Mr. Halloway's Pet

Chapter Twenty Nine

It's not long before dad intercepts us, "Good morning, sweetheart. Good morning, Drea. How're you girls doing?"

He sits at the kitchen table with his laptop and a variety of papers. Typical.

I glance to Drea, who rubs her forearm nervously.

"Doin' good." Is all she mumbles, avoiding eye contact with him.

He doesn't seem affected by her body language, striking me as odd. Usually dad wouldn't let someone's discomfort slide off him so easily.

I feel like both of them are acting out of character and only one has a means to.

"What she said." I repeat, "Whatchya doing?"

I nudge Drea forward, that way we're now out of the hall and more into the brightly illuminated dining room.

"Well, I was finishing up this article. Would you guys be up for hitting that diner for breakfast?" His question doesn't disappoint. One look at Drea is enough to determine that she's on board with the idea.

"The one we went to the other day? Hell yea." I mumble and make the short journey to our pantry for two water bottles. "How long do you think that will take?"

I gesture to the laptop even though his back is turned and there's no chance he could see. Good thing he's well with context clues. However, it's very much not a good thing that it doesn't run in the family genes.

"Ah, only about 5-10 minutes. I'll give you girls 20 minutes to get ready, chop chop." He claps his hands on beat with the last of his words, the only encouragement we need to get moving.

20 minutes is such an odd time frame. It seems like it's plenty of time but next thing I know, dad is calling us to the door.

"Hold on!" I shout back while hurriedly sliding my house shoes on.

It's breakfast, no one cares anyway.

Drea sports her own pants—after having been washed, of course—along with a casual t-shirt I'd plucked from my closet. I nudge a second pair of house shoes her way.

I earn a smile in response and begin to worry about the lack of talking she's done this morning.

"Are you okay?" I ask, trying not to sound too concerned, to no avail. My eyebrows draw together on their own accord.

All I receive is a nod.

"Dre?" Again, concern laces my voice which only seems to worsen her willingness to talk.

"Hm?" She hums and stands with her fingers gripping one another.

"Please?" My last attempt is more desperate than not. I don't understand why she's closing down so suddenly.

"I don't know, Paige. I don't know. I feel like shit and I don't know what to do so I just need time to think." Her voice isn't as angry as it is impatient. Perhaps overwhelmed and frustrated, which go hand in hand.

"I know." I assure, stepping close and grabbing her tangled fingers with my own. "But I want you to know that I'm here. You don't have to act alright, you're safe to express yourself. I understand, dad understands; not how you feel, but where you're coming from."

She bites her lip and tears are quick to make their appearance.

I use my grip on her hand as leverage to pull her into a hug. She all but collapses into the hold.

"I think I want to tell your dad." Her voice is hoarse and faint, "That's not a bad idea, right?"

I hold her for a couple seconds longer then release our short-lived hug for an arm length stance, my hand firmly propped on either shoulder.