“Are you sure everything is okay, Dad?” I ask softly. “Because if not . . .”
“I already said we were okay,” he says, a little impatiently. He is a mild man, and I know I’m the reason he becomes exasperated. “I just want you to be here for Thanksgiving dinner. I’ll pay for your tickets.”
“It’s not about the tickets.” I let out a sigh. I hate this, and I hate myself, and I hate that this is what my family has crumbled into. “I don’t think I can take time off work. Spooky Season is our busiest time of the year. I’ll need to find a replacement for both my jobs . . . I just don’t see it happening at such short notice.”
Even though this is not a lie, it’s not the entire truth either. It’s not work that’s keeping me away. Dad is quiet. I hear Renn in the background, playing video games and laughing with his friends. My heart folds into itself, a tiny origami butterfly. I miss lazy Sunday afternoons with him, playing Halo and arguing about meaningless things, like which is better, How I Met Your Mother or The Big Bang Theory （How I Met Your Mother）。 Or are people who eat hot dogs horizontally sociopaths （yes）。
“I see,” Dad grunts, finally. “I can’t change your mind, I suppose.”
“We’ll do Christmas together,” I hurry to promise. This time, I intend on keeping that promise.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he says.
Taking a deep breath, I ignore his snark. “I love you, Dad.”
The words feel so hollow, so sour in my mouth. This is not what love looks like. This is not what love feels like. It did, six years ago. Six years ago, we had weekly dates at a favorite diner and family Scrabble evenings every Wednesday and Taco Tuesdays.
He hangs up on me without saying it back.
Your own family doesn’t love you. Let that sink in for a moment.
I bash my head against the steering wheel softly. The thumps are rhythmic. Thud. Thud. Thud. I do that for about ten minutes before using the remainder of my energy to rev up the engine and start driving. I put “Unfinished Symphony,” by Massive Attack, on Bluetooth. The streets are littered with people. Laughing and kissing and hugging and living. I drive without direction or purpose. I drive because I know what’s waiting for me at home. Nora and Colt, cuddled together on the couch like a human yin and yang, watching a movie, cooing at each other. I drive until the red line on my dash informs me I’d better get my ass to a gas station before my car dies.
I stop at the nearest station and pump gas. I glance at my watch. It’s close to two in the morning. I haven’t eaten all day. I need something sweet and comforting. With the gas pump still inside the tank, I amble into the 7-Eleven and head straight to the candy aisle. A tall dark-haired man is standing on the other side of it. Our bodies are positioned exactly as Joe and I were in that pharmacy, six years ago. My heart skips a beat. For a moment, I’m tempted to sidestep, see if it’s Joe. But then Nora’s words reverberate in my head. It’s not him. It can’t be him. I’ll never see him again. It’s time to move on.
After grabbing a bag of Skittles, a pack of Oreos, and a Big Gulp blueberry slushie, I make my way to the register. I nod at the cashier.
“That it?” The guy pops his gum in my face.
“Yeah.”
“Hey, man, you ran out of sandwiches.” I hear a male voice coming from one of the beverage fridges, and I know it belongs to the tall dark-haired guy. There’s no one else here.
“Shit happens, bro.” Cashier Guy snaps his gum again as he hands me a plastic bag and my change. “There’s some frozen meals if you’re desperate. Or you can eat chips like the rest of the modern world.”
“Shit happens? That’s your answer? And I don’t want junk, I want a fucking sandwich.” When the guy materializes from behind the aisles, my heart does a one-eighty. It’s Dom. The nurse guy who saved Loki. He is wearing his green scrubs. He also looks like shit. And by shit, I mean, still stunning, but like he hasn’t slept in months. His hair curls messily around his ears and forehead, and his eyes are bloodshot, the skin around them dark and sunken.
“Dom?” I ask.
He stops, cocks his head, until the penny drops. “Oh. Lynne. Hey.”
I cringe at the name he gave me. Now’s not the time to tell him I despise the nickname, though.
We stand in front of each other, me with my plastic bag dangling from my fingertips, him with his soul bleeding all over the floor between us.