“Do you want to take a break?” my father asked. “I’m not really sure your head is in this tonight.”
A survey of the board proved him right. My words were stellar little pieces of brilliance like dog, from, and mat. With one word he’d pretty much annihilated my score.
“I guess not,” I told him, leaning back in my chair, feeling impossibly heavy. Outside the window screens, the waves sloshed against the shore, the low tide marking a steady, low rhythm.
“Everything okay, Rory?” my dad asked, his brow creasing with concern. “You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
Not the other world. Just this one, I thought. I gazed across the kitchen table at him, hesitating. Over the past few years I had barely spoken to my father, other than to inform him when I’d be home, that I had a doctor’s appointment, that I needed money for a haircut. It had been forever since my dad had offered to talk.
“Have you ever felt like you could trust someone one day and felt completely opposite the next?” I asked, toying with my tiles on their wooden rack.
He narrowed his brown eyes. “Is this about a boy?”
“Dad!” I said, blushing slightly. “Just answer the question.”
He leaned back as well, mimicking my pose, and thought. “Yes. Yes, I have,” he said at last.
“And? What did you do?” I asked.
“Well, Rory, things aren’t always exactly what they seem,” he said. “So I gave the person a chance to explain and then decided whether or not it was enough for me to trust them again.”
“And? Was it?” I asked hopefully.
He frowned and picked up his spoon, swirling it in the melted remains of his sundae.
“In my case, no,” he said, causing my heart to drop. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean it’ll be the same for you.”
“I know,” I replied.
I balled my hands into fists on the table, stacked them one on top of the other, and brought my chin down on top of them. The seven playable letters in front of me spelled out SPITBLA. My father sighed, gazing out the window to his right.
“Your mother was always so much better at these things,” he said wistfully.
“You’re doing fine, Dad,” I assured him, just as Darcy padded into the room on bare feet, her pajama pants sitting low on her hips. She dumped her own sundae dish into the sink without looking at us.
“Yeah?” my dad asked.
I gave him a small but genuine smile. “Yeah. You’re great.”
He sighed and nodded, as if pondering whether or not he could trust me. Then he sat up straight and dropped his spoon back into his dish.
“Fog’s coming in again.”
I stood up, knocking my chair back, my eyeballs suddenly throbbing. The thick gray mist already covered all the windows, blocking our view of the house next door, squelching all the light. I went to the back door to look out, but all I could see was the swirling cloud. It had moved in faster than I’d ever seen before. My mouth went dry as unadulterated panic seized my heart.
This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not when we hadn’t told everyone yet—not when we hadn’t come up with a plan.
Darcy stepped up next to my dad, who was now on his feet. “Could it be any creepier?”
A sudden crash, like metal trash cans colliding, made all three of us jump. It was followed by a quick, but very real, shout of pain.
“What was that?” my father said, already reaching for the door.
I grabbed his arm and squeezed. “No, Dad! Don’t!”
He ignored me. He yanked open the door, and a few fingers of fog licked at his shoes. Darcy and I looked at each other, and I could tell she was as terrified as I was.
“Hello?” my dad called out. “Is someone out there? Are you all right?”