Bed? she said.
It took a few seconds for his eyes to rest on her.
Bed, he answered, smiling gently.
When she came back down at five, he was in his room. She could hear him snoring.
* * *
Her dad was gone when she came downstairs later that morning.
Cath decided to survey the damage. The papers in the living room had been sorted into sections. Buckets, he called them. They were taped to the walls and the windows. Some pieces had other papers taped around them, as if the ideas were exploding. Cath looked over all his ideas and found a green pen to star her favorites. (She was green; Wren was red.)
The sight of itchaotic, but still sortedmade her feel better.
A little manic was okay. A little manic paid the bills and got him up in the morning, made him magic when he needed it most.
I was magic today, girls, hed say after a big presentation, and theyd both know that meant Red Lobster for dinner, with their own lobsters and their own candle-warmed dishes of drawn butter.
A little manic was what their house ran on. The goblin spinning gold in the basement.
Cath checked the kitchen: The fridge was empty. The freezer was full of Healthy Choice meals and Marie Callenders pot pies. She loaded the dishwasher with dirty glasses, spoons, and coffee cups.
The bathroom was fine. Cath peeked into her dads bedroom and gathered up more glasses. There were papers everywhere in there, not even in piles. Stacks of mail, most of it unopened. She wondered if hed just swept everything into his room before she got home. She didnt touch anything but the dishes.
Then she microwaved a Healthy Choice meal, ate it over the sink, and decided to go back to bed.
Her bed at home was so much softer than shed ever appreciated. And her pillows smelled so good. And shed missed all their Simon and Baz posters. There was a full-size cutout of Baz, baring his fangs and smirking, hanging from the rail of Caths canopy bed. She wondered if Reagan would tolerate it in their dorm room. Maybe it would fit in Caths closet.
* * *
She and her dad ate every meal that weekend at a different taco truck. Cath had carnitas and barbacoa, al pastor and even lengua. She ate everything drenched in green tomatillo sauce.
Her dad worked. So Cath worked with him, logging more words on Carry On, Simon than shed written in weeks. On Saturday night, she was still wide awake at one oclock, but she made a big show of going to bed, so that her dad would, too.
Then she stayed up an hour or two more, writing.
It felt good to be writing in her own room, in her own bed. To get lost in the World of Mages and stay lost. To not hear any voices in her head but Simons and Bazs. Not even her own. This was why Cath wrote fic. For these hours when their world supplanted the real world. When
she could just ride their feelings for each other like a wave, like something falling downhill.
By Sunday night, the whole house was covered in onionskin sketch paper and burrito foil. Cath started another load of drinking glasses and gathered up all the delicious-smelling trash.
She was supposed to meet her ride out in West Omaha. Her dad was waiting by the door to take her, rattling his car keys against his leg.
Cath tried to take a mental picture of him to reassure herself with later. He had light brown hair, just Cath and Wrens color. Just their texture, toothick and straight. A round nose, just wider and longer than theirs. Every/no-color eyes, just like theirs. It was like hed had them by himself all along. Like the three of them had just split their DNA evenly.
It would be a much more reassuring picture if he didnt look so sad. His keys were hitting his leg too hard.
Im ready, she said.
Cath The way he said it made her heart sink. Sit down, okay? Theres something I need to tell you real quick.
Why do I have to sit down? I dont want to have to sit down.
Justhe motioned toward the dining room tableplease.
Cath sat at the table, trying not to lean on his papers or breathe them into disorder.
I didnt mean to save this, he said.
Just say it, Cath said. Youre making me nervous. Worse than nervous; her stomach was twisted up to her trachea.
Ive been talking to your mom.
What? Cath would have been less shocked if he told her hed been talking to a ghost. Or a yeti. Why? What?
Not for me, he said quickly, like he knew that the two of them getting back together was a horrifying prospect. About you.
Me?
You and Wren.
Stop, she said. Dont talk to her about us.
Cath shes your mother.
There is no evidence to support that.
Just listen, Cath, you dont even know what Im going to say.
Cath was starting to cry. I dont care what youre going to say.
Her dad decided to just keep talking. Shed like to see you. Shed like to know you a little better.
No.
Honey, shes been through a lot.
No, Cath said. Shes been through nothing. It was true. You name it, Caths mom wasnt there for it. Why are we talking about her?
Cath could hear her dads keys banging against his leg again, hitting the bottom of the table. They needed Wren here now. Wren didnt twitch. Or cry. Wren wouldnt let him keep talking about this.