“Dad! Don’t do that in here! Do it in the grass,” I fuss good-naturedly.
“Oh, sorry sweetheart,” he says sheepishly, setting his shoes to the side and tiptoeing away from the dirty zone, completely ignoring my suggestion. “What are you doing here?” he asks, walking past me to grab the broom and dustpan from the tiny closet just inside the kitchen.
“Cleaning. I hope that’s okay. I figured you’d be here.”
He doesn’t offer any kind of explanation, doesn’t tell me where he’s been, nothing. He just smiles.
“I guess I should’ve called,” I say, trying a different tack.
“You never have to call, Vi. You’re always welcome in this house, whether you’re cleaning it or not.”
I swallow my humph.
Mindful of my wet, gloved hands, I turn to head back into the kitchen, throwing casually over my shoulder, “What have you been into tonight?”
“Ummm, not much. Just . . . you know, a little of this, a little of that.”
I frown. That’s very vague. Not like my father at all.
“What’s this and that?”
“Oh, nothing you’d be interested in,” he says cryptically.
“Of course I’m interested, Dad,” I reply, even more curious now.
“I hate to bore you. Hey, have you had dinner?” he asks, quickly changing the subject.
I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s nearly eight, and he knows I never eat after seven thirty. Peeling off my gloves and tossing them onto the counter, I head back into the living room. I stop beside the sofa, crossing my arms over my chest.
“All right. What’s going on?”
My father looks up at me, his most innocuous expression in place. “What do you mean?”
“You’re acting all . . . sneaky. What have you been up to?”
“I told you—”
“You told me exactly nothing. Now what gives?”
“Vi, I—”
I gasp, something just having occurred to me. “Oh my gosh! Dad! Were you on a date?”
His laugh is genuine, which gives me my answer before he speaks. “No, Violet. I was not on a date.”
“Why is that funny?”
“It just is.”
“Then where were you? Why the secrecy?”
I watch his smile die. “I don’t know if you’re ready for my answer yet, hon.”
My frown deepens. “What’s that supposed to mean? What could you possibly have been doing that I wouldn’t be ready for?”
“It’s not so much what I was doing as much as who I was with.”
A million scenarios run through my mind, only one of which is even slightly bothersome. “As long as it wasn’t a hooker, I don’t think I’ll care, Dad. Just tell me.” After a heartbeat, I add, “Unless it was a hooker.”
“Violet Leigh, what’s the matter with you?”
“What? It’s a legitimate . . . fear.”
Dad shakes his head and walks past me toward his bedroom.
“Seriously?” I say.
“What is it now?” he calls from what sounds like his closet.
“You’re just gonna walk away like we were done?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact it is,” I snap, becoming as aggravated as I am curious.
A knock at the door interrupts our discussion, and since Dad’s in his bedroom, I go to answer it. I yank open the door in agitation, not even pausing to look through the peephole.
But I wish I had.
Although I doubt it would’ve prepared me.
Standing on the doorstep, looking as surprised as I feel, is Jet.
We stare at each other for at least a full minute before speaking. And then, when we do, we both speak at the same time.
“What are you doing here?” we ask simultaneously.
Neither of us bothers to answer; we simply resume staring quietly at each other. Then finally, after such a long pause that my nerves begin to jangle, I break the silence and ask again, “What are you doing here?”
“Ummm, I . . . your father left this in my car.” Jet hands me a cell phone that I recognize as my father’s. I’m pretty sure no one else in the history of the world has a plastic iPhone cover that looks and feels like Astroturf. Leave it to a landscaper . . .
I take the phone from his fingers, even more confused. “Why was my father in your car?” Jet doesn’t answer. He just watches me. Cautiously. I prompt him, “It’s not a trick question.”
“I know it’s not. I just . . . I didn’t . . .” Jet stammers.
I feel like strangling him when he just trails off and doesn’t continue. “You didn’t what?”
Jet sighs. “I didn’t want you to know.”
“Know what?” I ask, taking a step back, my defenses suddenly on high alert.
“It’s nothing bad, Violet,” Jet explains, his tone making me feel like a silly girl.
But then I get a little defensive. How dare he act like I have no reason to be skeptical. Once burned . . .
“Don’t pretend like that’s a foregone conclusion. You don’t exactly have a sterling record of full disclosure.”
He has the good grace to look sheepish. “You’re right. And I deserve that.”
I feel guilty for my dig, even though I really shouldn’t. “I’m sorry,” I offer, closing my eyes and rubbing the back of my hand over my forehead. “It’s been . . . I’m a little . . .”
I don’t finish. I don’t know how to explain to him that he turned my life upside down. Twice. And that I’ve been a mess for weeks.
“Don’t apologize,” Jet says softly. “You have nothing to apologize for.” I glance back up at him. His eyes are a deep, soulful blue that makes me ache right behind my ribs, all the way through to my back, like I’ve been shot. His lips pull up into a sad smile, and he continues. “Just let him know I dropped it off.”
With that, as if no other explanation is required, he turns and walks away.
I watch Jet until I can no longer see him. I feel torn. Part of me wants to go after him, to call out to him and ask him to come back. Or at least to wait. For what, I don’t know.
Another part of me, however, is still stinging. And still hopeful that one day . . . one day . . . I might be able to get over him.
Maybe . . .
When I hear an engine start somewhere down the street out of my line of sight, I close the door on the night. And on Jet.