Author's Note- Edit of Chapter 3. :)

Things Just Don't Change

"Seriously? This isn't a joke right? I'm not horribly confused and it's really June and not April fool's day? Is it opposite day, maybe? Or the apocalypse is upon us, right? Yeah, that's probably it."

"Alright, alright, I get it," Dad chuckled and shook his head, returning to his morning paper since I wasn't really taking his announcement seriously. But he didn't know me all that well if he thought he could just drop the subject. Especially a subject this big and especially if he were relying this news to me.

"Oh, I know! It's the rapture. So the nut job was a few days late, that doesn't mean that the end of the world isn't coming-"

"Chloe." Dad gave me a pointed look, obviously desiring me to cut my childish behavior. But, in all honestly, I had every right to play this card. The guilt trip card. Dad didn't like it, but he was never around to see how much I didn't like the fact that he was never around.

"Okay, so, in all seriousness, you're free this summer?"

"Yup."

"No long-winded business trips?"

"None."

"No on-call-sorry-Chloe-my-pager-is-buzzing-with-my-next-assignment-"

"It's exactly as I said," my father interrupted me, his tone flat with displeasure towards my attitude. "I let my boss know that I would be taking the summer off as an extended vacation. Three months paid extended vacation."

See, this is where he keeps losing me. And yet he disliked my questioning of something that seemed so illogical and made absolutely no sense. I mean, I couldn't even wrap my mind around the idea in itself.

"Why," I managed to ask through all my confusion. Dad's features immediately set sheepishly and he cleared his throat unnecessarily.

Dad could give news just fine. It was the closure in anything he had a hard time handling. My father and I don't talk much and when we do, it's not about our feelings or personal matters. I unconditionally love him of course, but the man doesn't know me. He knew me better eleven years ago when Mom was still around. I honestly didn't know Dad all that well either, but with the time I have spent with him, I've found that he's pretty easy to read.

"Well, I've been thinking lately-"

"A dangerous pastime," I murmur. He ignores me and pushes through his explanation.

"You have one year of high school left and a year before you're eighteen and starting your life out there on your own. Now, I don't know what it is you want to do exactly-"

You and I both, Dad.

"- but I doubt it's sticking around here with your old man."

"Who's never home-"

Whoops. I think I just said that out loud.

"And that's my point," Dad mutters shamefully and I instantly feel bad, though, I know I shouldn't. He's never home, so my shock in his sudden decision to stay home is completely justified. "I-I understand that I'm always away for business. But, after a lot of thinking, I, uh, well, I decided that I want this last year that- that I have you to be- different."

Dad struggled to keep his cool and, aside from his speech, he was doing a pretty good job doing that. He didn't look me in the eyes though and I could see the regrets written all over his face.

He would never be able to own up to all those regrets. Him and I were the same that way. But I could see the sincerity in what it was he was offering, or asking for. Begging for.

He wanted me to give him a second chance. He wanted to start over.

"Really?" I whispered, still wary. I had every right to be, but I didn't want to be. Especially when Dad looked at me with those big, brown puppy eyes that just looked so sad and lost and pleading.

"Yeah. This summer- I'll have more time to, um-" He paused for a moment, literally skipping over that dreaded, cheesy word.

"Anyways, I wanted to spend the summer working on the yard and the exterior of the house. I thought that would be a good start for, uh, well, between us, I guess."

"Good one, Dad," I laughed. "Yard work, that's great-" I stopped when I noticed that he wasn't smiling and was in fact looking at me with a straight face that might slightly be questioning my sanity. "Wait, you're being serious?"

"Yes, Chloe. It's just that- we used to take such good care of this house and the yard- your mother practically lived in that yard," Dad said quietly and I could see where he was going with this. Maybe he had heard my brutally honest comment the other day, about the fact that Mom wouldn't like what we had done with her yard.

But that's the thing. We haven't done anything and that's why it looked like the dump it is today.

