Page 6 of If We Say Goodbye
My cheek is already sore.
He’s always wearing baggy shirts. I never would’ve guessed that he was hiding washboard abs.
I lift my head and cringe as we make eye contact.
His face is bright red, and I can hear his heart pounding inches away from me.
My mouth gapes open, searching for anything to diffuse this awkward moment, but nothing comes out.
His hands are frozen at his sides, careful not to touch me. “Are you,” he pauses, “going to . . . move?”
I snap back into reality and push off him, scrambling to the side. My eyes are still as big as saucers.
He laughs, still laying on the concrete floor. “I didn’t realize I was that irresistible.”
“What?” I demand.
“You just fell for me.”
I pull myself up, glaring. “In your dreams.”
“Those would be nightmares,” he says.
My jaw rocks, and I roll my eyes. I knew better than to come over here. He probably wanted to annoy me because this isn’t the first time I’ve come over to complain about his drumming.
It was bait . . .
I spin on my heels and stomp away, chucking the drumstick as far into the street as my arm will send it.
“Leaving so soon, Bec?” Caleb says.
My hands ball into fists, and I keep walking. I’m not going to turn around or say anything else. That’s what he wants me to do, and I’ve had enough of his games for today.
* * *
I try notto let my dysfunctional afternoon ruin the rest of the day because Friday is the one day of the week I look forward to. It’s movie night. Mom goes to her spin class, leaving Dad and I alone to get our sci-fi fill in peace. We learned a long time ago, if Mom watches a movie with us, we have to rewatch it later because she inevitably talks through the entire thing.
Dad and I take turns picking out which movie to watch. I like the scarier ones, even though I always end up hiding behind pillows. Dad, on the other hand, likes the nostalgic ones that remind him of the movies he grew up with.
Despite all of that, it doesn’t matter what we watch. The best part is we can spend time together, and there’s no pressure to talk. We can sit through the entire movie without saying a word. It isn’t because we don’t have anything to say. We just know each other well enough we can communicate with gestures and looks. We’re that close.
At least, we were that close.
Over the last few months, Dad has gradually pulled away from me. He’s been working late hours, and by the time he comes home, I hardly get to talk to him before Mom starts arguing with him over meaningless problems. He can only stand so much before he gives up and heads to bed.
He’s missed our last few movie nights, but this one is different. Once a year, we rewatch our favorite movie—the one that started our ritual. No matter how much work he has, he would never skip our movie anniversary. One time, he even canceled a business trip because it was scheduled on the same day.
I set a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table and straighten the remote next to it. Then, I sit criss-crossed on the couch, waiting for Dad to come bursting through our front door.
I check my phone to see if I have any messages from him.
There’s none, so I send him one.
Me:
The popcorn is ready! :)
So far, he’s only a couple minutes late, but with each passing second, my hopes drop a little more. When those minutes turn into an hour, I finally decide to eat the popcorn. I shove it into my mouth by the handful, even though I hate getting it stuck in my teeth.