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I don’t dare say that. “I feel good today. Tired, but good.”

“That’s good.” He shifts awkwardly.

I wonder if he feels like I feel, this surreal kind of wrongness. In his mind, am I still innocent? Still his baby?

Is he disappointed in me?

I look down to the mop, ignoring the sudden sting in my nose. I mumble, “I should finish the floors.”

“Sure thing.” Dad shuffles toward the counter. “I’ll get the cashout sorted. We’ll drop it at the bank on the way home.” He rounds the counter and I hear his fingers punching the buttons of the register.

I continue mopping as Dad finishes the cash out. I would have done it, but the bank is on the other side of town, and it is cold outside. Being that we’re closed for the next ten days, Dad says it’s necessary to empty the safe of everything but petty cash.

I start turning the blinds, blocking out the snow and what little sun manages to break through the grey.

Dad gathers the envelopes as I gather my bag. I hit the lights, and we walk together to the door. In the car, Dad blasts the heat as he pulls out of the lot, turning toward the bank.

“I sure could use something hot in my belly.”

I snort. “You mean food?”

Dad pats his gut. “I’m thinking Chinese.”

My mouth waters. “Don’t forget the green onion cake.”

“And risk divorce papers? Never!”

I laugh and Dad joins. It feels good to laugh with him. It’s been rare since…

Dad pulls into the bank’s parking lot. He turns to me. “How about we pick up Chinese and you join me and your mom for dinner? We miss you. And invite Tate, too, of course.”

My throat feels tight. I hate how easy emotions come to me now. I thought this would settle after the first trimester, but it never did.

“Okay,” I croak.

Dad opens his door. “Make the order for me, will you? Add whatever Tate likes.”

Again, I croak, “Okay.”

Dad exits the PT Cruiser, and I watch him enter the bank before I get to doing what I was asked to do. I order Chinese and I don’t forget Mom’s green onion cake.

21

A TRICKLE OF HOPE

DECEMBER 2009 – 18 YEARS OLD

“That was good practice for Christmas,” Tate says as we enter the apartment. He flicks on the light, and we kick off our boots. Tate is cautious as ever to shove laundry sheets into his, containing the smell of sweaty workman before he shoves them into the closet.

“Yeah.” I drag myself into the kitchen, flicking the kettle before I pour myself over the couch with a groan.

Tate chuckles. “Tired?”

“I’ve never been this tired in my life.”

His pitch drops. “Didn’t sleep?”

My body, tired as it is, comes alive with memory of the kiss.