I closed my eyes. A gust of air with the scent of her shampoo and body lotion caressed my nose, and I took a deep, greedy breath.
Not good. Not good. Not good.
Her phone was between the sheets, beeping with new text messages.
Brianna: Thanks for helping me with the filing today! xoxo
Grayson: If I were a Victoria’s Secret model, which one would I be?
Ava: Going to get my nipple pierced this weekend. Wish me luck. Did that cute guy call you yet?
I grabbed it, took out the SIM and split it in half before inserting it back into her phone and smashing the whole thing against the floor.
If that guy wanted Judith, he’d have to look for her the old-fashioned way, among the eight million residents of New York.
Break a leg, buddy.
One day I noticed Dad’s face was no longer the same pale shade as the bathroom wall.
He was going through something called adoptive cell transfer therapy. The treatments were invasive and uncomfortable, but every time he came back home, he smiled bigger than the last time. He was still weak. He was still gray. But he no longer spoke like he was ready to die but too ashamed to let go of life because he knew how much I needed him, and that made my heart soar.
We spent more and more time out of the house—short trips around the block, arm in arm, admiring the festival of colors as New York burst into full-blown summer. Green leaves rustled above our heads and barefoot children ran around the neighborhood pointing hoses at each other and spreading wild laughter like confetti. Flowers unfurled in their sleepy beds on the edges of our neighborhood’s sidewalks.
I still hadn’t told Dad I knew about Célian, and I intended to keep it that way. Even though we were cautiously optimistic, there was a good chance the treatment wouldn’t work. In which case, I would forever blame myself for confronting him about lying to me and trying to save both of us when really, I should’ve been cherishing every moment with him. So I chose to do that instead of picking a fight.
“Are you going to the library today?” Dad asked.
“Yeah, I need to catch up on some reading material for work. Why?”
“Oh, we got an invitation from Mrs. Hawthorne to come watch that new Jack Nicholson movie. She’s making Irish stew. But of course, you don’t have to come.”
“I’ll take a pass. I think you’ll have a good time by yourselves, anyway.” I knocked my shoulder against his, smiling brightly.
“It’s not what you think.”
“You don’t know what I think.”
Dad had never dated after Mom died, and not for my lack of trying to fix him up with people. I’d spent the majority of my college years trying to get him to sign up on dating sites—before he got sick. I was desperate for him to be happy, and never wanted him to think he shouldn’t be on my account.
“It’s really just a movie and dinner.”
“Dinner? I thought it was a lunch thing.”
We stopped by the grocery store on the corner of our street, and he blushed. Actually blushed. I was almost giddy with excitement. Such a natural human reaction, but on his pale, ill skin, it looked like a glorious sunrise.
“Don’t worry, I have other plans for the afternoon. How’s Milton?” He scratched his head.
Right. Milton. It’d been several weeks since I’d mentioned him to Dad. Then again, he’d very rarely dragged his butt to Brooklyn even when we were dating. Dad wasn’t too suspicious, because I worked insane hours—it still felt like I was barely at home to spend time with him. I didn’t want to explicitly lie to him, but this lie had gotten so big, it felt almost criminal to come clean at this point. Especially on this beautiful, sunny day, when we were both happy and smiling.
“He’s good, Dad.” I pulled him into a hug. “Taking names and kicking ass at The Thinking Man.” Not technically a lie. Our mutual so-called friends had been happy to break the news that Milton had recently been promoted to junior editor. For them, it was more reason for me to get down from the ego tree I’d climbed up and take him back. For me, it was yet more proof of the fact that he was still sleeping with his boss.
Of course, I wasn’t a big enough a hypocrite to point that out.
“My cell is broken at the moment, so I’m going to call you when I get to the library from the public phone. I’ll try you here, and at Mrs. Hawthorne’s, so please be available.”
Two hours later, I was walking to the subway on my way to the library. I’d dressed down, embracing the fact that it wasn’t a workday. I felt juvenile and reckless in skull-themed Chucks. The world felt lighter when you wore flannel shirts, ripped jeans, and a messenger bag. I adjusted the strap over my shoulder, about to enter the station when someone honked their horn behind me.