Heart Bones - Colleen Hoover Page 0,7
his home and didn’t speak until it was time for me to leave for college in August.
We walk toward each other. He took the first step so I make sure and take the last. We don’t hug because I’m holding my backpack, my purse, and the plastic sack that contains Mother Teresa. I’m not a hugger. All that touching and squeezing and smiling is not on my reunion agenda.
We awkwardly nod at each other and it’s obvious we’re strangers who share nothing but a dismal last name and some DNA.
“Wow,” he says, shaking his head as he takes me in. “You’re grown up. And beautiful. And so tall…and…”
I force a smile. “You look…older.”
His black hair is sprinkled with salty strands, and his face is fuller. He’s always been handsome, but most little girls think their fathers are handsome. Now that I’m an adult, I can see that he is actually a handsome man.
Even deadbeat dads can be good-looking, I guess.
There is something else different about him in a way that has nothing to do with aging. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know that I like it.
He gestures toward the baggage carousel. “How many bags do you have?”
“Three.”
The lie comes out of my mouth immediately. Sometimes I impress myself with how easily fabrications come to me. Another coping mechanism I learned living with Janean. “Three big red suitcases. I thought I might stay a few weeks, so I brought everything.”
The buzzer sounds and the carousel begins to turn. My father walks over to where the luggage begins spilling out of the conveyor belt. I pull the strap of my backpack up onto my shoulder—the backpack that contains everything I brought with me.
I don’t even own a suitcase, much less three red ones. But maybe if he thinks the airport lost my luggage, he’ll offer to replace my nonexistent belongings.
I know that pretending to lose nonexistent luggage is deceitful. But his leg isn’t broken, so that makes us even.
A lie for a lie.
We wait for several minutes in complete awkwardness for luggage I know isn’t coming.
I tell him I need to freshen up and spend at least ten minutes in the bathroom. I changed out of my work uniform before I got on the plane. I put on one of the sundresses that had been wrinkled up in my backpack. Sitting around all day in airports and in a cramped airplane seat has made it even more wrinkled.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I don’t look much like my father at all. I have my mother’s dull, lifeless brown hair and my father’s green eyes. I also have my father’s mouth. My mother had thin, almost invisible lips, so at least my dad gave me something other than his last name.
Even though pieces of me resemble pieces of them, I’ve never felt like I’ve belonged to either one of them. It’s as if I adopted myself when I was a kid and have been on my own since then. This visit with my father feels just like that…a visit. I don’t feel like I’m coming home. I don’t even feel like I just left home.
Home still feels like a mythical place I’ve been searching for my whole life.
By the time I make it out of the bathroom, all the other passengers have gone and my father is at a counter filling out a form for my missing luggage.
“It shows there were no bags checked with this ticket,” the agent says to my father. “Do you have the receipt? Sometimes they stick them on the back of the ticket.”
He looks at me. I shrug innocently. “I was running late, so Mom checked them for me after they handed me my ticket.”
I walk away from the counter, pretending to be interested in a sign posted on the wall. The agent tells my father they’ll be in touch if they find the bags.
My father walks over to me and points at the door. “Car is this way.”
The airport is ten miles behind us. His GPS says his home is sixty-three miles ahead of us. His car smells like aftershave and salt.
“After you’re settled in, Sara can run you to the store to get whatever you need.”
“Who’s Sara?”
My father looks over at me like he isn’t sure if I’m joking or not.
“Sara. Alana’s daughter.”
“Alana?”
He glances back at the road and I see a tiny shift in his jaw as it tightens. “My wife? I sent you an invitation to the wedding