Who would likely fall back into that trap because it felt so right, despite being so wrong.
“You don’t have to go back.”
I crack an eyelid to look at her, flinching against the harsh daylight as I do. “What . . . just give up on everything?”
She shrugs. “I wouldn’t call it giving up. More like living through trial and error. Or taking a breather. Maybe time away from Ashton and school will put things into perspective. Or maybe they’re already in perspective and you just need a little time to let the dust settle.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” I close my eyes, gratefully absorbing the comfort of being home.
“You sure you don’t want me to stay home?” Dad asks as he pushes the matted hair off my forehead.
I answer with a sneeze and a groan.
With a heavy sigh, he says, “Okay, that does it. I’m staying.”
“No, Daddy.” I shake my head, though I’d love nothing more than to have him comfort me. “You should go. I’ll just get you sick if you stay here and it’s Kacey’s big game tonight. She’d be upset if you missed it.” Scratch that. My sister would be crushed if Dad missed it. “I’ll be—” My words are cut off by another violent sneeze.
Handing me a tissue, Dad cringes. “Well, I’m not going to lie to you, kiddo. You’re kind of grossing me out right now.”
The way he says “kiddo” with his faint Irish brogue makes me giggle.
“Don’t worry. I’m grossing myself out right now, plenty,” I say between nose blows.
He answers with a chuckle and a pat to my knee. “Just teasing. You’ll always be my beautiful little angel, green snot and all.” He busies himself arranging the medicine and liquids on my nightstand while I reposition myself. “Mrs. Duggan is in the family room—”
“Ugh! Dad! I don’t need a babysitter!”
I see the shift before he utters a word. “Yes you do, Livie. You may act like a thirty-year-old sometimes but you’re biologically only eleven, and Child Protective Services frowns upon leaving eleven-year-olds home alone. No arguing,” he says briskly, leaning in to place a kiss on top of my head.
My brow knits as I fumble for my remote. Three back-to-back episodes of lions eating gazelles in the wild are too much.
With a sigh and a mutter about his stubborn girls, he stands up and heads toward the door. But he stops and turns back, waiting, his watery blue irises twinkling with his smile. My scowl lasts all of two more seconds before a grin wins out. It’s impossible to keep a scowl when my dad smiles at me like that. He just has a way about him.
Dad chuckles softly. “That’s my Livie Girl. Make me proud.”
He says the same thing every night.
And tonight, just like every other night, I flash him a toothy smile as I answer, “I’ll always make you proud, Daddy.” I watch him leave, shutting the door quietly behind him.
I wake up to a late-afternoon sky and my last words to my father playing over in my head. Such simple words. A tiny, routine phrase. But in reality, guaranteed to be a lie. I mean, how can anyone commit to something like that? Not every decision you will make is going to be a good one. Some of them will even be disastrous.
I turn and see that the person sitting in the lounger next to me isn’t as red-haired or female as the one who was there when I fell asleep.
“Hello, Livie.” Dr. Stayner adjusts his hideous two-toned bowling shirt. It almost goes with the Hawaiian boardshorts that no man his age should ever wear. “How do you like my beachwear?”
“Hey, Dr. Stayner. Why are you always right?”
“I tend to be, don’t I?”
“Thank goodness. I thought I’d have to torch that chair if you didn’t shower soon.”
I give my sister a playful shove as we walk down the hall toward the kitchen. “So . . . Stayner?”
She shrugs. “I texted him last night to let him know that you finally cracked. I didn’t expect him to show up here with a suitcase, though.”
Apparently, Dr. Stayner has decided to enjoy a few days in sunny Miami, Florida at Chez Ryder. Well, Storm insisted that he stay with us, even though that means he takes Kacey’s room and she either sleeps with me or at Trent’s. I reminded her that it was strange and unprofessional for the family psychiatrist to stay with us. Then she reminded me that everything about Dr. Stayner is strange and unprofessional, so this actually makes sense.
My argument ended there.
And now Dr. Stayner is at our kitchen sink in one of Storm’s polka-dot aprons, peeling carrots with Mia’s help.
“Do you think eating carrots really make you see better or is that just what moms say to make kids eat vegetables?” Mia’s at that cute age where she’s still quite gullible but is learning to question things.
I lean up against the entranceway with my arms crossed and watch with curiosity.
“What do you think, Mia?” Dr. Stayner replies.
She narrows her eyes at him. “I asked you first.”
I shake my head and laugh. “Don’t bother. She’s too smart for you, Stayner.”
With a squeal, Mia drops the carrot and runs to dive into my arms in a hug. “Livie! Mom said you were here. Did you see X moving?”
I chuckle. I guess Mia has moved on from the loving nickname “Baby Alien X” to just “X.” It works. “No, but I saw Dan poking your mom’s belly last night,” I say with a wink.
She makes a face. “I hope he’s not going to be weird when X is born.” The topic quickly changes. “Are you staying for a while?” Her expression is hopeful.
“I don’t know, Mia.” And it’s the truth. I just don’t know anything anymore.
“What do you think it is?”
Dr. Stayner slurps at the extra-large latte as we sit side by side in lounge chairs on the back deck, watching the early morning joggers pass by. All that coffee can’t be good for him. “I can’t begin to hazard a guess on that, Livie. He clearly has some issues to sort out. It would seem that he uses physical connections with women as a way of coping. It would seem that his mother’s death is too difficult for him to talk about. It would seem that he does care greatly for you.” Dr. Stayner sits back in his chair. “And if he grew up with an abusive father, then it is quite possible that he still feels as if he has little control over his life. Maybe he does. But I can tell you that you’ll never get an answer that makes sense to you about why it all happened to him. And until he talks about it, it’s difficult to help him. And that is why, my dear Livie Girl . . .” I roll my eyes but then smile. For some reason he took a liking to that nickname. “You need to untangle yourself from his mess until you can straighten out yours. Don’t forget, your sister and Trent needed the same. It was five months before they reconnected. These things often take time.”
I nod slowly. Five months. Where will Ashton be in five months? How many women will he “forget” with in by then? And can I handle being at Princeton while he works things out? If he’s even trying to work things out. My stomach is starting to churn again.
“Livie . . .”
“Sorry.”
“I know it’s hard, but you need to focus on yourself for a little while. Get this hang-up out of your head that you”—he lifts his fingers in air quotes—“‘lied’ to your father.”