Chapter 46

Tonight, after we clean up the blanket and trash from dinner, I get ready for my shift on the couch.

Tom heads to work, and my sisters are tucked into bed, and my mom is soaking in a much-needed bath, so I curl up on my uncomfortable makeshift bed. I’m just starting to fall asleep when my dad’s voice surprises me awake.

“Hey, Bee,” he whispers.

I sit up and scoot toward his chair. “Yeah?”

“Why did you and Levi break up?”

I try to keep my breathing even. “What?”

Papa’s eyes are on me, white against his shadowed face. “He came this morning just after you left for work because he didn’t want to upset you. He even asked me not to tell you he’d stopped by. I had to pretend like I knew what he was talking about.” He clears his throat.

“Daddy.” I don’t know what to say except, “It was too much, okay? I was dragging him down and I couldn’t do it anymore.”

“You’re not dragging anyone down.”

I ignore him. “I wanted to do everything but I couldn’t. We were fighting so much.”

Papa nods. “He understood, though. He told me he understood why you couldn’t work through it right away. He even went as far as to say that he would have gladly fought with you for months if it meant you were together.” My dad laughs, but it’s a sad laugh. “Then he turned red and apologized, as if he’d said something wrong.”

I try to say something, but my words get stuck. The only thing that escapes are my tears. Then, so quietly I hope he can hear it, “I love him, Papa.”

“I know.”

“I can’t do it right now. Not while you’re sick.”

He snorts a laugh. “Just because I’m sick doesn’t mean you get to stop living your life.”

“I haven’t—”

“Have, too.” He reaches over, pats my hand. “Bernice, if you deny that class one more time, I’m going to spank you. I don’t care that you’re almost eighteen.”

I can’t help a laugh. “Shh, Papa.”

“You’re a stubborn one. And why you thought it was okay to say goodbye to That Boy is still beyond me.”

“It wasn’t the right time. I have a lot to figure out,” I whisper. For once, the truth—and he seems to recognize that because he doesn’t comment for a while.

“You’ve got to go out there, Bee. Face the wide world,” he finally says. “I can’t wait for you to do everything, while I’m here and while I’m not. You have so much time.”

I close my eyes. I understand what he’s implying: that he doesn’t have any time left. “It doesn’t feel like it,” I cry. I feel like I’m always crying, always wiping away tears, no matter how hard I try to stop it. “It feels like the world’s going to end tomorrow and—”

“And what if it does? So what! You should be doing all the things that will make you happy if the world does end tomorrow.”

I shudder.

“You love him, Bee.”

I can’t argue (even though I want to) because I just said that yes, I love Levi. I nod, biting my lip so hard I think it might bleed.

“And he loves you—more than any of us expected. Boys are dumb, Bee, but Levi isn’t a typical boy.” He looks at me pointedly. “You know, your mother told me about how she was certain he was a Precious Heart, all those months ago, and I was skeptical.”

I sniffle. I’d forgotten about this, but now that I know him, now that I’ve been with him and loved him, I know he is one hundred percent a Precious Heart. He is more deserving of that title than anyone else who has ever lived.

Papa continues. “But, darn it, Bee—he’s proven himself again and again. What about him makes you worried he won’t be enough?”

“What?!” I exclaim. “I’m not worried he won’t be enough—I’m worried I won’t be enough.”

“Why?” he asks quietly, as if my words have somehow hurt him.

(I don’t understand anything.) “I couldn’t even tell him my name, Papa. Not once did I actually think about telling him; I was never ready like he was. He loves me so much and I’m scared I won’t ever be able to love him equally. I’m such a mess all the time… What if, down the road, I’m not worth his time?”

“Bernice.” Papa’s voice is hushed but commanding. I look up. “Bernice, did I ever teach you to be stupid?”

I practically snort in between sobs. (I am the queen of attractive.) “No.”

“Then I don’t know why you’re saying these things. Who told you that you aren’t worth the mess?”

It hurts. “No one, I just—”

“Bee.”

I stop.

“You can turn this car around any time you want.”

I whisper, “I know.”

“He loves you, and you’re going to need someone to lean on. Things aren’t always going to be as they are right now, Baby Bee.”

I cry in earnest again, gripping his hand too tight, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry.” He pulls me in so that I’m crossing the foot of space between the couch and the recliner. I rest my head on his shoulder and let him stroke my hair. Finally, when I’ve soaked his shirt through, he says, “Why don’t you read Crime and Punishment to me tonight? We’re almost done with it.”

Thankful he’s changed the subject, I sniffle. “I think, last I counted, we had one hundred pages left.”

“Can we finish tonight?”

Brushing his hand away gently, I stand and retrieve the book. Its pages and cover are bent from being tossed and crushed and moved a thousand times, but I’ve never been happier to see a book of mine destroyed. “Maybe, if you can keep your eyes open long enough.”

“It’s a challenge I willingly accept.”

I blow my nose via the box of tissues my mom permanently keeps on the coffee table, then turn on the lamp on the opposite end of the couch, turn it on, and open the book. “Ready for this?” I ask.

“So ready,” he says.

I start to read.

The words rush from my mouth rapidly, but not so rapid that we can’t follow the story. I make sure he’s listening ten times before I stop checking and just read. My eyes droop, and my posture slouches, and I adjust my legs over and over so they don’t fall asleep, but I do it. I finish that book right there on the couch, with my Papa in the chair next to me.

He made it through most of the end, but even when he started snoring softly, I kept reading. And when I finish and turn off the lamp, I vow to read what he didn’t hear over again in the morning. Taking extra care not to make noise, I slip under the blankets and put my feet up. I fall into a deep respite at four in the morning, to the sound of my Papa breathing, his chest rising and falling, gently.

There is, however, a catch about sleeping: You have to wake up.

Matt Wescott doesn’t wake up again.