Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK (38 page)

It did, but still didn’t feel natural. I cleared my throat. “About the cookie. I just wanted to—I think we should …” My voice trailed off, and I chewed on my lower lip. How did I ask “Do you really have my father’s best interests at heart?” without sounding like a total control freak? Or worse yet, a total dork?

But I couldn’t ignore my concern—and couldn’t let her waltz in and take over as woman of the house without getting a few things straight. My dad and I still had a long way to go with our relationship, and I wanted to make sure he had the chance to get there with me. Carbs or no carbs.

Ms. Hawthorne caught my gaze and straightened in her chair, her eyes taking on a knowing expression. “Marta, would you mind getting the rest of the feathers from the kitchen counter?”

“Sure.” Marta pushed her chair back and hurried into the kitchen, leaving us semialone.

“You’re worried about your father.” Ms. Hawthorne—Kathy? No, not yet—folded her arms across the tabletop, holding my gaze without hesitancy. “I can tell.”

“It’s not personal. I really—” I coughed. Man, this was awkward. “I really like you. And I know you make my dad happy. I just know a lot of random things about him—things that matter, like his cholesterol and penchant for midnight snacking.” I paused. “Things you don’t.”

“You’ve done an excellent job taking care of your dad, Addison. I know it hasn’t been easy, and I promise I will keep up your efforts. I know you worry about his health.” Ms. Hawthorne glanced over my shoulder toward the hallway, where my dad would be coming from any minute, and lowered her voice. “You’ve probably often felt like a parent yourself around here, having to do more than your share. I’m here to help now.” She reached across the table and put her hand over mine. “I love your dad, but I won’t take over. I can’t replace your mom in your father’s life—nor can I replace you.”

Her words slid like a balm over my worries, smoothing the bristles that had sprung to life the moment my dad announced their engagement. Feeling generous, I squeezed her hand. “We’ll make sure you find your own place here.”

She smiled, her eyes softening. “I’d like that.”

Silence stretched between us, filling with a different, yet slightly more comfortable level of awkwardness. I tugged my hand free and gestured to our surroundings. “I know you said you won’t take over, but feel free to redecorate at will. This place could use it.”

Ms. Hawthorne laughed, a soft, cheery sound that warmed me inside and made me think of vanilla candles and lavender laundry detergent and four-course Thanksgiving dinners—all the good parts of having a new mom figure around. Maybe this could work.

Marta returned then with the fondant, and Dad joined us a few moments later from his office. For the next hour, we all decorated turkeys and had an icing war like we were little kids. Dad’s usual stress over working from home evaporated every time he grinned at Ms. Hawthorne. While I had to admit I still possessed a tiny spark of jealousy over their closeness and my lack thereof with him, I couldn’t help but be glad Dad was finally happy—finally himself. If my actions lately had brought him embarrassment and grief, then at least Ms. Hawthorne was around to bring his smile back.

I tilted my head to one side, studying the blue icing on her nose and the feather Dad had stuck on her cheek that she still hadn’t noticed, and something small shifted inside me.

Kathy it was.

A few hours later, Marta and I managed to escape the turkey palooza and left to grab coffee and window-shop. The few bucks I had in my pocket were mocha designated, but Marta was hoping to snag a few items of clothing that her host mom hadn’t picked out for her.

“I want to try that on.” Marta pointed to a fitted cargo-style jacket in the window of Gigi’s, a boutique a block down from Got Beans. “Oh! And those jeans, too. Come on.” She dragged me inside, and I stood by her closed dressing-room door drinking my coffee as she changed.

“Ms. Hawthorne is really nice.” Marta’s muffled voice sounded over the partition. “Are you feeling better about the engagement?”

I shrugged before remembering Marta couldn’t see me. “Alittle. I want my dad to be happy.” I ran my fingers down the plaid scarf hanging on a nearby mannequin. “Just kinda stinks that I make him worse.”

Marta cracked her door open and frowned at me. “Are you still worried about that lady at your church? I told you to ignore her. That was just rude.” She shut the door with a pointed click.

