a response I know isn’t coming. One day she’ll be old enough to appreciate how hard I work to give her the life she takes for granted. One day.
Chapter Two
CeCe
I wish you and Mom would get a divorce.” I toss my backpack on the floor and lift myself onto the kitchen counter in my usual spot. I thought about it all day at school, how much better things would be if it were just Dad and me. Mom’s barely ever here anyway.
“Never going to happen,” Dad says. “Feet off the counter.”
“Why not?” I unfold my legs, letting them swing below me.
“Well, for starters, we can’t get divorced if we aren’t legally married.”
“You don’t have to remind me I’m a bastard.”
“But you’re such a cute bastard.” He leans over to ruffle my hair, then coughs a loud cough that sounds like it hurts. He clears his throat. “Hand me a glass?”
I grab one from the cupboard and Dad fills it from the tap, even though water from the fridge is colder and better. “Pretty much everyone I know has divorced parents,” I tell him.
“That’s sad,” he says before taking a long sip.
“No, it’s not.” I push my glasses back up my nose. I hate it when they fall down when I’m trying to make a point. “It’s kinda cool, actually—they get two houses, and their parents pretty much buy them whatever they want to let them know they still love them.”
“You’re lucky your parents don’t need to buy you anything to show how much we love you, or each other.” He plants a sloppy, wet kiss on my cheek that I wipe away.
“I’d be luckier if it was just you and me.”
Dad shakes his head and I know I should let it go. But I’m sick of letting everything go. All the little things, like when Mom has to cancel our mother-daughter manicures, and the big things, like when she postponed shopping for my first bra so many times that Dad eventually had to take me. He stood outside while a saleslady went in the dressing room with me. Her hands were freezing, and her breath smelled like garlic. It was awful, but I let it go.
“She doesn’t even like being a mom.”
“That’s not fair,” Dad says in his shrink voice.
“But it’s fair she always chooses work over me? Like my ballet recital in third grade? Or my thirteenth birthday? Graduation last year?”
Mom had been super annoying, making a huge deal about what a big milestone graduating from middle school was, and then I looked out from the stage to see Dad sitting next to an empty chair. The only empty seat in the whole auditorium.
“I don’t remember the ballet thing, but she got to your graduation as soon as she could, and we celebrated your birthday last year for a full week.”
“You always take her side.”
“I have two sides—one for each of you.” He turns around and looks over his shoulder. His smile fades when he sees I’m not amused. “Got everything you need to make dinner?”
“Yeah,” I say, trying not to sound too excited. This gourmet dinner is part of my plan—when Mom or Dad says something about how grown-up and mature I am, I’m going to ask them again about Liam’s party this weekend. If they trust me, it shouldn’t matter whether or not his parents are going to be there.
“Perfect,” Dad says. “I’ve got another patient in five minutes, and after that I’m all yours until my last patient at eight.”
“West Coaster?” I ask.
“Doctor-patient confidentiality.” He moves his hand across his mouth as though he’s zipping his lips shut.
“I don’t get what the big deal is, it’s not like I’ll ever meet this person.”
“You’re just like your mother.”
“Take that back.” I lower my voice so he knows I mean it. We may look alike with our boring brown hair, hazel eyes, and our noses that are a little too big for our faces, but I am nothing like my mother.
“Oh, Cecelia,” he sings. “You’re breaking my heart.”
“Yeah, yeah. And I’m shaking your confidence daily.” I roll my eyes as he kisses my forehead before going into his office, helping strangers on the Internet while his only daughter is dealing with major life problems on her own.
I wish there was a way I could make him understand this isn’t just any party. And Liam Donnelly isn’t just any boy.
Chapter Three
Alexis
Sorry I’m late,” I call as I open the front door at a quarter till nine. “Emergency at work.”
The