Chapter 11 - Dry Shirts And Hot Soup
The parking lot air cut straight through my damp shirt and I couldn't stop shaking. My sister pressed her face into my side like she was trying to disappear inside me. Dad saw it and unlocked the back door of his car fast.
"Hang on," he said.
He dug behind the seat and pulled out a duffel. Inside were two gray sweatshirts, the kind he'd kept from coaching, washed thin at the cuffs. He shook one open and held it for me.
I stepped back for a second. Not because I didn't want it. Because for six months I'd been told to wait for permission for everything.
"You can change right here," he said quietly. "I'll turn around. No one's looking."
He turned his back to us and stared at the brick wall of the lot like it mattered. The sweatshirt smelled like clean laundry and his car, like old leather and gas station coffee. I peeled off my damp top and the cold hit my skin so hard I gasped. My sister did the same beside me, her teeth chattering loud enough I could hear it.
We pulled the sweatshirts over our heads. Mine hung past my hands. Hers swallowed her elbows. Dad took our wet shirts and laid them flat across the trunk so they wouldn't mildew, then he took off his tuxedo jacket and wrapped it around both our shoulders anyway.
"Better?" he asked.
I nodded. My breathing still came too fast, but the shaking eased a little.
He got us buckled in the back seat together. He didn't start driving right away. He reached back and tucked the jacket tighter around my sister's feet where her socks were damp.
"We're going somewhere warm," he said. "Five minutes. Okay?"
The highway was louder than I remembered. The tires hummed and the heater blew hot air on our faces. My sister leaned her head on my shoulder. Her hair was still wet and it stuck to my new sleeve. Dad kept checking us in the rearview, then checking the road, then checking us again.
The diner sat just off the exit with its neon sign buzzing. Inside it was bright and smelled like grease and soup. A waitress in a blue apron pointed us to a booth in the corner without asking why a man in a tuxedo shirt and two girls in oversized sweatshirts were coming in at that hour.
Dad slid in across from us and didn't pick up a menu.
"Two grilled cheeses and two chicken soups," he told her. "And hot chocolate if you've got it. No rush on anything else."
My sister's hands were still red from the cold. She tucked them up into her sleeves. Dad noticed and slid his hands flat across the table, palms up.
"Here," he said. "Warm them."
She looked at me first. I nodded a tiny nod. She put her hands on top of his. He didn't close his fingers. He just let the heat sit there.
When the soup came, the steam fogged my glasses — I didn't even know I was crying a little until I had to wipe them. We ate slow. The first spoonful burned my tongue and I had to breathe through my mouth. Dad didn't tell us to hurry. He cut my sister's sandwich into small triangles the way Mom used to, and pushed the plate closer.
"You girls are doing good," he said. "Just eat."
Halfway through the bowl, my sister's shoulders dropped. Her breath evened out. Mine did too. The hot chocolate left a ring on my upper lip and Dad smiled for the first time since the church, just a quick one, tired.
"Are we going back there tonight?" my sister whispered. She didn't say Claire's name. She didn't have to.
Dad looked straight at her, then at me.
"No," he said. "You're not going back to that apartment tonight. I promise you that."
"Where, then?" I asked.
He paused. I could see him thinking about the house, about what we believed about it, and choosing not to open that yet.
"Somewhere safe," he said. "We'll figure it out after you eat. Tonight you sleep somewhere warm and I stay right outside the door. That's it."
May you like
My sister nodded and went back to her soup. I reached under the table and found her hand. It was warm now.
Outside the window, cars passed on the highway, headlights smearing in the dark. For the first time in a long time, nobody was telling us to be quiet.