"When you move out- or whatever you plan on doing after this year- I'll most likely spend more time International on business and I don't want to leave the house in a state where it will never be repaired," Dad added, sounding resolute. As if he had put a lot of time and thought into this, into his second chance not only with me, but also with this house- in essence a second chance in keeping a connection with Mom. I was surprised. I didn't think that he ever thought about this kind of stuff. I always believed that work was his way of escaping or coping.

But I guess he just got tired of running away. And, I believed him. I was proud of him in fact.

That didn't really give us- or him for the matter- the capability of fixing the massive mess our backyard had become.

"Alright. I completely agree with you," I begin, scooping up my cereal bowl from the table and taking it over to the sink, aware of Dad's eyes on me as I did, gauging my reaction. "But that yard isn't in need of a petty pick up. It needs professional help. How do you expect us to be able to provide that?"

"Right," Dad chuckled nervously. "Well, I haven't planned that far ahead yet."

I shook my head and hopped up onto the counter.

"Maybe we can call someone. A business that specializes in yards."

Dad was quiet for a moment and I could tell he was tossing it around in his head. I didn't really think it was a big deal. In fact, I thought it was kind of smart. If he really wanted to get the yard and the outside of the house fixed up and repaired, he knew we couldn't do it on our own. Calling someone would be the best idea. But he seemed almost hesitant, as if he didn't want someone he didn't know working on our yard. My mother's yard. He didn't want someone he didn't trust touching it.

I guess I could agree with that feeling. The backyard to this house was something special. It held sentimental value and old memories.

But, if we want those back, we're going to need help.

"Yeah, maybe," Dad murmured unconvincingly. I sighed. "I'll think about it. We have all summer, right?" He said, speaking up this time. Kind of his way of ending a conversation. Don't get me wrong, he will think about it. He'll just take a long time to think about it. I mean, look at how long it took him to think about taking a whole three months off work just to have a second chance to be a part of my life.

Eleven years.

"Alright," I said, slipping off the counter. "Sounds like a plan."

"Yeah, good," Dad mumbled awkwardly.

"Good."

"Good talk," he added, as if unsure what to say. I didn't blame him. We haven't ever really talked. I'd be lying if I said that I didn't feel the same way.

"Good talk," I repeated, then, unsure as to what to do next, I made my way to the kitchen door. I paused for a second before leaving the room, knowing that there was something else I wanted to say. I was still iffy on the entire situation, with all the news.

But I couldn't deny that I was pretty touched by it.

"Hey, Dad?"

"Hmm," Dad looked up quickly, brows bending in question as to why I was still in the kitchen.

"I-I really appreciate that you- y-you know," I stammered.

"Y-Yeah," Dad said quietly. And that was that.


People need to understand that Chloe has to have her jam time.

Chloe's jam time consists of three things. Outrageously loud and annoying pop music, any scrap of paper to write inspired screen writes on and the complete silence of everything else.

Unfortunately, at the moment, the unending roar of a nearby engine was considered a disruption to demand number three.

I swung my legs over the side of my bed, unwillingly disregarding the screen write I was working on and grumbled my way to close the window that allowed the disrupting noise to enter the sanctuary that was my jam time.

Jam time was something I sort of developed after Mom had died and Dad had started to pick up more hours. I didn't really want to spend that much time with the 'Nanny' Dad had hired and I was still too wounded to do anything unless strictly required, like school and eating. So I went through a phase where I locked myself away from the world and blasted whatever happened to be on the radio so that no one would hear me crying.

After a while of that, jam time became its own thing where I just kept to myself. Once I discovered my passion in writing and dreams of producing, the concept just fit its way into jam time.

And now something- or someone- was obnoxiously cutting through my music and distracting my concentration on something that could potentially be for the greater good of Hollywood's future.

Sure enough, when I reached the window, I found out exactly what- who- was interrupting jam time.

Derek Souza.

