Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“I like Cleo.” She shrugs shyly, raiding the fridge for her usual morning OJ.
“I thought you liked me.”
Her nose wrinkles. “I do like you. But you’re my dad.”
“Right, right. So glad we cleared that up.”
She sighs. “You know what I mean. I was hoping she’d give me a few pointers with the seashells. I wanna do some 3D art with them.”
I do know what she means.
They discussed it yesterday over dinner, but I don’t have the energy to hear how attached she is to Cleo, so I get started on breakfast.
Kit perches at the breakfast bar like the little fox she is, reading on her Kindle, her fingers flicking idly over the stickers she’s plastered on the back.
They’re mostly parks and museums we’ve visited over the last couple years. Acadia, Congaree down in South Carolina, Taliesin East in Wisconsin.
Clee would love that last one, Frank Lloyd Wright and all.
I grit my teeth, evicting the thought.
Dammit, this is our time. Our routine and nothing else should muddle it.
Same one we’ve had since she was a kid. She still twirls her hair the way she did when she was half her age, too.
Damn. Sometimes it feels like I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, parenting a preteen. She’s grown up too fast and I don’t know how to handle it.
Clee, she’s a young woman herself. She’d have insights I never will as a dad pushing to the end of his thirties, dreading Kit’s teenage years like a man watching an approaching asteroid.
I finish cooking up a pile of cheesy eggs and sausage. Kit stands up to fetch our plates.
Just like every morning for the past few years, there’s a familiar rhythm here.
It shouldn’t feel like there’s anything missing.
Only, there’s a hole where Cleo should be.
I can ignore it. Kit doesn’t.
“Where’d she go?” she asks before I’ve lifted the first bite of eggs to my mouth.
“Out,” I say. “One of her cousins is in town.”
“Will she be back for lunch?”
“Don’t know.” I half shrug and chew my food, hoping she won’t ask more questions. “What’s your obsession with her schedule anyway?”
“Nothing.” She shrugs. “I just like it when she eats with us.”
I chew in silence.
“She’s really nice, Dad. She smiles a lot. We need more of that around here.” She pokes my arm. “You could learn a thing or two.”
“Hmm, not sure. I’m rusty, Kit. Might trigger a nasty jaw injury if I tried.”
She giggles, music to my ears.
“Dad! She’s really cool, if you’d just give her a chance. She said she’d let me help finish her canvas.” She’s practically bouncing in her seat.
Not good.
The second I finish my grub, she grabs my arm and drags me toward Cleo’s happy mess.
The painting—is it still a painting when it’s 3D?—looks even better in the morning sun.
So many shiny jewels stand out, glittering and familiar, yet not ominous like the egg that inspired them.
I don’t know what it’s supposed to be, if it’s supposed to be anything at all. I don’t have the imagination for high art.
Kit thought she saw a dragon, but I just see colors misting together, lighting up a mellow sky over a landscape that flows like a turquoise sea.
Beautiful. It leaps off the canvas into your eyes.
Just like its artist.
Kit stares at the painting softly, her little head tilted, taking it in like we’re at the Louvre in Paris.
I can’t have her this attached.
Can’t have her getting this excited, only for hard reality to let her down.
Everyone needs to get practical here. This isn’t meant to last.
“I’m sure you’re in for a cool experience,” I tell her. “But Kit, let’s not get carried away. With this, or Cleo, I mean. She’s a busy young lady.” I try not to emphasize ‘young,’ but I can’t help it.
The word sticks in my throat. Another reason why we can’t work.
Kit’s face falls. “What do you mean?”
“I just mean it’s great that she’s living with us now, keeping us company, but it won’t be like this forever. You know that.” I clean up our dishes, pour more coffee, and then flop down on the sofa and pat the space beside me. “She’s going to leave and get on with her life. That was always the plan.”
“But maybe she won’t! Maybe she’ll stay longer than you think,” Kit says brightly, grabbing a throw pillow off the sofa and hugging it.
“Maybe,” I counter.
“Dad, you don’t need to be so negative all the time.”
Dammit, I do.
I should know better than anyone how stupid it is to keep thinking we’ll just keep living like this forever. Even if a mad, desperate part of me wants to.
Kit sighs, a heavy look in her eyes.
“What? What did I do?”
“You know.”
No one ever tells you having a daughter this age is like trying to talk to the wall.
“Kit, if I knew, we wouldn’t be having this talk.” I nudge her shoulder. “Help your old man out.”