Page 117 of As You Walk On

“And my friendship?”

“Pending,” she says flatly, eyes narrowed.

I back away, hands up. I’m not going to push it.

This whole moment is enough.

•••

Dad’s leaning in the kitchen entryway when I arrive home. He looks as if he’s been expecting me. I haven’t even removed my backpack before he asks, “Can we talk?”

My heart catches as I nod.

Dumping my things on the sofa, I nervously follow him.

Nothing much has changed about our kitchen since we were last in here together. A few more dishes in the sink we’ve been ignoring. Dad’s laptop on the table. The range light over the stove perpetually left on. An empty pizza box from Monday’s we’re-still-being-awkward dinner on the counter next to the Crock-Pot.

The whiteboard wiped completely clean.

Oh. Actually, that’s new.

I blink at Dad. He smiles, then calmly says, “Sit down.”

“Where’s the, uh.” I up-nod at the glossy, white surface while dragging out a chair. There isn’t a trace of blue anywhere. As if Dad took the time to spray and scrub the board down. Remove every bullet point that’s haunted me for years. “Where’s The Plan?”

“Gone,” he replies frankly. He flops down next to me.

That’s new too. We’ve always sat across from each other at the table. Enough room to feel like we’re together, in the same space, but still able to be in our own worlds on whatever electronic device we had nearby.

I frown. “But all your hard work.”

“You mean all the things that overshadowed allyourhard work?”

I don’t answer. Dad doesn’t look as if I need to. His smile remains Times Square–at–night bright while opening the laptop, tapping the screen awake.

The sun hasn’t fully set. Through our back door, its orangey light bounces off Dad’s smooth cheeks. Tangerine rings circle his animated brown eyes. He’s shaved, got a haircut too. Nothing about his expression is the aged, weathered look from the other day that chases me in my nightmares.

He’s himself again.

We sit in a dense silence. Dad’s latest wallpaper—an old-school cartoon Optimus Prime—watches from behind the scattered icons on the screen. Let it be known, Dad doesn’t delete anything. Ever.

Except maybe a plan that didn’t work for either of us.

My eyes study the whiteboard one last time.

Simultaneously, we say, “I’m so sorry...” then stop, heads shaking in tandem as we laugh.

“Let me,” he insists.

I lean back, allowing him to speak first.

“I’m sorry, TJ.” He rests one hand on top of the other. “I never wanted you to feel like you had to be better than me. Better than... this place.”

Scratching my temple, I wait. I know he has more to say.

“I’ve always loved my life—ourlife,” he corrects, sighing. “But I wish it had been so much more.”

He pauses, eyes closing. On the table, his hands shake. I rest one of mine on his, squeezing.

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