How am I going to find out where I work?
Since I’m earning a paycheck, there must be a record of the deposits in my bank account. I log in, and sure enough, there are regular payments from Castle Hardware.
I smile. I work at Castle Hardware with Alistair. And I have money, for once in my life.
I find the green vest hanging in my closet. I throw it on over white shorts and a T-shirt, then quickly dart into the bathroom to brush my teeth.
I stop short. The sink is missing. There’s literally just a hole where the sink used to be. The showerhead is gone, too, and a bunch of tools are piled in the bathtub. The floor is covered in a drop cloth. Basically, it’s a disaster zone.
Dad comes up the stairs, Napoleon at his heels.
“What happened in here?” I ask him.
“We’re renovating the bathroom.” He puts his hand against my forehead. “You sure you’re feeling all right? Did you hit your head or something?”
Or something.
I laugh weakly. “I just forgot.”
“You forgot your mom is away and you forgot we’re renovating the bathroom,” he says, a note of disbelief in his voice.
I shrug.
“Emelia, pretending to have amnesia is not going to get you out of helping me finish this project,” he says, crossing his arms. “I know that it hasn’t exactly been smooth so far, but imagine how satisfying it will feel when we’re all done.”
Wait. I’m helping him renovate the bathroom?
Honestly, this might be the biggest shock of the morning so far. We know nothing about home renovation—my dad is the least handy person there is. But I guess that was before. I guess in this reality, he’s Bob Vila.
“We have to get the sink in today or we’ll never get all of this done before your mom gets back,” he adds.
I glance at him uneasily. “Does Mom know that we’re tearing up the bathroom?” I mean, I can’t argue with the fact that the upgrade is necessary—everything in here was from the eighties—but my mom is super particular. I can’t imagine she’ll be thrilled that we’ve taken this on without her.
Dad stares at me, his brow furrowing. “Em, we talked about this. Your mom and I have agreed on these changes. As we told you, the real-estate agent recommended that we fix up a few rooms before we put the house on the market,” he says. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?”
My eyes widen. Realtor? We’re selling our house?
All the blood rushes from my head and I have to lean against the wall. We’ve lived here my entire life. My parents have never mentioned moving before.
“But where are we going to live?” I ask in a small voice.
“We haven’t figured out all the details yet. But I did see an apartment downtown that I might rent,” he says. “It has two bedrooms, so when you’re with me, you’ll have your own space.”
My eyes narrow. When I’m with him? What is he talking about?
“As for your mom, I think she wants to wait until we’ve sold the house before she looks for something.”
Before she looks for something? We’re not all going to be living together?
My chest hitches as it hits me. Oh my God. My parents are getting divorced.
CHAPTER
7
My parents are getting divorced.
I guess this is what the palm reader meant by my sweater unraveling.
My throat closes and my eye sting with tears. I don’t get it. I changed one thing in my past and I don’t understand why that change made a difference in my parents’ relationship. I mean, they didn’t really fight that often. And, okay, I knew things hadn’t been super great between them since my dad lost his job—and maybe even for a while before that—but I never thought they’d split up.
How could they do this to me?
“All set?” Dad asks me. “If we don’t hustle, you’re going to be late.”
Right. I have to work. At the job that I just learned I have.
“I have to brush my teeth,” I say.
“Okay. I’ll meet you outside.” Dad whistles as he walks away.
I scowl. How can he whistle when the world is ending?
I run down the stairs and into the powder room, where I find my toothbrush and makeup piled in a corner on the counter. As I’m brushing my teeth, I hear the front door open. I head outside, where Dad’s waiting beside our Honda Civic.
He’s still whistling.
He hands me the car keys, all nonchalant, like this is something he does all the time.
I’m suddenly all sweaty. How am I going to tell him that I don’t actually know how to drive?
This is a big problem.
“I’m not feeling so great. Maybe you should drive,” I say, trying to give the keys back to him.
“Don’t be silly. You need the practice.” He walks around to the passenger side and gets into the car.
I rub the back of my neck. I’m not sure that I’m going to be able to pull this off. It’s not like I can fake driving a car. What if I get us into an accident? I should probably just confess that I don’t know what I’m doing, but I don’t know how to tell my dad that without tripping the alarm bells. He already suspects that something is off with me—if I tell him that I’ve forgotten every driving lesson he’s ever given me, then he’ll definitely drag me to a doctor.
You’re going to be fine, I tell myself, taking a deep breath. You can do this.
After all, millions of people drive every day. How hard can it be?
I slip into the driver’s seat and put on my seat belt. I stick the keys in the ignition and turn the car on. When I reach for the gearshift, Dad says, “Wait a minute. Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Yes! Yes, Dad. I’ve forgotten everything!
I stare blankly at him.
“You need to adjust your mirrors,” he says.
“Oh. Right.”
I tip the rearview mirror down slightly like I’ve seen him do before, until I can clearly see out the back window, then adjust my side mirrors. I reach for the gearshift again and try to shift it from park to reverse. Except nothing happens—the gearshift doesn’t budge.
“It’s stuck,” I say.
Dad narrows his eyes. “You need to put your foot on the brake pedal first.”
“Oh. Right.”
I manage to get the car started. Clutching the wheel, I press my foot against the gas pedal. But I guess I push down a little harder than I should, because the car shoots backward. I squeal and stomp on the brake and the car jerks to a stop, nearly giving us whiplash.
“Emelia,” Dad says.
“Sorry, sorry.”
He sighs.
This time, I back down the driveway, much slower and more smoothly. Dad gasps when I pull out into the street.
“You forgot to check over your shoulder,” he scolds.
Whoops. I smile sheepishly at him.
He sighs again. “Emelia, don’t look at me. Keep your eyes on the road.”
“All right, all right.”
God, he’s just making me even more nervous. My hands are sweating and I keep having to take one of them off the wheel at a time to wipe them on my shorts. Fortunately, the streets are quiet, and aside from almost missing a stop sign, I do pretty well on the rest of the ride.