Losing Grip

Chapter 2➷ You Know How I Hate Keeping Secrets From You

The sudden feeling of a hand on my shoulder made me jump in my seat.

I stopped staring at the picture of Riley pinned to the refrigerator's door and turned to my dad with a smile. Concern etched onto his features, he pushed back a lock of gray hair off his forehead, to have a better look at my face.

His eyes narrowed in an expression I had seen a lot as a child, whenever I mentioned Mom. I had been at its receiving end every day since Riley's accident. That look blended worry and regret as if he believed that he was the cause of my unhappiness.

"I'm okay, Dad." I leaned against the kitchen island, but the picture drew my attention again like a magnet.

Dad had taken the shot at a park in a nearby neighborhood. A bright red cocktail dress hugged her body like it had been designed for her, and fell loosely over her knees. The camera captured her mid-laugh, therefore making the picture slightly fuzzy.

It took a conscious effort to turn away from her smile, and even more effort to face my dad again.

"How was school today?"

School. Food. College. Work. We knew what the safe topics were, and we never strayed too far from them. The long days we had spent trying to talk about what actually mattered had scarred us both. We weren't going to try for a while.

"Great," I said, focusing on his nose to give the illusion that I was looking into his eyes.

His face appeared so worn out, and it made him look about ten years older than forty-seven; I knew it was somewhat my fault. I was getting better at lying but unfortunately, Dad was not an easy target to dupe.

"Do you have a lot of homework?"

I picked on the cautious tone of his question. He didn't know how to tell me to focus on school because he understood that it was the last thing on my mind after what happened. But, I was a senior and the calls from my teachers who sympathized but complained about my work made him anxious.

"I'll get to them." I didn't add that I hadn't been able to care about equations or comma splices in months. These things felt so secondary now.

He didn't seem convinced but he didn't push me.

"I can handle dinner," I told him. "The baseball game's about to start."

He glanced down at his watch and nodded. "Are you sure? You don't have to."

I dismissed him with a wave of my hand.

He walked out of the kitchen, and I took his place in front of the stove. For what seemed like hours, I stared at the oven timer, not thinking about anything specific. Everything reeked of Riley—the kitchen counter, the oven, the stove, the microwave. She used to spend all her Saturdays in the kitchen, and we were never allowed in until she was done.

I used to peek into the kitchen through the window, and she would be bent over the stove, nodding or yelling along to the loud music coming from a small iPad she'd place on top of the microwave.

Then, she would turn around and glare at me. "I knew you'd be here. You're ruining the surprise; get out of my kitchen."

Not that it was ever much of a surprise, anyway. She either baked buttercream cupcakes or edible chocolate chip cookie dough. But we humored her and acted surprised.

That kitchen also recorded memories of the day I found out she was going out with Avan, as though painted on the walls.

For two whole weeks, after they started dating, I had known nothing of their relationship. Then one day, I walked into the kitchen to find Riley leaning against the kitchen counter and an onyx-haired guy leaning toward her.