She hadn't been home since she'd moved out. Autumn dorms, where mom and dad met. It's not good luck? That was the bullshit on-the-fly feng shui superstition she invented to appease her dad, each time he'd call and ask when they'd next get to hang out. Not visit. Hang out. Calls had turned into texts, but dad was still as clingy as ever, even though they still saw each other just about every other day, and every time she punched in and out for work. He'd sit there by the time clock like a puppy, like it'd be the last time he ever saw her.
And she'd just have to put on a cool face. "Talk to you later, gramps," was her usual line, but she had a quiver full of excuses, enough ammo to shoot him down every time. Tired. Sick. Oh, you know, long night of studying ahead. He was good at deflecting, rolling with the punches, wishing her a good night and going back to whatever he did when she wasn't there. She always bailed out of those conversations with pincers poking inside her guts, fighting through the thick guilt that filled her up like slime.
#1 Worst Daughter in the Whole World. Where was her mug? Even now, she could feel her insides wringing themselves out.
But if she visited more, or stayed a little longer, just to stay and chat, just like dad ended up almost begging her every time they saw each other now, she'd give in. If she called him and texted him every time she thought about him, they'd be talking all day. And if he asked, "Tired of the dorms yet? Ready to move back in?" and she said, "Yeah, I am," then he could say, "Ha, I told you so." She was just afraid of giving him that satisfaction.
This whole stint, moving into the dorms no matter how much dad had wanted her to stay at home, it was to prove something to herself as much as it was to prove things to him. She could take care of herself. She didn't need him breathing down her neck. He could trust her. He didn't have to keep treating her like she'd crumble into dust if he wasn't there to hold her hand.
Cailin cut across the grass, glancing left, glancing right, pushing against the side-gate. It swung open with just an ugly buckling sound, without an inch of resistance. Years of sliding the lock in and out with their powers and shaved the bolt down into a thin iron spindle, bad for keeping out burglars, but good for sneaking in and out. Dad left her a key. Of course he did. But just walking in through the front door, like she used to every day after school, that tore and wadded her up on the side. That was too familiar. This wasn't her house anymore, or at least, it wasn't supposed to be.
At the same time, this house had everything Beata didn't, though. Including most of her things. Each unit was about the same dimensions she imagined a prison cell to be, not enough space for her mountains of stuffed plushes (at least half of them were Pikachu related), half a closet, a few miscellaneous boxes stacked with picture frames and old class projects from Liberi. The communal kitchens were the worst unexpected nightmare she hadn't prepped herself for, and she couldn't work with the pedestrian garbage the Academy offered. School meals were... well, they were school meals. Could people actually live off that stuff?
Nothing tasted like dad's cooking. She wasn't about to take from the diner, but dad wouldn't miss a few knives, maybe an actual cast iron pan, some finer ingredients a little outside her budget... Could you believe organic honeydew could be sixteen credits at the supermarket? It was ridiculous! Cailin let the gate creak close behind her, creeping along the side of the house, freezing just as she was about to step into where the yard widened up. An awful clatter. Like someone throwing a suit of armor down a staircase. "Wha—...?"
Was someone actually breaking in? Stupid dad, not replacing that stupid lock. Cailin stepped out into the open, hands balled into fists, but the swell of anxiety drooped sharply into disappointment. Her little brother. Doing... little brother things. Do you know that feeling when you're super into a show or a song or a movie and right at the cinch of the whole moment, the stream starts buffering? That was the emotional experience of living with Jackson, even if it was only part-time. Her expression deflated into something almost resembling disinterest, pursing her lips and folding her hands in front of her, watching him arrange his... their... her pots and pans around into some kind of modern art display. This look, it was dad's look, and she'd nailed it years ago. It said, "I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed." And it said it a thousand times louder than any words could.
So she didn't say anything. There wasn't anything to say. Cailin just stood there and waited for him to notice her looking.
