my breath. The interviewer was a total misogynist.”
Dad arches one dark eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Trust me, if I get hired, it’d be a miracle.” I shove a strand of hair off my forehead. “Anyway, I’m wet and my feet are frozen from wading around in the basement all afternoon. Do you mind if I take a hot shower?”
“Go ahead. I’ll leave you to it.”
I crank the shower in the hall bathroom, strip out of my damp clothes, and step into the glass stall. The warm water seeps into my bones and brings a shiver of pleasure. I make it even hotter, and it almost triggers an orgasm. I’m so tired of being cold and wet.
As I soap up, I think back to my arrangement with Jake. Was it a mistake? Probably. It’s a lot of effort to go to for an unpaid internship, but if I want to gain experience by working at a major sports network and be able to do it during the school year, I only have two options: ESPN and HockeyNet. And the former is even more competitive.
I dunk my head under the spray and stand there for as long as I can justify. When I can imagine my father lecturing me about running up his hot water bill, I turn off the shower.
I cocoon myself in my terrycloth robe, wrap my hair in a turban, and cross the hall to my room.
Because Dad bought this house after I’d already moved out, this bedroom doesn’t really feel like home to me. The furniture is plain, and there’s a noticeable lack of personal items and decorations. Even my bedspread is impersonal—solid white, with white pillows and white sheets. Like a hospital. Or a mental institution. At our old house in Westlynn, I had one of those four-post beds and a colorful quilt, and on the wall over the headboard there’d been a glitter-painted wooden sign that said PEACHES. My dad had it custom made for my tenth birthday.
I wonder what ever happened to that sign. A bittersweet taste fills my mouth. I don’t remember the exact moment that Dad stopped calling me “Peaches.” Probably around the time I got together with Eric. And it wasn’t just mine and Dad’s relationship that suffered. What started out as admiration for a talented hockey player turned into a deep hatred that exists to this day. Dad never forgave Eric for what happened between us, and he doesn’t feel an ounce of sympathy that Eric has been spiraling ever since. A real man admits when he has a problem, Dad always says.
I unzip my suitcase and pull out some warm socks, panties, leggings, and an oversized sweater. I’ve just finished dressing when Dad knocks on the door.
“You decent?”
“Yup, come in.”
He opens the door and leans against the frame. “You want anything special for dinner tonight?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” I tell him, amused. “You don’t have to cook.”
“Wasn’t gonna. I thought we’d order a pizza.”
I snicker. “You know I’ve seen those meal plans you force the boys to follow, right? And meanwhile you’re over here ordering pizzas?”
“You’re home,” he says with a shrug. “It’s cause for celebration.”
Is it? Our interactions are so strained and awkward that it feels like two strangers talking to each other. There’s no warmth between us anymore. No hostility, either, but he’s definitely not the same man who used to call me Peaches.
“Okay, then. Pizza sounds great,” I say.
A short silence falls. He seems to be examining me, searching my gaze for…something.
For some reason, I feel it’s imperative to say, “I’m an adult now.”
Except saying I’m an adult now pretty much ensures that the person claiming adulthood is viewed as the complete opposite.
Dad’s mouth quirks wryly. “Well aware of that.”
“I mean, just because I’m staying here for a week or so doesn’t mean you can give me the ‘you live under my roof, you follow my rules’ shtick. I won’t follow a curfew.”
“And I won’t have you lumbering in here drunk at four in the morning.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not really a habit of mine. But I might come home a little tipsy around midnight after hanging out with my friends. And I don’t need you to lecture me about it.”
Dad drags his hand over his close-cropped hair. He’s sported this no-nonsense military buzz cut as far back as I can remember. Dad doesn’t like to waste time on frivolous things. Like hair.
“You do your thing, I do mine,” I finish. “Deal?”
“As long as your thing doesn’t harm