I crossed my arms and leaned against the windowsill, glaring at the jerk who was taking a lawn mower over his family's backyard- hence the sound of an engine whining over my music. It's hardly been two days since the spat I had experienced with him and I still couldn't get over how much I couldn't stand him. How dare he make snap judgments about my father, let alone me? The idea of us luring the Bae family into the Committee's circle was almost laughable and completely ludicrous. So what if he didn't know that Dad and I weren't members? That was the point. He didn't know, therefore, it was unfair of him to make those kinds of assumptions. Especially while we were so kindly helping them move in.

What a rude, ungrateful-

I've honestly been insulted on a much higher level before, so I didn't understand why I cared so much what this guy thought of me. People have judged me before, my own- ex- friends even, and I've always been the bigger person and let it all go. However, this time was different. And I couldn't take not knowing why it was so different.

I sneered a moment longer out my screenless window then looked away, moving to close the glass pane.

But I froze.

Actually, it was more than merely pausing for a moment to mentally calculate something before continuing on with my fairly uneventful but potentially fulfilling life. My mind literally shut down for several seconds before starting back up again as if it were rebooting in order to process the very reason I hesitated in the first place. And let me just say, it was a very pleasurable, complicated and disturbingly good reason.

A whole thirty seconds passed before everything finally clicked and I whipped my head back to the scene outside my window, sneaking a dramatic double-take of the entire situation just as the motor of the lawnmower died. I gasped and my eyes went wide and rounded into large saucers, my mouth falling open in the same second.

"Oh. My. God." I whispered.

Derek left the lawnmower in the middle of his yard where he had paused in his work, moving towards his patio that mirrored my own. I gaped at him as he bent over a single lawn chair that occupied the back porch and picked up a dark, shirt-like piece of clothing and patted it against his glistening brow.

The point of this scenario was that the shirt was supposed to be on his body, not lounging on the sidelines awaiting his need to relieve the after effects of hard work.

It only made sense that Derek would work shirtless, as most guys do, especially in the summer. But that wasn't the point.

The point was that he was shirtless. And this occurrence wasn't helping my resolve to dislike him.

Sure, when I had first laid eyes on Derek I had admired the way his biceps flexed in their crossed position and stretched the fabric of his rather tight shirt, and how broad the color made his shoulders appear and the way it hugged his torso. But that was when his shirt was still on, hardly comparing to this precise moment where that wasn't the case.

I gawked, mouth still agape as Derek tossed his shirt aside, forgotten and dismissed, and relished in how his strictly defined shoulder blades rolled in the movement. My eyes traveled when he turned back towards his lawnmower and fawned over the planes of his stomach, mind barely registering how wrong this was for someone you strongly disagree with to have such an amazingly toned body. It just wasn't fair. And don't even get me started on his chest. His glorious, peppered with drops of glistening-

Red light!

"Oh my God!" I squealed as I realized just where my mind was going. I hadn't noticed just how loud I had been until I saw Derek's gaze snap up in my direction. I squeaked and dropped to the floor of my room, hitting the hardwood with a smack as the fall had been instinctual and unexpected. I didn't dare voice my pain though. Instead I bit my tongue and slowly counted to twenty in my head, praying that Derek hadn't seen me and would blow off the mangled sound of my cry as some deranged bird and resume his work.

Sure enough, as I hit twenty, the motor roared back to life and I breathed a sigh of relief. However, there was still a little paranoid voice in the back of my head screaming, 'Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!'

Slowly, I rose to my feet, wincing as I felt the strain on every part of my body that hit the floor. My left knee and cheek in particular stung and started to prickle in a numbing after effect. I ignored the protests my minor injuries screamed at me and hesitantly peaked over the windowsill. Derek's back- his obnoxiously, scrumptious back- was facing my house, concluding that he was no longer looking in my direction.

I took another longing look, checked myself and took note of exactly what I was doing, silently cursed to myself, then slumped back to the floor, leaning my back against the wall below the window.

How annoying, frustrating and mind boggling is it to find out that your douche-y new neighbor is amazingly built and gorgeous- even more so than you had already perceived- just after you declared your eternal disdain for him?

