For a moment, we just sat there, staring at each other. Like the next word would tip the balance, for good, forever. So it was a fortunate thing, maybe, that it was neither of us who said it.
“Hellooo!” A loud, cheerful voice came through the screen door. “Anybody home?”
It was Margo. My father held my gaze another moment, then turned. “We’re in here. Come on in.”
She did, the screen door squeaking loudly. “Have to get that greased before the next walk-through,” I heard her say as she approached, heels clacking. “Among a thousand other things. But first, I have great news. The interested buyers want to—”
Whether she stopped talking and walking because she saw me or hit the wall of tension was hard to say. Either way, just like that, she, too, was silent. For about two seconds.
“Emaline,” she said. “What are you doing here so early?”
I swallowed, trying to calm myself. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“Oh.” She looked more closely at my face, which I knew was flushed, then at my father. “Well, great. Then you’ll hear it here first: the buyers are ready to sign a letter of intention!”
She was so excited and proud about this, she reminded me of Theo. Clearly, it was a moment for pomp and celebration. Which, unfortunately, was a bit harder to come by when you’ve just walked into a war zone. Still, I tried. “That’s great, Margo.”
“Isn’t it?” She looked at my father. “At this rate, we can go ahead and get all the inspections started, then begin working up a contract and the other paperwork.”
“Perfect,” my father said, pushing himself to his feet. “Let’s do it. It’s time for us to get home.”
“Oh, of course,” Margo gushed, “and really, you won’t want to be living here during all of this anyway, if you can help it. Now, I just realized I left my folder in the car—of course!—but let me just grab it, and we’ll go over some preliminary details.”
“Fine,” he said, cutting her off. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
And with that, he walked away. Down the hall, out of sight, gone once more. This time, though, unlike so many others, I didn’t feel confused or wrong or angry. Just sad and disappointed. Like I was finally catching up to some Big Event of my own I’d been chasing, only to find it was over and done long ago.
I got to my feet and walked to the door. Margo followed me. “Are you okay? You seem—”
“I’m fine,” I said, starting down the front walk.
“Were you arguing with him?”
“I have to go, Margo.”
“Hey.” She reached out and touched my shoulder. “Look at me.”
I turned to face her. “Please. I’m really late for work, okay?”
“What happened, Emaline?”
“Nothing.”
She cocked her head to the side, clearly doubting this, as I got into my car. But the thing was, it was the truth. Nothing. It had been what always happened when it came to my father, save for a few months where I mistook his ego for something else. That was the problem, though. When you’ve never gotten love from someone, you don’t know what it might look like if it ever does appear. You look for it in everything: any bright light overhead could be a star.
All the way back to Colby, all I could think was that I’d lost something I never really had. And yet, the sadness in finally letting it go was as real as the tears filling and blurring my eyes. Worse, I had no idea where to go, or anyone who could understand. Not Theo, with whom this was already a loaded issue, or even Morris and Daisy, who had heard enough about my father to last us all the rest of our lifetimes.
If the light outside the realty office hadn’t turned red, I was sure I would have driven right past and on, over the bridge, maybe even farther. But when it slipped to yellow, I eased on the brakes, wiping at my eyes. I’d only sat there a second when I looked over to the parking lot and saw my mother.
She was standing on the front porch of the office, scanning the approaching traffic. Clearly, Margo had called her. I waited; one beat, then another. Finally, she spotted my car. When our eyes met, she bit her lip, then came down the steps into the lot, crossing her arms over her chest. The light changed, and I put on my blinker and turned in, now sobbing. I’d disappointed her too that day, and an awful lot lately. But still, when I got out of the car, she was waiting for me.
18
IT WASN’T A cocktail maker. It was a monstrosity.
“You know,” my mom said, from the open conference room door, “you don’t have to do this today.”
“It’s been on the requested-items list for over a week now,” I pointed out, climbing up on a chair with the box cutter and looking for a good angle to start in on the carton.
“Requested by the owner, not the tenant. They don’t even know it’s coming.”
I looked at her. “Wouldn’t you want this, if you knew it was available?”
She studied the picture on the front again, the sight of which, when UPS had dropped it off moments earlier, had left us all speechless. We’d seen it all. But never something like the Slusher Pro.
It was, at its basic core, a margarita machine. But this was like saying Mount Everest was a steep hill. It was huge, with one megablender, which, according to the box, held up to four gallons of mix, liquor, and ice. That alone was impressive. But it also had five different receptacles on its movable base so you could always have a fresh batch with the push of a button. No more constantly rinsing out the blender and refilling the alcohol to keep your guests adequately inebriated. Do it once, and the Slusher Pro did the rest.