Chapter 16: : Chapter 15

J Dad sat at my side, wearing an S. Carter jersey and a Yankees ball cap and drinking soda, which was definitely on his current menu. I let it slide because he looked completely enchanted with the game. I, myself, wore a huge American flag hat and a Frank Sinatra shirt. Close enough, if you ask me.

I broached the subject when I got back from refilling our bowl of popcorn in the kitchen—another thing Dad shouldn’t be eating, but a little couldn’t hurt.

“Would you…would you mind if I took off this weekend?” I tried to sound casual through the lump of guilt forming in my throat.

My palms were so sweaty the popcorn bowl nearly slipped between them. I was going to lie to Dad yet again, and for what? Why did I keep the truth from my father, the closest person to me? I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Then again, he was still so fragile and was only now getting back on his feet, literally and figuratively. He was feeling physically better, and between spending time with Mrs. Hawthorne and seeing me thrive at my new job, he was emotionally better too. But I still didn’t want him to know I’d broken up with Milton. That could set Dad back, and if his health took a wrong turn, I’d never forgive myself.

“Honey.” He patted my knee as I sat down, his hand immediately sliding to the bowl of popcorn. “I think it’s a great idea. You deserve some time off. Mil taking you anywhere fancy?” He smiled.

,” Jesus said inside my head. “

”

I decided I would, in fact, tell my father I’d broken up with Milton after I got back from Florida. I could even tell him about Célian, as the two seemed to be in contact. I wasn’t sure how much they had in common, but part of the reason I didn’t despise Célian—though it was tempting—was because I knew he had a soft side. I’d seen it when he helped my father. I saw it when he tried to save “I don’t know…” I dodged the question. “We’ll see. You know I’ll be available on my phone, right?”

“Yes.” He laughed, shuttling more popcorn to his mouth. “You’ve mentioned so, one or two or a million times before. Plus, if I need anything, Mrs. Hawthorne is just upstairs.”

I eyed him curiously, smiling. “When do I finally get to meet her in the capacity of being her boyfriend’s daughter?”

My father looked down and wiggled his toes inside his slippers.

That’s the first time I’d noticed he was wearing a new pair. Actually, his whole ensemble was new—still the same gray sweatpants and white T-shirt, but they were ironed and looked good on him. He’d also shaved whatever was left of his hair to create a more unified look. I didn’t know why I found it so heartbreakingly joyful to see him happy about another woman. Maybe I shouldn’t have. But he did look kind of good, like a brow-less Bruce Willis.

“Does he make your heart sing, JoJo?”

“What?” I pretended to laugh. And failed. Oh, God.

“Does Milton make your heart sing? Music is such an important part of your life, and when you’re happy, I can see it. Your steps have a rhythm. When you talk, you swing. Are you in love with him? Because if you’re not, it’s not worth it.”

I looked the other way, pretending to clean invisible lint off of a decorative pillow on the couch. “I can’t fall in love, Dad. I tried.”

“That’s a load of bull.”

“It’s true. Mom told me so. She said my heart was a lonely hunter—that it would never find someone else to beat next to. And she was right. It didn’t.”

I didn’t tell him the whole truth—that I believed her, that I guarded my heart like it wasn’t for the taking. That I probably could have moved in with Milton if I’d wanted to, but I’d never really wanted to. I didn’t want to tell Dad that this one simple sentence had changed my world more than I was willing to accept, and that I was terrified my heart was losing its claws, its weapons, its hunger for blood, in the battle against Célian.

Dad’s eyes crinkled, and I was so focused on the confusion and awe in them, it didn’t even register that he was laughing. Not just laughing—hooting. Holding his stomach and everything.

“No, JoJo, no. She didn’t mean heart is a lonely hunter. She meant the book, by Carson McCullers. It was her favorite. The author was twenty-three when she wrote it. Your age.” He looked at me pointedly, like this, too, added meaning. “Mick Kelly was your mother’s favorite heroine. She was a tomboy who was really fond of music. You should read it. We have it somewhere here.”

He rose to his feet with a groan and made his way to his room. I sat dumbfounded, feeling irrationally furious at both him and my mother for allowing me to look at life through the thick, dirty lens of a person who’d never believed she could experience love.

The game was still playing, with the Yankees dominating the Astros, and that’s how I knew Dad really was serious about me reading this book. He came back, blowing the dust off the cover, and handed it to me.

“If you travel at all on your way to this little vacation, make sure you read it. Your mother believed in love. Very much so. She believed in fate, too. That’s why you grew up to be the heroine she always admired.”

I smiled and thanked him, and I didn’t wait for tomorrow.

I devoured the whole thing in one night.

Every single page. A to Z.

Then I read bits of it again as I packed my summer clothes and dragged my suitcase down our narrow stairway in the morning, waiting for the cab.

My heart was not lonely.

It was desperate and beating and alive.

It frightened and delighted me at the same time, knowing that I could, and I would, and I fall in love—whether it was with my boss or otherwise.

And when the alarm started singing, I slid into the right Chucks and wiggled my toes inside them, knowing he was going to notice. They were yellow.

I’d only been on a plane two times prior to my trip to Florida with Célian.

One had taken us to California when I was six—Mom’s sister got married, but she had since decided to divorce, then migrate to Australia. She sent a postcard when Mom died, but didn’t bother to keep in touch. The second time was for a spontaneous vacation in New Orleans. That had happened when I was fourteen. Dad had been trying his best to act like everything was fine after Mom died. He dyed his hair at home to forget he had any silver strands, took cooking classes, and decided we should live in the moment. New Orleans was great. Us living off mac and cheese for two consecutive months afterward because we’d spent too much was not.

I’d assumed I was likely to get on a plane again sometime soon. I’d imagined Milton would plan something nice for our honeymoon, if we ever got married.

Business class, however, was something I’d never imagined.

Yet here I was, clutching my tattered copy of with a glass of champagne by my side, wondering where on Earth Célian was. We had five more minutes before the plane took off.

He stumbled through the door right before they locked it, wearing the same clothes as yesterday and nursing a cup of Starbucks. His leather Armani duffel bag hung lazily from the tips of his fingers, and the minute he saw me, his tired face cracked into a dangerous smile. I licked my lips, looking down and pressing my thighs together.

What the hell was wrong with me? Ever since I’d learned the truth about what Mom had told me, thinking of Célian was weird.

It felt like we were no longer rivals, like he had the upper hand. Which was ridiculous, because he always had. I’d simply refused to accept it.

Célian shoved his bag into the overhead bin and thanked the air hostess for hysterically offering to do so herself. He then slid into the seat next to me. He smelled of alcohol, coffee, and hope.

I wiggled my toes inside my yellow Chucks. “Came straight from work?”

Instead of answering my question, he cupped the back of my neck and erased the distance between us by sealing my mouth with a hot, demanding kiss. I groaned against his lips. When we disconnected, his eyes were half-lidded and drunk, and I assumed mine were too.

“That’s…very relationship-y,” I mumbled, staring at his lips. “Did I get all the information right?”

Célian plucked a red marker from the book sitting in my lap, uncapped it, and wrote A+ on the back of my hand. Then he kissed the inside of it, like Phoenix had done to me, and like I’d done to him. I swooned inside.

“Here’s to many more revelations, and to saving the world, one item at a time.” He took my glass from my side table, tipped it back, and then smashed his lips into mine again, this time letting me taste the alcohol in his mouth.

The plane had begun to take off when he looked more closely at the book in my lap. He grabbed it, examining it from all angles.

“Is it good?” he asked.

“The best,” I said, resting my hand on the cover.

He put his hand on mine.

My heart smiled at that.

And all I could think was .