“Sci-fi?” I asked, surprised. Clark had mentioned that first night that his father was an aspiring writer, and I’d always assumed he wrote fantasy, like Clark.

“Yeah,” Clark said, with a half smile. “He doesn’t really get what I do, I don’t think. . . .” His voice trailed off and he cleared his throat. “Anyway, he was really happy when I started working on my book. I think I only did it because I saw my dad writing every night, and it became something we were doing together. The McCallister men and their books. My mom used to joke about it. . . .” A smile flitted across his face but was gone almost as soon as it appeared. “So when I finished, my dad had lists of agents to send it to. I didn’t think anything was going to happen—I don’t think he did either. But then the book sold.” Clark hit his blinker, and I realized we were heading toward the diner. I didn’t know if Clark was hungry, or if he was going there out of habit, but either way was fine with me. I’d had enough driving-around talks with my friends to know that sometimes you just needed somewhere to go, some destination so that you could keep the car moving and the conversation going.

“He was really happy for me at first,” Clark said, and the faint trace of hopefulness still in his voice was breaking my heart. I wanted to slide across my seat and wrap my arms around him, kiss him until he had forgotten all about this, but I knew that neither one would actually be helpful right now. “And he thought that it would be good for his book too. But my agent didn’t want it. And he couldn’t sell it anywhere, this book he’d been working on for ten years. And then my books started to do well. . . .”

“And he wasn’t so happy?” I filled in, feeling my anger at Clark’s dad starting to rise.

“Not so much,” Clark said, and though he was keeping his tone light, I could practically see the effort involved with it. “He used to say that he was planning on reading my books, getting around to it any day now. But we’ve stopped talking about it, really, and I’ve accepted now that he’s just not going to read them.”

“What about your mom?”

Clark shrugged as he made the right onto the street that was the shortcut to the diner’s parking lot. “She stays out of it mostly,” he said. “She keeps the peace, changes the subject if it looks like we’re going to start talking about something that could be upsetting.” I nodded, trying to ignore how familiar that sounded. “It was why I moved out this year.” Clark pulled into the parking lot, which was half-deserted. He swung into an open space and cut the engine but didn’t take the keys out yet, and I didn’t unbuckle my seat belt or do anything that might stop him from continuing.

“Was it just too hard?”

Clark looked over at me and gave me a sad smile. “No,” he said. “That’s the thing. We were getting along great. But it wasn’t until I realized why that I knew I had to leave.”

I blinked at him, trying to figure out what this was without having to ask him. Before I could formulate the question, Clark went on quietly. “It was because I realized he was happier when I wasn’t succeeding. Because we’ve never gotten along better than when I couldn’t write.”

I drew in a sharp breath as the impact of this hit me—what Clark had been going through for the last three years. “I’m really sorry,” I said when I realized that there was nothing else I could say—what I really wanted to say about his dad might be better saved for another time.

“Thanks,” he said, looking down at the steering wheel as he shrugged. “It’s just hard.” We sat in silence for a moment, and then Clark said, his voice quiet, “Your dad read my books right away. Because we were dating, and he wanted to know more about me.”

“Maybe the first one,” I said, “but the second one was because he liked the story.”

Clark gave me a faint smile. “But he did it for you. I mean . . . I wish my dad were more like that,” he said, his voice getting softer with every word. “You’re just really lucky.”

I sat there, listening to the rain beat against the car windows, and realized he was right. It was something I would never have believed at the beginning of the summer. But it was true now. I couldn’t imagine my dad ever stepping in my way to try to block my path, or wanting anything but for me to be happy.

“I know,” I said, my voice quiet.

I reached my hand over to cover his, and he threaded his fingers through mine. We just stayed like that, neither one of us making any move to get out of the car as the rain fell all around us. I rested my head on his shoulder, and he tipped his head down to rest against mine, and I sensed he was feeling what I was—that there was no need to talk just then. That what we’d said, and the rhythm of Clark’s heartbeat, and the sound of the rain, in that moment, was enough.

Chapter FIFTEEN

Clark had started writing again.

He didn’t tell me right away, but I knew something was different. I’d come by to get Bertie and he wouldn’t be there to greet me, Bertie already wrangled into his leash. He’d emerge a few minutes later, a faraway look in his eye, his mind clearly on other things, and he’d head out to the walk forgetting essential things—his keys, his sunglasses, the dog. He always seemed to be typing things into his phone or scribbling things down on scraps of paper. When I finally asked him if he was writing—as carefully as possible, since I didn’t know the rules of writer’s block, and whether you could call it back by saying its name, Beetlejuice style—he told me that he was. He seemed thrilled but wary, not wanting to tell anyone any details about it, something that was driving Tom bananas.