“Rude, yes. But what if she’s right?” I let go of the scarf and took a sip of mocha, unable to get Mrs. Vanderford’s condescending tone out of my head. I’d even avoided church Sunday night because of her, not able to deal with any more comments with my emotional armor still so severely dented. “What if Dad
is
embarrassed? What if this new faith stuff is just making everything worse?”

“That is ridiculous.” Marta swung her door wide and struck a pose. “What do you think?”

The cargo jacket in army green fit perfectly around her narrow torso and came nearly to the pocket of the designer jeans. “Cute. But no rhinestones?”

She stuck her tongue out at me. “I’m getting both.” She shut the door again. “Listen, Addison.” The jacket flopped over the top of the door, and I set my coffee on the ground before taking it and the hanger she passed me. “You’ve been in church long enough to know commitments are never easy. You already figured that out concerning Wes. Don’t give up now. Just talk to your dad.”

Wes. Just hearing his name felt like a sucker punch to my stomach. I slid the jacket onto the hanger, my hands shaking. “I’m not giving up. This is the right choice for me.” I hung the jacket on the hook outside the dressing-room door. “I just hate this feeling.” Uncertainty. Confusion. Overall
blah
. It’s not like I expected sunshine and roses after nailing down my faith, but I had to admit, I didn’t expect this many problems so soon.

“Then I repeat.” Marta stepped outside wearing her own clothes, her purse slung over her shoulder. “Talk to him. I bet this is just in your head—and Mrs. Vanderford’s.”

“I’m surprised there’s room for anything in her head under all that hair.”

“Addison.” Marta snorted back a laugh and tried to give me a disapproving look as I grabbed my coffee and we headed to the counter to pay.

“Sorry.” Insulting church members probably wasn’t what a new-old Christian should do. But I couldn’t just drop the negativity she’d shot my way. It embedded in my skin, filling my heart and my mind with its poison. Marta was right. I had to talk to my dad to be free of it.

But what if he agreed with the old bag—I mean, Mrs. Vanderford?
Sorry, Lord. I’m trying. I promise
.

“I’ll talk to him after Thanksgiving.” I picked up the quarter Marta dropped from her coin purse and handed it to the clerk behind the counter.

“That’s three days away.” Marta shot me a look as she slipped her receipt into her bag. “Try again.”

“Fine. Wednesday.”

She shook her head. “Today.”

“He’s all moony over Ms. Hawthorne today.” I sighed as Marta thanked the cashier and we headed outside. “I don’t want to ruin their Thanksgiving fun.”

Marta clucked. “Rooster.”

“I think you mean chicken. And that’s not going to work.” We stepped outside, and the brisk wind cooled the frustration heating my cheeks. “Okay, tomorrow. I promise.”

Marta opened her mouth, probably to argue, but before she could get a word out, we rounded the corner, and I bumped into someone, nearly dropping my half-empty mocha.

“Claire!” I steadied my cup then braced myself for the lecture on watching where I was going—or worse yet, a reminder of the tray incident in the cafeteria last month.

“Sorry.” Claire tucked the purse that had fallen off her arm back onto her shoulder and offered me a tentative smile. “I was heading to Gigi’s. Heard they have a sale going on.”

“We just came from there.” Marta held up her bag, as if her statement needed proof.

Claire nodded; then we all looked at each other for a long, awkward moment.

“Well, have fun.” I started to edge around my ex–best friend. Short and sweet would be best before Claire’s unexpected Dr. Nice morphed into Ms. Snotty.

“Wait. I’m glad I ran into you.” Claire hesitated then laughed. “Though I have to admit, I didn’t plan on literally.”

I offered a quick pity-chuckle, hoping her moment of niceness wasn’t about to dissipate in the cold afternoon air.

Claire’s smile sobered. “I wanted to say thank you for helping me during the talent show. And for being there even though I was awful to you—about Ms. Hawthorne and everything.” She coughed, almost as if she wanted to say more but couldn’t make herself. I could understand. Truly shocking she squeezed that much out.

