Daddy Crush - Adriana Anders Page 0,44

my jacket and head for the door.

18

So what’cha want

Jerusha

I finally finished my last piece for the show. I should be relieved, happy. Celebrating. All I want to do is go home and take a bath and watch some show I missed out on as a kid.

No. That’s a lie. What I really want to do is text Karl and tell him he’s missing out because there’s still stuff that I haven’t tried and I keep thinking about him and—

Nope. Not texting. Not calling. Not even looking to see if there’s a light on in his house when I walk by. (There isn’t.)

I drag myself up my steps and pull out my mail. A bill, a campaign flyer. I unlock my door, shove it open, flip to the last piece of mail, and stop.

It’s a postcard. My postcard.

After a couple seconds, it hits me that I’m looking at one of the invitations to my big art opening and then I see that it’s my parents’ invitation. There’s the little note from me, hand-written on the back—Dear Mama and Papa, I really hope you can make it. It would mean the world to me. Love, Jerusha. There’s a slash through their address with the words RETURN TO SENDER scrawled in my father’s handwriting. My bag thumps to the floor and all I can do is stare at the stupid thing, wondering if he wrote those words in anger or with some pious sense of superiority or if maybe, worst of all, he just doesn’t care.

I should be irate. I should cry. I should call him and tell him he’s a coward. Instead, I go straight upstairs to my bathroom—the one with the clawfoot tub I love so much—and strip down to nothing.

I’m about to turn the tap when someone knocks on my front door. Nobody I know comes to my house, except for…

When they knock a second time, I pull on my robe, race down the stairs, and slide the last few feet, before flipping open the lock and throwing open the door.

It’s Karl.

Without warning, my face crumples.

“Jerusha, what is it? Hey. What’s going on?” He reaches out and I step back, not because I don’t want his touch, but because I want it way too much. “Did I hurt you? Did I make you feel this way?”

“No. Not at all.” I force a smile. “I mean, I missed you, yes, but it’s m-m-my dad.”

“Is he okay? What do you need? I can drive you to—”

I shake my head, grab the card from the side table and hand it to him. I can tell the second he realizes what it means because his jaw hardens and his mouth goes all flat. He looks angry.

“It’s no big deal. I didn’t think they’d come, but I j-j-just hate that I care.”

“Come here.” His arms slide around me, pull me into that now-familiar chest, his comforting smell. It’s been a few days and already, I miss this smell. “It’s not okay. It’s fucking not.”

My chest shudders from the effort of holding the tears in.

It’s pointless. My eyes are already leaking, my face pressed to his coat. I hear the door close and lock. His muscles contract and I’m no longer on the floor. I tighten my hold, though I should make him put me down. But I don’t want to. I want the comfort of his arms, the solidity of these shoulders, this firm chest.

He leans down—so much bigger than I remembered—and kisses the top of my head. Just that. No words, no Stop crying, no Everything’s fine. Just that kiss.

I lose it. My body’s racked with painful sobs that are about so much more than a stupid returned invite. Although maybe not. That invitation wasn’t just a piece of paper in the post. It was an olive branch, an open door. A chance at connection. A way of asking my family to love me, even though I don’t fit into their mold.

“They don’t…want me,” I sob. “They don’t love me.”

He drops to the sofa in my dimly-lit living room—it’s the last place Karl and I spent time together, but it might as well be another world entirely.

Even that makes me want to cry.

“I’m sorry, Karl.”

He bends forward. “What?”

“I’m sorry I pressured you. I’m sorry I told you I loved—”

“No. No, Jerusha. Don’t be sorry. Don’t ever be sorry for how you feel. For being you.”

I open my mouth to protest, maybe to tell him that being me’s not working out all that well right