Page 79 of The Probability of Us

When I enter my parents’ house the next day, there’s only darkness there too. I open the curtains and flick on some lights, freezing in front of a photo of my parents on their wedding day. They looked so happy, so in love.

Is my dad like this because his other half is gone? Is this all that’s left of him? Looking at this photo I’m reminded of that polaroid of Warren and I, so in love. And now, in many ways, I feel as empty as my dad is.

When I look at it that way, how can I blame him for acting this way?

I clean up as much as I can, frowning when I find the sandwich and water untouched, but a full glass of liquor that wasn’t there yesterday. There’s another empty bourbon bottle with the others. I let them pile up—hoping he’ll realize one day how excessive this is.

“Did you bring more bourbon?” A voice groans from the couch where he’d been asleep—not even bothering to make it back to his room. It’s the first time he’s spoken to me in days.

“No.”

“Then why the fuck are you here?” He spits the words at me angrily.

I stumble back like I’ve been slapped or punched in the chest. Tears spring to my eyes. Who is this person?

I don’t stick around long after that, but I pray that my dad will come back to me soon.

Thirty-One

AUGUST CURRENT DAY (SATURDAY)

Iopen all of the cupboards in my kitchen and groan at how much crap I’ve accumulated over the years. Surely, I don’t need most of this. Then my eyes land on the shelves where I keep my baking dishes and utensils, and I smile—except those. I definitely need those.

Warren and I picked up some moving boxes last night and I’m starting to go through my stuff and sort it into keep, toss, and give away piles while he’s gathering his last items from the hotel and checking out. I won’t officially start in D.C. until September, but Warren cancelled his flight home—Peter gave him permission to work out of this office this week—so he can help me pack and move next weekend.

I frown as I turn and look at my furniture. I’m not sure what he has in his place now, so I don’t know what else we can fit. I considered getting my own place in the beginning, but I know I wouldn’t spend a single night there. It’s more economical this way. I smile to myself and let out an actual chuckle at the thought. That’s obviously just an excuse because really, I’m just excited to be back by his side again.

There’s a knock at my door and my smile grows. Finally—it took him long enough to get back here. I can’t do much else without his help anyways.

“You don’t have to knoc—” I open the door and the words die in my chest. The brightness I just felt fades, because it’s not Warren at the door . . . it’s the last person I ever expected to be here.

He stares at me, shifting his weight from leg to leg. There are dark circles under his eyes, his skin looks so pale, and he’s skinnier than he’s ever been. Skinnier than he should ever be. But at least his hair looks washed and he’s in clean clothes—and he doesn’t reek of bourbon.

“Dad?” My voice is barely a whisper, barely a breath. I didn’t think he knew where I lived. Even though I’d told him I moved, I didn’t think he remembered. He never listened to me.

“Hi, Annie,” he says, his voice croaking, like he hasn’t spoken in years, and my lips start to tremble.

Annie.

He hasn’t called me by his childhood nickname for me since my mom was alive. I’m unsteady—legs weak and a tear drops down my face. I just keep blinking. This isn’t real, is it?

“Can I come in?” he asks, looking down, unable to meet my eyes.

I’m too shocked by the fact that he’s out of his house, let alone here, to question whether it’s a good idea or not. I step aside and let him in. He takes a few steps in then stops awkwardly, like he’s afraid to intrude on my space. His head moves around as he takes in the space and the boxes strewn about.

“Redecorating?” he asks, his cheeks flushing slightly.

“I’m moving,” I say after a moment, and his head whips over to look at me. “I’m going to Washington D.C.”

His eyes turn glassy, and a tear drops down his cheek. He shakes his head as he whispers, “I’m so sorry, Analise.”

I close my eyes as I rest my hands on the edge of the counter to try to stop the shaking. This is definitely a dream.

“I’ve done and said some horrible things to you over the past years,” he says, and more tears drop down my cheek. I flinch as I remember the cut on my cheek that’s healed now but could’ve been so much worse. “And that’s only what I can remember. There’s probably so much more Ican’tremember. There are so many holes in my memory, so much lost time. So many things I wish I could go back and change.”

I look up at him as silent tears drop down my cheeks. Tears full of anger and resentment. Tears that question how long this version of my dad will last. Tears that want to hope but can’t yet.

He takes a step around the island, to comfort me like my old dad would’ve done, but I move in the opposite direction, keeping us on opposite sides. I’m not ready for that yet.

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