My whole life I thought I was the star of an overly earnest romance movie,
and it turns out I was in a goddamned buddy comedy all along. I gotta go to calc. Good to see you, Holmesy.”
Daisy had brought leftover pizza for our picnic, and we sat underneath our school’s one big oak tree, halfway to the football field.
It was frigid, and both of us were bundled into our winter coats, hoods up, my jeans stiff on the frozen ground.
I didn’t have gloves, so I tucked my fists into the coat. It was no weather for a picnic.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about Pickett,” Daisy said. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, just—while you were gone, I kept thinking about how weird it is to leave your kids like that, without even saying good-bye.
I almost feel bad for him, to be honest. Like, what has to be wrong with him
that he doesn’t at least buy a burner phone somewhere and text his kids and tell them he’s okay?”
I felt worse for the thirteen-year-old who wakes up every morning thinking that maybe today is the day.
And then he plays video games every night to distract from the dull ache of knowing your father doesn’t trust or love you enough to be in contact,
your father who privileged a tuatara over you in his estate plans.
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