Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
I smile, a small, sad one as I shake my head. “It’s not,” I say softly, grateful that he knows I’m not looking for him to slay this dragon. I’m the only one who can slay it, and I’ll have to do it in my own time if I do it at all. “It’s not what I want. But thank you for knowing that.”
He pulls me close and presses a kiss to my temple. “Thank you for telling me.”
My throat tightens. There’s more I want to tell him. That was only the beginning.
I want to tell him that I’m not only afraid of feeling stupid, but I’m deeply afraid that someday I won’t even be able to hear that music I’d be asking her to turn down. I meant it when I let that fear slip. But I didn’t share all my fears. Not only am I terrified that I won’t be able to pick out a single note of music someday, but worse, the voices of the people.
The people I love.
No one knows what this loss will look like in the future. The doctors and the audiologists can only say what the typical path is for people like me. It worsens, yes, and hearing aids and advances in technology will usually do the trick—but no one knows for sure.
Diving into that though with Miles? Telling him that I’m afraid of a world that might one day be silent? It’s too much. Too heavy. I can’t put that on him.
Instead, I say something else that’s true. “I was going to…do this whole treasure hunt for you. With lingerie and pictures and hints. Maybe another time.”
He squeezes my hand. “Let’s watch a movie tonight.”
We head downstairs and settle in on the couch with the dogs, and even though I know I can ask him to turn on the captions, and I’m about to, he’s already fiddling with the remote and selecting them.
Without being asked.
My heart swells dangerously bigger.
38
LITTLE SNEAK
Leighton
The next morning, my chest tightens as I carry a travel mug of tea and my dad’s favorite coffee. I’m here at his office because he loves coffee. Because he’ll soon be busy with college visits for my sister. Because I love him.
I’m not here to preemptively spin fables about where I’m staying…and not staying.
That’s what I tell myself as I step into his office doorway, the faint sounds of Michael Bublé playing from his computer—his Dad music. “Knock, knock,” I say, holding up the two cups.
“Favorite daughter,” he says, turning down the tune, then popping up with a grin. He takes the coffee, then gives me a quick hug.
Guilt pricks at me, and I fidget with my own cup. It’s okay to have coffee with my dad, I remind myself.
He nods toward the seat across from his desk, and before I can ask anything, he says, “How was dog-sitting? I trust it worked out?”
Trust.
That word digs at me. My stomach churns as I answer, “Yes, it was great. But now I want a dog.”
He laughs. “I doubt your roommates would like that. All the more reason to think about getting your own place,” he says, his tone light but nudging—a reminder he wants to help me make that happen.
But his words remind me, too, that he probably still thinks I’m living with Indigo and Ezra, the roommates from hell. I am, though—I haven’t moved out. I’m just…not there right now.
“Maybe someday,” I say, evasively. Then, after a pause, I force a shrug. “But I’m not done yet. I am still helping out since his mom’s still away,” I add, the lie scorching my tongue like acid.
It’s not entirely a lie—I am helping out. But it’s necessary to keep the details vague. Dad’s never been a fan of me dating hockey players. Most aren’t ready to settle down, he’s said more than once. And it’s too soon to know what’ll happen next with Miles—the man who listens to me, who cares about me, who looks out for me without stepping in the way.
If Miles wasn’t a hockey player, I’d probably tell my dad about him. But with that thought, another question follows: Would you?
I don’t share details of my dates or my past romances with Dad. We don’t have that type of relationship, and that’s okay. So, it has to be okay that I’m not talking to him about Miles. It’s not the time to tell my father anything. A bit of evasiveness keeps things simple, which is better for everyone.
“Good. That’s what I figured,” he says, in that confident way he has.
Right. Of course. He brokered this deal.
“Thanks again. It was blissfully…quiet,” I say.
“Good. You deserve some peace at home,” he says.
I wince at that last word. For a moment, he studies me, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.
Quickly, I turn the conversation around to ask about the road trip, Riley, and this morning’s photo shoot for the calendar.