Extremely.


The next two weeks were somewhat uneventful. When I say somewhat, I'm referring to the fact that I had hoped- but didn't really expect- to see a sort of change produced by my father's constant presence. However, things seemed to have remained the same.

I stuck to my usual daily routine. Breakfast, shower and dress for the day, minor chores around the house, check my all but empty inbox, perhaps a trip to the library or walk in the park- depending on the day- watch and studiously observe some movies, jam time, dinner, read, bed. I believe I mentioned before that I had lost my friends to the Committee, and have been additionally stripped of school by summer- not an entirely bad thing- however; this meant that I had no life.

It was pretty pathetic actually.

In the midst of this, Dad was just a faint occurrence. He might have been an extra in my schedule, but I knew where his mind really was. It was back at work, possibly planning for the catch up he would have to make once the summer was over. I'll admit I was a tad bit disappointed but not all that surprised.

Still, there was roughly another two months to go, and a lot could happen in that amount of time.

A lot can happen in two weeks.

And, aside from my day-to-day, second nature routine, plenty of things had happened.

Derek had cut his family's lawn to perfection. He had re-stained and repaired his side of the fence. He propped up the drooping newborn tree near the center of his yard, and put some maintenance in the small fountain on the patio as well as the shed parallel- save the fence in the way- to the run down stack of fire wood in my own yard.

In two weeks, Derek had gotten so much work done; simply taking care of minor imperfections here and there as the house had been inhabited for years- and I witnessed the whole process.

I know that to most, my simple observations and chance happenings to catch Derek at work in his backyard just as I so coincidentally seem to be passing by my bedroom window would be classified as stalking. However, I see it as just dumb luck. Why would I purposefully pace the length of my windowed wall at nearly four in the evening, where Derek seems to spend this precise time working, just to wind up taking meaningless mental notes of someone I could hardly stand because of their unruly and rude attitude?

Some may argue that it was because Derek had a glorious body and almost always worked shirtless.

Again, what do I care? Derek Souza may be sort of, possibly, in a dark and hulking way, a little- in a lack of better words- hot, but he was still a jerk. He was insensitive and quick to assume that a possibly innocent person had some sort of ulterior motive. I can understand being wary and untrusting of strangers, but Derek had crossed a line once he opened his unjustly, judgmental mouth.

Still, I found myself questioning on a particularly dry and scorched Monday evening why I've most recently found myself eager to stealthily sneak momentary peaks around my pale blue curtains and take time out of my very important and life pending daily routine to just watch him do petty yard work. Yes, Derek had his shirt off, like he did almost every other day, and sure, when all this started that first day I was graced- or cursed- with that specific occurrence, I couldn't help but marvel. And I was justified by the fact that, who wouldn't? It was like the guy had stepped right out of a sports magazine or some bullshit cologne commercial.

Be that as it may, once I really started asking myself what the hell I was doing, I was coming up with answers of intrigue and curiosity. I was no longer watching him while he worked, but watching him work. There was something about the way Derek handled things that was somehow interesting, something I couldn't quite put my finger on. And I used that as an excuse to continue watching. I honestly couldn't tell if it was how engrossed he was in his projects or the almost gleeful vibe that emanated from his body by simply being outdoors, but I was determined to find out what made this Derek so much different from the one I had met two weeks before.

I was stealing a glance of Derek tending to a forgotten lawn gnome that Monday evening when I was startled by a hesitant knock on my door. I yelped and reached for the curtains, yanking them together roughly before whirling towards my door, heart going a million beats a minute as if I had just been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

"Chloe? Are you decent," Dad's voice came from the other side of the door. I sighed and took a second to steady my heart rate before calling back.

"Sure, come in."

There was a pause and I wondered if I had taken too long to reply and he had already left. I was about to check for myself, but the door opened and Dad stepped in seemingly reluctant and tense. His brows were bent in a sort of concerned, yet, almost guilty manner of concentration, as if he had some bad news. His anxious aura puzzled me, shockingly averting my brain completely from the shirtless and mysterious boy next door.

