Unscripted - Nicole Kronzer Page 0,3
of staring at Ben. She hugged me tightly. “Have fun. Learn a lot. I hope you meet great people.” She dropped her voice. “And keep an eye on Will and Jonas.”
I looped an arm around her neck. “Try and stop me.”
Then Dad wrapped his arms around me. “Good luck,” he said into my hair. “And be careful.”
I pulled back. “Be careful of what? Bears?”
“Different kind of animal, Zelda-belle. There are a million boys here! Plus, there’s no cell service, and Mom and I have never been away from you this long before. So please. Be careful.”
“Dad,” I chuckled, “boys see me as their funny friend Zelda who can keep track of when rehearsal is. But they don’t like like me.”
He coughed. “The fact that you think that makes me worry even more.” He looked over my shoulder. I followed his gaze and spotted a line of uniformed Boy Scouts hiking down the road and cutting into a path in the woods.
“Improv camp and Boy Scout camp?” he grumbled. “This keeps getting worse and worse.”
“Dad,” I said, whacking his shoulder. “We’re not in some 1950s sitcom here. If you’re going to worry about a thousand boys wanting me, you should be worried about Will, too.”
“I was until he became besotted with young Jonas over there.”
We watched Will and Jonas slowly retreat as Mom lectured them about being in a relationship and the importance of communication and listening and if, god forbid, they weren’t going to listen to good sense and reason, condoms.
Poor Will.
Dad and I shook our heads at the same time.
Smiling, I tried (and failed) to take a deep breath. “Look, Dad, if boys notice me, it’s only going to be for my quick wit and excellent collection of flannel shirts.”
Dad started to speak, then stopped himself.
“What?” I said.
His eyes dropped to his feet. “When Will’s mom died, I read this W. H. Auden poem over and over again.”
“The one about the clocks stopping, right?” I slid my arm around his waist so we were standing side by side, watching Will and Jonas turn various shades of beet and tomato.
He nodded. “That’s what I wanted: to ‘pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.’ ”
“Even though you had Will.”
“Even though I had Will. But then I met your mom.”
“Pregnant with me,” I inserted.
“Pregnant with you,” he agreed. “And I felt so sorry for her. Losing your father—I knew what it was to be too young to be widowed. But I was too tired and too sad to help.”
“But she wanted to help you,” I said.
“She wanted to help Will,” he corrected me. “He was the only thing that gave her peace. Made her smile.”
“Until I was born.”
“I’ve told you this story once or twice, have I?” He squeezed my shoulder.
“I like this story,” I said, leaning into him. “Keep going.”
“Well then, you know that your mom went into labor during one meeting of our grief group. The old ladies took baby Will and told me to go with your mom. I didn’t think I could—but she looked me in the eyes and said—”
“ ‘You are doing this for me, dammit,’ ” I interrupted.
He laughed.
“And that was the beginning of everything,” I finished.
He reached for the brim of his cap. “Not . . . quite.”
I looked up at him skeptically.
“That wasn’t the moment when there was no turning back,” he said. “I’ve never told you this next part . . .”
I pulled away and faced him, frowning. “What else is there?”
“Zelda-belle.” He exhaled sharply, folded and unfolded his arms, then took my hands. “Your mom loved Will, and I . . . I couldn’t take the sadness anymore. I was thinking about . . .” He raised his eyebrows, willing me to fill in the blanks.
Frowning harder, I cocked my head, trying to find the answers in his face. Then a cold wind swept over my body. Did he mean . . . he was thinking about killing himself?
He must have seen the shock of comprehension on my face because he smiled sadly. “Grief, no sleep, no family nearby—I felt hopeless. It’s not an excuse—it’s . . . an explanation.”
Stunned, I shook my head. “Then what?”
“Then you slid out of your mother’s body—”
“Gross, Dad.”
He smiled and began to tear up, “Not gross—magic, baby. You were magic.”
He gathered me in his arms, and I closed my eyes, breathing in his familiar warm Dad-ness. “You raged, entering this world. You demanded the name of the person who so rudely evacuated you from your