The Girl Who Fell Read Online Free Page B

middle of the table and pick expertly at the yellow leaves on the centerpiece lipstick plant. She’s been vigilant about perfect houseplants lately, as if pinching away dead foliage will exert some sort of order in our Post Dad Universe. “I know it must seem out of the blue, but we have a lot to talk about, Zephyr.”
    I tense in my chair, slip Finn my slice. He slinks to the corner to indulge. I can’t help but wonder where Dad’s been eating his dinners and if he’s been alone. Does he have a girlfriend? Another house? A new kid on the way?
    She wipes her hands on her napkin, reflattens it against the table. “He wants to talk to you, Zephyr.”
    â€œIt’s a little late for that, don’t you think?” The words bite with all the anger I’ve stored.
    She looks at me hard. “No. I don’t. I don’t think it’s ever too late. I didn’t have the luxury of talking to my parents or even knowing them.”
    I soften, knowing Mom’s parents were killed in a car crash when she was an infant. “I know. But this is different. Dad chose to leave. Does he expect me to just forget him ditching me? That note?”
    â€œThose are questions you’ll have to ask your father.” Mom reaches for my hand across the table. “I think you need to be really careful about dismissing your father, Zephyr. You can be angry at him. You can be upset. But in the end he’s the only father you’ll ever have.”
    I look at her, searching. Doesn’t she know that I know that? It’s why his leaving hurts so much.
    I hear Lizzie’s horn outside and practically jump for the door. “I gotta go.” I bring my plate to the dishwasher and knock Mom’s pruning shears from their perch at the sink’s edge. The dull twang of them hitting the metal echoes in our quiet house.
    I give Mom a quick kiss on the cheek. I don’t tell her to have fun, like I would if she were going to her gardening club or meeting a friend. I can’t find a combination of words that would be appropriate in this beyond bizarre situation. I mean, a twenty-six-letter alphabet has its limitations.
    I fold into Lizzie’s passenger seat.
    â€œHow’s Olivia?” she asks.
    â€œMy mom is officially jenked. Apparently she’s having date night with my father.” I pull my seat belt across my chest and hope it’s enough to keep my insides from spilling out.
    Lizzie twists to face me. “So wait . . . what does this mean exactly?”
    â€œIt means that my parents are the last thing I want to talk about.”
    She gives me a hard stare. “But your dad is back, right? You don’t want to talk about that fairly major event in Doyle family history?”
    I press my head to the cold glass of the passenger door, hoping it will freeze still my racing thoughts. “I don’t know if he’s back back or why he’s here. I can’t even process.”
    Lizzie lets out a low sigh. “You still up for going out?”
    â€œGod yes. Anywhere. Please.”
    Lizzie drives and I watch the dark blink past my window. By the time we arrive at the party, we have to hike to Ronnie Waxman’s house because cars already pack both sides of his private road. The October air sings crisp and I pull my scarf from my pocket, wrap it around my neck.
    Lizzie links my arm in hers. “Be prepared to be treated like royalty.”
    Sovereign is the last thing I feel. “What for?”
    â€œThis place is crawling with jocks, and you just captained your team to State, girl. That makes you an A-lister.”
    â€œHardly.”
    â€œYou’ll see.”
    As we approach Ronnie’s house the rap is deafening. I’m grateful it absorbs the ache in me as we walk across his enormous, flawlessly groomed backyard, the earth thudding with reverberating bass.
    On the raised patio, two kegs are positioned on opposite sides, like