Page 119 of The Fate Of Us

I straightened the fabric of the white skirt that I’d found at the bottom of my luggage thismorning, my windswept hair doing whatever it wanted as it flowed down my back, as I approached the door, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at the huge silver keypad that was bolted to the front door.

My finger doesn’t hesitate before it presses the buzzer, and like he knew I was out herealready, the door swings open to reveal my dad. The rush of air as the door opens knocks the breath out of me, and my head cranes up to meet his eyes.

Tired. I’d never seen him look so tired. So rugged, unkept. I don’t think I’ve ever seenthis man in anything other than a shirt and tie, so seeing him in plaid pyjama bottoms and a sweatshirt was… unnerving.

“Adaline,” His voice was as rough as he looked, like the gravel I’d just driven over. Hestared at me for a second or two, before dropping his eyes to the floor, almost with shame coating them, before he muttered to the tiles, “Come in.”

He stepped aside so I could, the only sound being the tap of my high tops on the tiles.It was so quiet. Deadly so. I suppose that for a house this size and the lack of people whodwelled in it, itshouldfeel this empty. But still, something felt off. Like whatever energy had existed here got swept out of the door the night I left.

I spun around to face him again as he closed the door, his hands fidgeting and nervesseeming to overcome him. He truly did look ashamed, and considering that before me was one of the most confident men I knew, I wasn’t sure how to feel about the paler-than-pale complexion that had possessed him, and the way he looked like he hadn’t slept since that night.

“Is everything okay?” I had to ask. I was going to eventually, anyway.

His nod was solemn. “I suppose,” he brought his eyes to me. “The past few days havebeen… enlightening. For all of us.”

He could say that again.

And, like he knew why I was here, his chin tilted towards the stairs. “She’s in her room.”

But before I could let my feet take me away, his voice stopped me. “Before you go up,” I turned back to him. “I want to talk to you.” I think he saw the hesitation on my face, his head tilting and muttering, “Please, Addy.”

My dad had never, ever, called me Addy. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.

But I nodded, slowly. “Okay.” And then his arms stretched out to the side, guiding metowards the sun terrace.

The sun seemed harsher out here, if that was possible. More direct, less whimsical. Icouldn’t explain it, and perhaps I was just trying to think of things to distract me from whatever my dad wanted to talk to me about.

I had to get this over with though, but as I turned around to face the house, and looked back atthe door I’d just come from, he wasn’t there.

“Dad? I called, pulling my brows together. No sign of him. I tried again. “Dad—”

Suddenly he was there in the doorway, a box of something in his hands, and my mom,hovering behind his right shoulder.

They both emerged from the house and out into the sunlight, the breeze knocking mymom’s hair, the same golden shade as Goldie’s, over her shoulders, as her arms wrapped around her waist, covered in a white linen jumpsuit.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said, like a mouse trying to tame a cat that was sure it was about todevour it.

“Hi,” I whispered back, my focus solely on my dad and whatever he was carrying.“What’s that?” I had to ask, before the suspense and curiosity devouredme.

He placed whatever it was on the glass table where we’d eaten and argued three nightsbefore, a sigh slipping from his stubbly mouth, my mom stopping by his side.

He reached my eyes as he finally said, “After we spoke with Goldie the other night, afterthings had calmed down, your mom and I went through some of the stuff in the attic, stuff we haven’t seen since… well, forever.” He looked down toward the box, a hint of a smile creeping up his mouth, before he turned his head to my mom, a matching smile, equally sorry as it was pure, resting on her face, too.

“And anyway,” Their eyes were back on me. “We came across a box of some of your oldthings, and we found… the original copies of some of your books.”

My mouth popped open, drying instantly. Then my stomach dropped, right to the depthsof somewhere, my arms tingling and my spine straightening, but not with fear, with something else entirely. A hopeful fear, if something like that even existed.

“Oh,” was all that fell out of my mouth.

I hadn’t seen the originals in years. All I took with me the day I left were copies,photocopies that lacked all my spelling mistakes and annotations and drafts of stories I’d conjured out of frustration and hope.

When I came back that day, the day I was supposed to meet… you know… I wanted tofind the originals and take them home with me. But I couldn’t see past my tears to say a proper hello to Goldie, let alone go exploring in the attic for my books.

I peered into the box on the table, and now that I’d angled my head, the black scribbles on theside clearly read ‘Adaline’s Things’. I saw the curled corners of stapled-together manuscripts, dust coating them, imperfections from being forgotten for years clearly showing.

I think I gasped when I saw the title of the book on the top of the pile, trying to rememberthe last time I’d taken the time to sit and read it.

I stepped closer, reaching for it. I was gentle, as my hands fell onto the ageing paper, likeit would crumble in my hands if I gripped it with the urge I had, like it would disappear for another decade if I wasn’t careful. But it was in my hands before I knew it, the breeze from the waves crashing not too far away rustling the papers. It only made my hands grip the precious thing tighter.

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