"What's up," I asked cautiously and when Dad coughed unnecessarily to clear his throat- a nervous habit the both of us shared- I raised my brow in suspicion.

"I made some calls earlier and I found someone who could work on the yard at a pretty reasonable price," Dad stated. I didn't see why this news called for him to be so shifty though. In fact, it was great news. It was a sign of progress. It had taken two weeks for him to finally make a decision on the task he had laid on the table when he took his vacation, regardless, he actually pulled through with it. For a moment, my disappointment of having my father here yet still lacking his company diminished, and a new sense of hope and optimism was born. Maybe Dad was seriously determined to change things around here and take full advantage of this second chance.

"That's great, Dad," I exclaimed. "When do they start? I've been thinking that instead of paying them to do all the work, they can train us up to handle the work ourselves, you know what I mean? Or at least we can help them out, that way we don't defeat the whole purpose of you taking vacation and spending some time at home."

The more I continued to talk, the more my father seemed to squirm along with something in the pit of my stomach as that paranoia and question began to settle again.

"I'm sure you'll be able to spend some time working on the yard with the young man I hired. It's a good idea, that way there can be an up- keep once he's finished," Dad said as he rubbed the back of his neck, features set for certain now in guilt. My heart sank and I knew that I should have known better.

"I'll be spending time working on the yard? Just me?" I really didn't need to ask, but at this point, I wasn't exactly sure what to say anymore.

"The firm has an unexpected and greatly profitable new project and I was specifically selected to fly to Europe to start the blue prints."

"When is your flight," I asked robotically.

"Tomorrow morning."

I nodded, slowly at first, allowing this reality to be absorbed. I couldn't fight the slight hurt I felt, especially after he had made a big deal about spending some time at home and time with me, and how he had looked almost determined to take advantage of the present and use it to- as much as I hate the corny truth of it- bond with me. But the key word was: almost. I knew. Even two weeks ago during his proposal of this hesitantly built- if not completely spontaneous- plan, I knew it was a long shot and a false hope. But I had allowed myself to carry such silly fantasies and that was my fault, not his. And I couldn't deny that I was used to this, because, in reality, I was always disappointed to see Dad go. Every time he came home, I harbored that false hope that he would stay, just a little longer than usual. And this time, when it seemed like he would, I should have been more wary and aware of the fact that it was too good to be true. People can't just change, break habits or- in more or less words- addictions on a sudden desire to make things right, not right away at least. Things like this eleven year gap between my father and I would take time to be resolved, if not our whole lives. That was the kind of hope I needed to carry, because it was more realistic and allowed to cling to my optimistically stubborn attitude that desired to have a parental figure once again. For now, however, I was almost eighteen, an adult, and as so many times in the past, I just needed to suck it up and let him go.

So, I put on a brave face and smiled. What I expressed to my father was a pitiful lie to what I actually felt towards him, but it was the way things had become and was almost effortless now.

Almost.

"All the way to Europe? Wow, that's amazing," I played this act strong and just wished with all my might that Dad couldn't hear how false my words sounded, even to me. "Promise to bring back pictures?"

Dad's lips quirked, but the smile didn't quite meet his eyes as he surveyed me, gauging how I was really taking this. And like every other time he had left, he would only force himself to dig deep enough to see my false pretenses of understanding, and then he would go.

"Always do," he said quietly then nodded toward my bedroom door. "Uh, I'll be packing if you need anything."

"Thanks, Dad."

Thanks for nothing.


My enjoyment of Captain Crunch and OJ was abruptly interrupted by a sharp rap on the front door. Spoon halfway to my awaiting mouth; I glanced over at Dad, figuring that this was a rare occasion for him to be home so long, I felt as if he was obligated to answer the door for once. When he looked at me expectantly over the top of his morning paper, I sighed, dropped my spoon into the burgundy bowl that held my longing of sugary goodness and pushed my chair away from the table with a nasty screech across the linoleum floor.

