I can't believe I’m going to do this.

I remember when I left home with one suitcase, breathing in the scent of freedom. To this day, no other smell makes me as happy as eau de Greyhound.

And now, I’m going back there, back to Rockvale, and Mom’s not even around anymore to make it bearable.

I pace around my studio apartment and make the call.

“Hello,” a gruff, sleepy voice filters through the phone line.

“Dad, did you just wake up? It's, like, noon.”

“Yeah,” he says, like I’ve just asked the most ridiculous thing he's heard all day. Which, considering he has just woken up and it's safe to assume I’m the first person he has spoken with, is actually possible.

“Don't you have to work?”

“No,” he says without offering any explanation.

I hope they haven't cut his hours again. I can't imagine living at home and being stuck with him all day, every day of the summer.

It's not the ideal solution, but I’ve decided to move out and spend summer at home with Dad. Obviously, I can't afford my life here in San Francisco now that it's summer.

My original plan of staying in the city and working to support myself hasn't quite panned out the way I was hoping it would.

I completely forgot that many of my students wouldn't need lessons during the summer. And, this being my first summer living alone (read: without any subsidies from Carly), I underestimated the amount of money I’d need to keep both McClaw and myself alive.

“You’ll be working the night shift?” I ask hopefully.

Dad works as a security guard. That seems to be the only line of work where he can get away with drinking on the job. Nobody’s ever there to actually see him do it.

Still, eventually people always find out—maybe he smells like beer when the guard for the next shift arrives at work, or maybe they find his empty cans in the trash. And then they fire him. Or, if they can't find solid proof, cut his hours.

“Nope,” Dad says.

“When are you working?” I pause. “Wait, you are working, right?”

“No, I quit.”

“You...” I let my voice trail off, unable to finish my sentence. I rub my temple. My brain hurts.

I take a deep breath. Okay, going off on him is not going to accomplish anything. I need to be nice to him, or at least civil. I remind myself he’ll be my roommate for the next couple of months.

“Dad, I’ll be spending the summer in Rockvale, okay? I’ll buy a bus ticket tomorrow and take the morning bus home.”

“Uh…” Dad stalls, like he doesn't want to answer me.

What could it be? Why would he be reluctant to let me go home?

I wonder if he has a girlfriend. That would be so weird. I wouldn't be mad or anything, though.

It has been more than a year since Mom died. Maybe he's lonely, living on his own after decades of being married.

They had a traditional marriage, I should add, in which he never had to lift a finger at home. Mom used to be responsible for all housework and childcare.

As sexist as it sounds, maybe he needs a woman to take care of him. Perhaps that's just how his generation works. Does it make me ageist to think that way?

But I'm getting carried away. I need to focus on the task.

“Dad, you can tell me what's going on.”

He remains silent, although I can hear his breathing. He takes one particularly long inhalation and says, “Promise you won't get mad?”

“Just tell me,” I say, almost snapping.

I don't really care if he has a girlfriend. Honestly, I'm a little offended that Dad thinks I’ll get upset. I'm not a little girl anymore. I know he's not just my dad, but also a complex human being with his own flaws, wants, and needs.

“Okay. I’m losing the house,” Dad says.

I stand in shock in the middle of my studio apartment. My jaw drops and I stay frozen, trying to come up with an answer that makes sense.

“You mean you’re selling it?” A lump in my throat makes it hard to continue talking, but I press on. I need answers.

How could he sell the house? I grew up there, and Mom spent her last days there. Doesn’t it mean anything to him?

“No,” he says.

“No, you’re not selling it? Then what do you mean?”

“They’re taking it away from me.”

“Who?” I ask, my voice louder and higher than I intended, frustrated by the lack of real answers.

“Holt Bank,” he says, in a tone that tells me he’s just as annoyed by my stream of questions.

“What do you mean, Holt Bank?”

“Well, it’s the name of a bank that—”

“I know what Holt Bank is!” My blood pressure rises. Of course I know what Holt Bank is. Every Californian knows what Holt Bank is. Dad has always been bad with money, but surely he’s not this bad. “You own the house free and clear, don’t you?”

“We took out some loans against the house to pay for the hospital bills.”

“How do I not know about this?” My head feels like it’s about to burst. The room starts spinning. I’d better sit down on the bed before I fall on my ass.

“You were a kid, Piper,” Dad says.

“So what are you going to do?” I massage my temples with my fingers, but the headache persists. “Where are you going to live?”

And where am I going to live?

“Steve says I can sleep on his couch,” he says.

“Steve? The divorced guy who lives in a one-bedroom apartment?”

“Yeah. He has a sofa bed in the living room. He says he doesn’t mind, says he’d like the company.”

“What are you going to do when he gets sick of you?” I ask.

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”

Shit. I can’t sleep in Steve’s living room. What am I going to do now? And isn’t Dad being way too casual about this whole thing?

“Aren’t you going to do anything about the house? You’re just going to let them take it?” I ask incredulously.

“What can I do?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Get a job?” I ask as my voice gets higher.

“I still wouldn’t be able to afford the payments. They’re so much more than what your mother and I used to pay.”

“So you’re just going to go down without a fight? I can’t believe this.”

“There’s nothing I can do, Piper. It’s useless.”

“Yeah, so might as well spend your time drinking with Steve, right?” I ask sarcastically.

“I don’t see anything wrong with that plan.”

“Can’t you borrow money from somewhere? Can’t your drinking buddies help you out?”

“Nobody has any money. You know how the economy is,” he says.

Yeah, right. The economy.

For as long as I’ve known him, Dad has never had his shit together when it comes to money. It has nothing to do with the economy.

I take a deep breath in a useless attempt to calm myself down. My heart rate has gone way up, and my head is throbbing with every heartbeat.

Obviously, this conversation is not going anywhere. Neither one of us has any money, or knows anybody who has that kind of money to give away.

Carly has money, sure. But she only has enough for herself to live on. Even if I can bring myself to ask for her help, how much can she really lend me? And for how long? Maybe she wouldn’t mind helping with the payments for one or two months, and then what? We’re still going to lose the house in the end.

“Dad, did they tell you when they’re going to kick you out?” I ask with resignation.

“Yeah, I have a couple more months.”

“Okay.”

“Why? Do you have the money?” Dad asks.

“No.”

“Okay,” he says, like he doesn’t really care about the outcome.

How could he not care? Ugh. Talking to him gets me so angry sometimes, but this is by far the worst thing he has ever done—or not done, actually.

“Bye, Dad.” I hang up the phone without waiting for his answer.

I drop my back onto the bed and let my feet dangle over the edge. I stare at the ceiling, hoping the spray-on popcorn treatment will arrange itself into some kind of answer. Nothing happens, of course.

My head feels better, though, now that I’m lying down and no longer talking to Dad.

I close my eyes. Maybe I’ll feel better after a little rest. Maybe I’ll think more clearly once I’ve had some time to deal with the new situation.