Dirty Headlines

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.

“You’re going to hell for this,” Jesus said inside my head. “And if you think I’ll claim your ass when you get there, you obviously weren’t paying attention in bible class.”

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 me.

“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 your heart is a lonely hunter. She meant the book, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter 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.