Clad in my girly boxers and black wife beater, I trudged to the door. It was barely seven in the morning, my dad was home for at least four more hours, it was summer, my vacation; God forbid that whatever sale or package couldn't possibly wait for a better time to invade on my life? This was bound to be a waste of a good three and a half minutes of my precious time.

Muttering to myself, I turned the brass knob of the front door, swung it open and opened my mouth to release a very rude, "What," on the intruder.

However, my word screeched to a halt in my throat and my knees buckled, my chest seized and I could feel my flesh burn, no doubt turning a very attractive tomato red. My eyes definitely bugged and I was sure I squeaked as my brain registered exactly who it was at the door.

Then I did the stupidest thing imaginable. Without even thinking, I shrieked. While doing my best to hold it in my throat, the sound came out as if produced by a wild cat being strangled. Then I flung the door shut. I whipped around, throwing my back against the door as if that would keep him outside and out of my sight forever- as much as I didn't want that, but, at this point, I was acting irrationally. My breathing pitched a notch in overdrive and my heart stammered so hard I could feel the rocketing motion down in my toes. The entryway swayed and it took me a moment after shoving his very confused- very intense- eyes out of my head to realize that I was shaking, hard.

"Chloe, who's at the door," Dad called from the kitchen. His voice slammed reality into me and I mentally slapped myself for what I had just done. In front of him of all people.

"Chloe?" Dad asked, sounding concerned. His paper ruffled, as if he set it down and he was getting up from the table. I quickly called back to him, not wanting him to see me in this state.

"J-Just Derek, Dad."

That's right. I had just freaked and slammed the door on Derek Souza.

Great.

What the hell was he doing here! Seven in the morning, on my front step, after we hadn't had any form of communication with him or his family since our little farce two weeks before, and now that I had started to catch him working in his backyard, shirtless, through my bedroom window- in which I will painstaking and unwillingly admit that I was admiring if not ogling- while I greet him so gracefully in my pajamas.

I paused for a moment, breath catching and shivers halting as that little fun fact sunk in along with the rest of reality.

Oh my God. Derek Souza, Derek hot ass Souza, had just seen me, petite and miniscule Chloe Saunders, in her physical state of literally just rolling out of bed, complete with crazy hell hair and fabric- lined face.

I whipped around, removing my body blockade from the door, and jumped onto my tip-toes to steal a quick glance out the peephole, curious and mortified to gauge Derek's reaction to whatever had just happened in that entire cluster fuck.

He was leaning against the entry wall, as if no one had even answered the door yet and he was simply waiting to be greeted, his arms- his magnificent, sturdy arms- casually lose at his sides with his hands tucked away in the pockets of his dark washed jeans. His bright green eyes seemed distant as he looked out upon the neighborhood, surveying the area as he patiently waited. However, I could barely catch something lingering in their clouded and shielded depths. And I had a feeling that the oh-so small crooked smirk on his face gave it away.

Amusement.

My face burned an even deeper red from an evil mixture of humiliation and a seething desire to hit the guy for laughing at me- though my antics were logically insane, it didn't change the fact that he was judging me- again. I had to remind myself that, at a glance, Derek Souza was eye candy, but up close and personal, he was an arrogant asshole.

"Aren't you going to let him in, Chloe," Dad exclaimed from behind me as he entered the foyer. I yelped, another sound I'm not proud of making, and jumped away from the door. When I met my father's gaze- putting on my best poker face to hide my hurricane of emotions- his features were strewn with question and concern. I bent my brows in confusion and glanced between him, the door, and him again. His eyes that challenged my sanity tipped me off and the whole entire situation just clicked.

"Were you actually expecting him? He's not the guy you hired-"

"Of course I'm expecting him and he is the young man I hired to patch up the yard," Dad huffed, then strode past me to open the door himself, leaving me dumbfounded and rooted to the floor, mind barely even able to register his mumbled rant about 'Crazy teenagers.'

