Page 99 of The Breakup Artists

I internally wince. I’ve written my dad off in such a way that it never occurred to me that anyone else might reference him.

“Left my mom when I was eleven,” I say simply.

She stares at me for a long moment. “Do you see him?”

“Nope. Never. He left us in a crap situation. Didn’t even come to see us for the first year.” I lean back in my seat.

Dad gave me a kiss on the forehead, his coat draped over his arm. “See you soon,” was all he said. NotI love you; this isn’t about you. NotDon’t worry, everything will be fine. No explanation. Nothing to hold on to.

Des wrapped her arm around my shoulders and pulled me into her side. Dad looked back once, lingering in the doorway, but when he saw me and Des huddled together, he lowered his eyes and left.

I ran for the window, yanking back the curtains, positive he wasn’t really going. I knew he and Mom fought. They’d always fought, but he wouldn’t leave us. Not really.

As his engine started in the driveway, Mom began to cry.

“Mom,” Des said, only she didn’t sound sad; she sounded annoyed.

Mom shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she managed and headed up the stairs.

As Dad’s car pulled out onto the street, his trunk and back seat packed with luggage, my chest tightened so fast that I gasped for breath.

I flung the front door open and chased his car. “Dad!” I yelled. “Dad, wait!”

He heard me. His window was open. But he didn’t stop. So I yelled louder. I ran faster. “Daaaad!”

Des grabbed my arm. “He’s gone, little brother. I’m sorry.”

I yanked my arm from her grip. “No, he’s not!” I yelled. But as I looked down our quiet street, his car was nowhere in sight. “He’s coming back. You heard him.”

“Yeah,” was all she said.

I turned away from her, from the doubt I heard in her voice, and walked back to the house, my shoulders sagging.

But I heard her footsteps behind me, and soon she was standing by my side. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t try to make me talk about it. She just walked with me.

And when the door closed behind us, she said, “I’m going to make some hot cocoa. Want some?”

I shook my head, glancing at the stairs and then down at my feet. I couldn’t go to my room without passing Mom’s, where I knew she’d be crying. Des followed my gaze.

“With marshmallows,” she said. “And pancakes. Chocolate-chip-banana pancakes.”

I looked up at her, my eyebrows pushed together. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

“You mean make breakfast? Totally. Oh my god. I forgot. We have heavy cream—I’m also making whipped cream. We can make faces on them with chocolate chip eyes.”

“That’s what seven-year-olds do. You’re fifteen.”

“Don’t even care. I’m making faces on my pancakes,” she said and started pulling ingredients from the cupboards.

She grabbed the bag of chocolate chips and opened it, offering me a handful.

My eyes flitted to the stairs, then back to Des. But when I didn’t take the chocolate chips, Des shoved the whole handful in her mouth.

“Mmmmm!” she said and rolled her eyes back. “I guess this bag is all for me.”

My eyes widened. “Hang on,” I said, stepping forward.

“Yes?” she replied with a mouth full of chocolate.