All I Never Needed (Excerpt)

Chapter Two

You make me smile.

HARLEY

Skipping dinner was not on my agenda.

I knew my dad, despite the circumstances, was excited about my visit. I'd never met his new wife. I hadn't met their kids—my half-brother and sister. I knew little to nothing about his life on the East Coast, but after everything that had happened, I was more than exhausted, and the idea of meeting new people and exchanging pleasantries, pretending everything was okay when it so obviously wasn't was more than I could stand.

It wasn't the jet lag—three hours wasn't a huge adjustment. It wasn't the endless supply of hot water pouring from the showerhead in the guest bathroom, filling it with steam and fogging up the mirror. It wasn't the bed, with its pillow-top mattress that swallowed me whole, much softer than the bed I slept on back at our apartment. In truth, I didn't even realize I'd fallen asleep until I opened my eyes to total darkness, overheated, and not entirely certain where I was. The digits on the alarm clock on the nightstand beside me glowed a bright green "11:56," and a faint yellow light seeped beneath the door.

It was in everyone's best interest to pretend I hadn't woken up in the first place—to convince myself that I was still, somehow, dreaming—or I'd lie awake the rest of the night regretting many of my life's choices, but my stomach chose that moment to rumble with hunger.

I kicked off the comforter and wracked my brain, trying to recall the last meal I'd eaten—a turkey wrap scarfed down during my layover at O'Hare in Chicago more than half a day ago. I sat up slowly, giving my eyes a few moments to adjust and my head some time to stop spinning.

I was still wearing the clothes I'd traveled from Portland in—my favorite denim cutoffs, a white tank top, and purple and gray flannel shirt because I knew from waiting for my dad's planes to arrive for all those years that airports, if not cool, could be downright frigid. Putting them back on after my shower because I wasn't ready to unpack yet had been an awful idea. My skin felt sticky and clammy and. . . . God. I was starving.

I turned on the lamp and climbed out of bed, blinking back the brightness as I tried to get a sense of place. The room was nice enough—bigger than my room at our apartment—the walls a light gray, the wood furniture stained ebony, the carpet so light it was almost white. Even the comforter, something I would have never picked out for myself, was nice with its huge, red poppies on a light background.

The world outside the room was dark, the upstairs illuminated only by the nightlights plugged in at intervals along the wall, and somewhere the sound of fake rain—a noise machine—emanated. After this came the sound of paper crinkling beneath my foot as I pulled the door shut behind me, and I looked down to discover two construction paper cards—the first yellow and purple, the handwriting of a child, a crude illustration of my dad's house on the front. It was signed Jean-Luke, so the second card I assumed was Gia's. But the handwriting on this card was more steady—more mature—despite being surrounded by superhero stickers. It was signed River.

The cards accompanied me downstairs. I took each step slowly, careful not to make any unnecessary noise. My dad's house was big but not completely unnavigable, and even though I hadn't been given an official tour, I had no trouble finding the kitchen just off the den. A single lime-colored Post-it note was stuck to the stainless steel refrigerator. On it, in my stepmother's handwriting: Harley—Saved you a plate.

I pulled open the door and, sure enough, found a plate covered in foil on one of the shelves, another Post-it note—this one with only my name—stuck to the top. My stepmother was nothing if not thorough. I removed the plate and uncovered it—pork chops and green beans and a huge helping of mashed potatoes.