"Good morning Derek," Dad greeted politely with a rather large and warm smile on his face. I stared at Dad incredulously- for one, I was still trying to comprehend exactly what was going on and what this little turn of events meant for me and my summer while also avoiding Derek's gaze at all costs. Who knows what psychotic act I'll pull off next just by looking at him- and then, suddenly, I was glaring at him.

What the hell was he thinking?

"Mr. Saunders," I heard Derek rumble in that amazing, velvety deep voice of his, where I had to remind myself that the last time I had heard it, it was hissing angry and unjustified threats at me. I crossed my arms and pushed my weight onto one leg, deliberately keeping my eyes away from the two torturously disappointing men standing in the entryway. To anyone, my actions may come across as pouting, but that wasn't necessarily true. I was simmering.

"I'm glad you were able to come a little earlier than planned. I wanted to be able to run over exactly what I want done with you, though, I'm sure it won't seem all that difficult. I was very impressed by how well you've been taking care of your own yard that I couldn't pass up the opportunity to get that quality of work done myself. Isn't that right, Chloe?"

I mumbled something without much heart in it that sounded something like, "Sure, whatever."

"Well, yes," Dad continued. "Anyways, I just wanted to apologize for the last minute change of time. Like I said, I wanted to get in some inquiry before I have to catch my early flight-"

"What?" I interrupted, snapping out of my sulking demeanor. All thoughts of Derek's presence vanished and I cast my father a quizzical and confused glance. His flight was at noon, or, that's what he had told me the night before when he announced that he was leaving. When had he changed his flight time? Why had he changed his flight time? There was no longer a squirming sensation of disappointment in my gut, but something that stung from deep down in my chest.

He wasn't even going to spend the morning with me before he left on a trip this big?

"Right, sorry Chloe. I was going to mention that my flight has been changed when you woke up but-"

"Don't worry about it," I cut in. "Just caught me off guard is all, but now I know." I stared at my toes as I said this. Sure, I could lie, but I had never really been very good at it. Though, I don't think my father had ever noticed if I had lied to him in the past, and I doubt he was about to notice now.

And I was right. He shrugged it off and continued to discuss what he wanted from Derek as far as the yard went. I continued to stare at the floor, attempting in vain to cast everything, especially that struggling ache in my chest, out of my mind until I had the feeling of someone's gaze on me. I allowed myself to follow that instinct and looked up, only to meet gloriously frustrating and intense green eyes. His fix on me was puzzling, orbs clouded with observation and curiosity and- sympathy?

Before I could actually peg it, Derek looked away and I did the same, sure of the fact that I must now be imagining things in my state of mixed mentality.


An hour later, Dad was hauling several large suitcases down the stairs while I lounged on the kitchen counter and watched through the entry door that was left ajar. I wouldn't doubt that more than half his luggage was his actual work.

At this point, I felt fairly numb, mind more focused on that relentless ache that started to settle in my stomach as well as drum away at my chest. I didn't understand. I never could and possibly never would. Dad was a workaholic and there was no other explanation for it. But I could never fully comprehend why.

Sure, he took Mom's death pretty hard. We both did. But, we were left with each other. I had him and he had me.

But, was I not good enough to keep him here? Was I not good enough to take a chance and follow through with it? Was I not good enough to make up some of that void that was produced by my mother's passing?

Was I not good enough for him at all?

"Looks like he's packing for a long trip," Derek said from beside me. I would have been lying if I claimed that I had almost forgotten that he had just came inside after studying our yard and his future project not five minutes ago. And I would be lying even more if I hadn't been painfully- physically and mentally- aware of his presence since then.

This small sense of attraction I felt towards Derek needed to be nicked in the bud as soon as possible. He was a jerk. And if there was anything I had learned from enduring my life with my Dad-

"Yeah." I whispered. "Around here, things just don't change."

With that said, I slid off the counter, trudged past Dad without a second glance, stormed up the stairs to my bedroom and slammed the door.

Even when I knew I was out of Derek's sight, I could still feel his eyes on me.