Page 132 of Forever Wild
“Hey,” I say. “How do you feel? Should I get the doctor?”
He shakes his head and reaches for the water cup on the table next to the bed. I refill it and then hold it in front of him so he can drink out of the straw.
One side of his mouth seems not to want to cooperate, but he takes a long sip before lying back again. I resume my position sitting in the chair.
“I’m sorry I ruined your vacation.”
“You didn’t. I was already back when I found out.”
“Good. You deserve some time to yourself.”
“Dammit, Dad.” My frustration bubbles up until there’s no holding it back. “I have plenty of time to myself. If you need me, you call.”
He’s quiet again, probably because I just yelled at him. Fuck.
“Where’s your girl?” he asks, eyes closed again.
“My girl?”
“Everly.”
“How…” My question trails off as a small smile curves his lips. Maybe he figured it out since I was on vacation or James could have told him, I guess.
“She’s a good one.”
“I know.”
He lets his head fall to one side so he’s staring at me as he says, “I like her. Her taste in books is questionable, but she has a good heart and enough sass to keep you on your toes.”
I nod as I ponder his words.
“Her taste in books?”
He studies me for a moment like he’s trying to decide how much to share with me.
“She sends me books,” he says.
I’m still struggling to understand when he adds, “Every couple of weeks or so she sends another book. She writes little notes in the margins for me.”
“Everly,myEverly, sends you books?”
He nods.
“I don’t understand.”
“Me either, but sometimes people do things that don’t make sense. They love us when we don’t deserve it or give an old drunk thoughtful gifts to keep him occupied, maybe hoping he’ll drink a little less.”
My chest tightens. “I didn’t know.”
“I figured as much. She isn’t the type to want credit for doing something nice and she probably thought there was a chance you wouldn’t approve.”
“Do you read them?” I ask, still stuck on the idea that Everly, who only met my dad once, has been sending him books like they’re old friends.
“Oh yeah. I read them and send them back, adding my own notes in the margins. I send her some too.”
“The Grisham novel at her apartment,” I say, remembering the book that had looked familiar to me.
“Also sent her some old photos of you. Figured if something happened to me, someone should be able to tease you about your first-grade haircut.”
