me.
CHAPTER 16
I park in the alley behind Bobby’s house, pull my keys from the ignition, and grab my stuff. After punching the security code into the back panel, I hurry across the lawn praying I don’t run into anyone. Getting caught sneaking into Bobby’s bedroom means discussion time with Linda.
Linda would take one look at my face, know shit’s going down in my world, latch on and pump me for the full 411. Linda knows and sees everything. It’s a freaking nightmare how on target she can be without ever being told anything. As for keeping my shit private, there is no such thing in the domain of Linda Rowan.
I make my way around the pool, slip into Bobby’s bedroom and flip on the light. Frowning, I drop my junk on the floor.
Where the hell is he?
I only left an hour ago.
I pull my phone from my pocket and check my texts. Nothing. Of course, he doesn’t have to tell me everything. He wasn’t expecting me back tonight. But, damn, I’m in crisis here.
I plop on the bed and start to type.
Me: Where are you?
I stare at the screen, expecting my usual rapid-fire response, and when nothing comes I fight the impulse to text him again and toss aside my cell.