One More Time | ✓

Chapter Five

The following morning, I wake up feeling ridiculously sick because of my nerves. I hardly manage to eat any of my breakfast, but I force it down under Greta's watchful eye, because she'll never be able to turn off that older sibling setting engraved in her.

Even Dad notices and frowns at me when we have a second alone in the kitchen because Debra and Greta are in the living room with Chrissy. I'm pretty sure that she planned that.

"Are you okay, Sabrina? You're looking a bit unwell this morning."

I scrunch my eyes up for a second, not wanting to see Dad's face. It's now or never. "I was actually kind of hoping we might have a chance to talk this morning. If you're free."

The elongated pause (that I swear lasts forever, but probably doesn't) forces me to glance up at my Dad, who looks like he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Of course. Of course, we can talk, Sabrina. Does... does now work?"

Suddenly, I wonder if he's just as nervous as I am. I mean, my palms are literally sweating. Are his? Does he also realise what an odd request this is from me? Is he also wondering whether repairing our relationship could actually ever happen?

Clearing my throat awkwardly, I nod. "Yeah. Yeah, sure."

"Okay," he nods. "Okay. Shall we... shall we go upstairs? To my study. Might be quieter."

Honestly, Dad is acting as awkwardly as me, as though he doesn't know what to do with himself. Neither do I, to be fair. I have no idea where to begin at all.

So, I trail after him up the stairs, encouraged by Greta's smile and indiscreet thumbs up.

We reach his study and I settle in one of the chairs, while he closes the door behind him before taking a seat in the other one.

There's an awkward pause.

"What is it you wanted to talk about?" Dad eventually queries, to break the silence.

The butterflies in my stomach are almost painful. "Um, well. I don't know where to start."

That's a bit ridiculous, really, because all I did last night was go over and over in my head what I would say to Dad today. Now that I've come to the moment of opening my mouth – and my heart – I just can't seem to manage it.

He waits patiently, though, to his credit, and doesn't push me to say anything.

"It's hard to know where to start because I kind of want to talk about everything."

He nods, eyebrows pinched. "Okay. Maybe start at the beginning of everything, then."

Well, fuck. What is the beginning of everything?

I swallow, glancing away as my brain races. "Well. It all starts with Mom, doesn't it?"

His face is full of pain, just like my chest. "Yes."

I fidget with the ends of my hair. "I... I mean, when Mom started to go downhill, things got really hard, right? It was- it was excruciating."

I mean, fuck. I have no idea how a teenager is supposed to deal with their Mom's health massively deteriorating. My stomach curdles as I remember the first time Mom saw me and didn't actually realise who I was. Her early-onset dementia was so cruel for all of us, especially for Greta and me because it started when we were so young.

"It was," Dad whispers. "Still is."

I snort. Right. She's out of his way, which meant that he could re-marry.

"I mean it, Sabrina," he utters, voice cracking a little.

"You started dating Debra before Mom died," I accuse, the old familiar fury overtaking my body. "You can't tell me how hard it was for you when you were shacking up with her instead of being there for Mom at the end of her life."