then I froze, imagining that conversation with Mr. Merrill. “Dad, there’s something—”
He stopped me. “I know all about your P.E. class, and it’s okay. We’ll get it all figured out.”
I sat back on the couch, about to cry for the zillionth time today. What in the world was going on? I was failing P.E. for the second time, and I wasn’t even going to get yelled at? “Dad, come on. Why are we going to Omaha?”
“Olivia, I just—I feel like it’s time.”
“Time for what? For us to be together again, you and me and Mom?”
“Of course.” He didn’t even blink.
He’s lying, I knew instantly. Fantastic. My father was lying to me.
“Does Mom know about this?”
“Well. Not yet.”
I groaned. “And how long...?”
“Oh, four or five days, and then we’ll be there.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
But Dad was pretending not to hear me. When I stood and tried to move past him, he caught me in a big, spin-in-a-circle hug that felt phony, too. He felt like a different version of my dad than the one I’d been living with for the past few years, as if a stranger had bought a mask of Dad’s face and borrowed one of his polo shirts. When he put me down, he was red with excitement. “This is the right thing,” he whispered. “I know it.”
I didn’t believe that for a second.
But I would have been the shittiest daughter in the world to say so.
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