“No problem.” I wanted to say that was what friends were for, but since we weren’t exactly BFFs anymore, it seemed like a lie. So I didn’t.

“I wanted you to know I’m getting help. My mom is shipping me off to a rehab for bulimics.” Claire twirled a portion of her hair around her finger, and for the first time I realized how ashy her complexion seemed compared to her usual healthy tan. Dark circles lined her eyes, unmasked even under the layer of makeup she’d caked on. “After I nearly fainted that night before the performance, I realized my—uh, health issue—was worse than I thought. I thought I could stop before it got serious.” Regret filled her eyes, and my heart twisted in sympathy. Friends or not, she had a problem. I couldn’t help but feel compassion.

“It’s mostly thanks to you. If you hadn’t caught me all those times …” Claire’s voice trailed off, and she straightened her shoulders. “Anyway, Mom agrees with the whole rehab thing, of course. She was crying and grounding me all at the same time when I finally confessed.”

“That’s really good, Claire. I mean, not the grounding part, but you know.” My words sounded so trite, but I didn’t know what else to say.
Told you so? You’re stupid for wanting to hurt yourself to impress a boy or wear a smaller size?
That wouldn’t be helpful. At least she had realized the truth now. “I hope the rehab helps.”

“Me, too.” Claire crossed her arms over her baggy shirt and looked away before finally meeting my eyes again. “I won’t be at school next semester. I’m going away after the holidays and hopefully will be back for the summer. Maybe sooner.”

I nodded, my tongue feeling suddenly useless in my mouth. Did she expect us to say we’d miss her? I
did
miss the old Claire. The one I grew up with that used to share popcorn and secrets with me while watching
Saved by the Bell
reruns on Saturday mornings. Maybe rehab would bring back a hint of the old Claire. It seemed too much to hope for, but stranger things had happened.

“We wish you the best.” Marta finally spoke up, breaking the silence filling the street corner between us. “And we’ll pray for you.” She nudged my arm, and I nodded.

“Definitely.” I meant it—especially now that I believed my prayers actually penetrated my bedroom ceiling.

“Thanks. I just don’t know if God would help someone who did something so stupid to themselves.” She rolled in her bottom lip. “The sad part is, I still think I’d do it again.”

“He’ll help you if you truly want to be helped. Trust me, I know.” I offered Claire a small smile. “But let rehab hash the rest out with you. You just focus on getting well, okay?” Despite the weird factor, I leaned over and gave Claire a hug, for old time’s sake. She hugged me back, and I couldn’t help but notice how bony her shoulder blades were beneath her shirt. “E-mail or text me updates, if they let you.”

“Thanks, Addison. And thanks to you, too.” Claire nodded at Marta then offered a wobbly smile. “I’ll see you guys.”

I waited until she was out of earshot inside Gigi’s before I spoke. “That was sort of like a miracle.”

“God still does those, you know.” Marta elbowed me, her shopping bag bouncing off my hip. “And He can do another for you and your dad.”

“That’s probably what it will have to come to.” We looked both ways before crossing the street to the next block. As we headed toward the next store, I looked back toward Gigi’s. I really hoped Claire would get better. Even if we were never friends again, I wanted her to be okay.

And even if my dad wished he had a stronger Christian for a daughter, I wanted us to be okay, too.

D
ad’s office door had never looked so big—or so brown.

I studied the nameplate on the door that read P
ASTOR’S
OFFICE in chipped gold letters and wondered why the church had never sprung for engraving his actual name. Did they not expect him to stay as long as he had? Sometimes I wondered why he did, especially with people like Mrs. Vanderford lurking about with their peppermints and harsh words. But that was Dad—generous to a fault. He truly believed praying for people like that made them better, or at least made him stronger.

I had to admit, I had a long way to go before reaching that level of compassion.

Taking a deep breath, I reached for the doorknob then slowly lowered my hand as voices sounded through the door. One of them wasn’t my father’s.