Page 89 of Villainous Summer

“Lots of people, Dad.”

He raised a brow, looking at my phone, nodding. “Hmm. Well, I don’t know ’bout that.”

His words were dismissive, but I saw a spark of interest in his eyes.

“You can’t let your regrets about her stop you from moving on.”

“I’ll never regret Cheryl. She gave me you. I wasn’t going to have kids. You were a surprise, for sure. At my old age, I thought there was no way. I loved her, something fierce, but I never could trust her. She wasn’t good for you. For a while there, I thought a girl needs a mother, but by the time she left, it was good riddance. You had your Aunt Lorelle and Autumn, and we got on okay, didn’t we?”

“We did.” I patted his hand.

He was never much for physical affection, so he allowed it for a moment before pulling his hand away.

“Where’s all this coming from? You’ve never asked me about me and your mother.”

“Just curious, I guess.” I took another bite of the casserole, even though my stomach was hurting more, my fork slick between my clammy fingers.

“Nah, I don’t think so. It’s this friend giving you ideas, huh? What’s his name.”

“Van, but it’s not like that, Dad.”

With a dismissive look, he grumbled in disagreement. “You might fool those other schmucks, but I got your number.”

This conversation was making my head pound. Hard.

Pinching my lips together, I rubbed a hand over my face. “Can we talk about this later?”

Dad frowned, worry creasing his weather-worn face. “Pumpkin, I don’t like the look of you. Why don’t you go lay down in your old room?”

Picturing my old room made my stomach roll harder. The Tiffany-blue walls I had decided were so chic and the posters of artsy movies I never understood were once thought to seem sophisticated.

“I’m fine, just—”

My stomach heaved, and I barely made it to the bathroom before puking.

Dad followed me down the short hall and brushed my hair back from my face.

“Gross,” I mumbled. “Sorry, Dad.”

“Pumpkin, I’ve had you spew on me.”

Resting my forehead on the cold seat, I groaned. “I must have eaten something bad.”

“Couldn’t be my casserole. I made it the same way . . .”

“No, I’m sure it was something else.”

“You sure you don’t need to stay here tonight? I can run to the store and get you that alphabet chicken soup you like.”

The one I last had when I was eight.

“No, I’m okay, Dad. It’s only a few minutes back to my place. I’m sure if I lay down for twenty, I’ll feel better.”

With my stomach empty, I was able to make the trek from the bathroom to the car and up the three flights of stairs to my apartment.

I set my bag on my counter and got myself a glass of water. I sent a quick message to Dad that I was alive and safe in my apartment.

All day, I felt a little dizzy and sweaty, my throat burning. I swallowed water down and then refilled it and swallowed all that as well.

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