Page 62 of Anti-Hero

Inside my pockets, my hands curl into fists. Fingernails dig into my palms, prompting a sharp burst of pain.

What he did is bad enough. But the way he’s never questioned the distance between us, never made any attempt to bridge the gap I initiated? That betrayal cuts even deeper.

“Good trip?” My father’s voice is the one thing that doesn’t match his unassuming appearance. It’s rich and deep and booming, and it commands attention. A tone you’d expect from an army captain, not a chemistry professor.

“It was fine,” I answer.

Two hours I spent staring out the window, wondering if I should move to Boston or Philadelphia. I like living in a city, and Chicago’s out for obvious reasons.

He nods once, then folds his tall frame back into the driver’s seat. Symphony No. 5 is trickling out of the speakers, courtesy of thecassette player. The familiar melody and the familiar ripped seat relax me some despite the awkwardness humming in the air.

We used to talk. About music and books and what was happening in my life—school or friends or boys. Outside of a lecture hall, my father is more of a listener than a speaker. But he was always an excellent sounding board when I needed to vent. And then that awful day happened, and I haven’t known what to say to him since.

“I bought some grapefruit juice yesterday,” is his attempt at conversation.

Mom and Jane prefer orange juice, so my dad only buys grapefruit juice when I’m visiting.

I open my mouth to say,Thanks, but, “I’m pregnant,” spills out instead.

To my dad’s credit, the car only lurches a little. He hits the brakes too hard, a good foot from the white line that signals the Stop sign. He clears his throat and coasts a few more inches before stopping in the correct spot.

“Wow. That’s … that’s big.”

My, “Yeah,” is flat.

At least he saidsomething. I was half expecting him to go mute, same as Kit.

Under any other circumstances—circumstances that didn’t point at me becoming a single parent—I would have felt proud of shocking Kit Kensington into silence. I’d never seen him speechless before.

The car behind us honks. We’ve been at the Stop sign for a lot longer than the requisite three seconds, holding up traffic.

My dad glances in the rearview mirror and sighs like he’s disappointed by their impatience before he starts driving again.

Or more likely, he’sdisappointed inme.

Aside from the Beethoven playing, the station wagon is silent. My dad seems to have given up on conversation after my announcement. He could have taken the confirmation that I wasn’t a virgin worse, I suppose.

A few blocks later, he breaks the silence again. “Have you been feeling okay? Your mom got pretty sick with you girls.”

“I’ve felt better,” I answer honestly. “But I’m fine.”

More silence follows.

The first time I got my period, my mom was out of town at a conference. I thought coaching me through that experience, while Jane fretted that I was dying in the background, was the most uncomfortable I’d ever see my father. He tends to freeze under pressure, like a startled deer in headlights. His brain is brilliant when it comes to anything scientific, but emotions seem to require a longer processing time.

So, when we reach the end of the street, he surprises me by continuing the conversation. “I didn’t realize you were … seeing anyone.”

“I’m not.”

My father clears his throat again. Simply, I suspect, to cut through the uncomfortable silence that lingers after that admission. I’ve just confirmed the worst-case scenario—not only am I knocked up, but I’m knocked up with no support system in sight.

“So, Isaac …”

“It’s not his.”

I hear my dad’s relieved exhale loud and clear between strains of the symphony. He didn’t like Isaac. Mom and Jane weren’t crazy about him either, but my dadreallydidn’t like him. At least us barely speaking never allowed him an opportunity to sayI told you soafterwe broke up.

“How is everything else going?”

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