The Taking (The Taking 1)

I sat down at the table across from him like always, so we were facing each other. I was nervous—he was making me nervous. He looked like he had something to say, and I was worried it wasn’t something I wanted to hear. He probably would have tried to reach for my hands if I hadn’t had them buried in my lap and balled tightly. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you I shouldn’t have said all that stuff yesterday. . . .”

He didn’t finish, but I knew he was done talking when he winced and waited for me. I guess I was supposed to say something then.

I wanted to; I just wasn’t sure what that something was. It was so weird to be tongue-tied around my own parents, so I shrugged because I couldn’t think of anything else. I checked the microwave, thinking that only three minutes had passed even though it felt like forever.

More than anything, though, I wished he’d fill this awkward silence with one of his stupid expressions. I wished he’d say something like “An apology is a good way to have the last word.” Or “It’s easier to apologize than to ask for permission”—not that that one would have made sense in this situation, but I would have welcomed anything to break the tension right now.

And then he snorted. “Man, that kid across the street sure likes you, doesn’t he?”

My eyes flew open, and I stared at him. “Who? Tyler? What’s that supposed to mean?”

He wiggled his eyebrows at me, something that was so my old dad that I almost laughed at him. “The new art out front. He’s got it pretty bad, is all I’m saying.”

“Dad!” I jumped up, not wanting to admit that what he told me meant a million times more than it should. That it was killing me not to bolt to the front door so I could see if Tyler really had drawn something new for me. “You have no idea what you’re even talking about.” I tried to sound like it was nothing when, really, at that very moment, it was everything. “He’s Austin’s brother,” I tried again, and this time I could hear it, the fact that I was so not convincing. There was no way my dad hadn’t heard it too. But I was already making my way out of the kitchen toward the front of the house.

I heard my dad laughing at me from the table. “See for yourself, and then tell me it’s nothing,” he called after me.

When I stepped outside and saw what he meant, I knew. . . .

He wasn’t wrong.

The old drawing—the path—and the writing—“I’ll remember you always”—were gone. Erased. And in their place was a new “masterpiece,” and it was infinitely more beautiful and more meaningful.

It was the birdcage in the center of the road that caught my attention first: chalk drawn and intricate, with its delicate bowed, golden bars. Its door was hanging open wide, and a small blue bird was just taking flight, with small chalk wisps depicting it gathering momentum as it broke free from its confines.

And below the bird, tracing the path of its trajectory, were the words Tyler had chosen . . . just for me.

The script was so different from the morning before, yet just as elegant and lovingly crafted, each letter carefully placed and delicately drawn. But it was the meaning of them, those words, all together that made me pause as I stepped closer, taking them all in at once:

The best things in life are worth the risk.

I inhaled sharply, telling myself I shouldn’t be grinning but unable to stop myself. I thought of the way he’d taken my hand when I’d jumped from my window yesterday, or the way his dimple carved into his cheek whenever he smiled at me. I doubted those were the “best things” he meant, but my mind went there anyway, because clearly I was beyond redemption.

“Come on, Juliet,” my dad said, slapping his hand on my shoulder. “Let me buy you some coffee with real cream. Maybe we’ll even get eggs from a chicken instead’a that Egg Beaters crap your mom buys.”

It wasn’t half bad, hanging out with my dad. He wasn’t the same or anything, but he was trying way harder than my mom was. Or maybe he was trying differently. It was like he wanted to be his old self, but he’d forgotten who that was exactly.

Five years is a long time.

He didn’t push me, though. I think he wanted to, especially when I hadn’t touched more than a bite of my Rooty Tooty Fresh ’N Fruity, the pancakes smothered in strawberries and whipped cream that had always been my favorite. From the worried looks he shot my way, you’d’ve thought I’d kicked a puppy or something.

“It’s no big deal,” I told him, shoving the plate away from me. “I guess I just don’t like it anymore is all.”

He lifted his hand to wave our server over, but I stopped him. “It’s okay. I wasn’t really hungry anyway.” He dropped his hand, looking more satisfied by that answer than he had by the idea that my tastes might have grown up over the past five years. “Sure. Okay.” He reached for his coffee and dumped in a disgusting amount of cream, until it was more tan than brown.

He didn’t mention this Nancy person, and I didn’t ask, even though I probably should have because it seemed like the polite thing to do. But I didn’t feel like being polite. Nancy could wait.

I’d have to deal with her and The Husband and “my brother” and probably a whole lot of other people soon enough. For now I was still figuring out where I fit into my new bizarro life.

After we left IHOP, my dad took me straight back to my mom’s place. The edges of the chalk drawing had been somewhat blurred from being driven over, but the birdcage—and the words beneath the bird—were just as captivating the second time around. I was glad my dad didn’t call me on the fact that I’d stood on the sidewalk way too long, taking it all in once more.