For a moment, I feel bad, like he doesn’t trust me enough or that I won’t understand, but then I think about how I feel when I have to do any kind of artwork at school. “Maybe he’s embarrassed.”

She nods vigorously, casting a shadow on the wall. “Artsy people can be funny about that stuff. My aunt Simone makes pottery, and she gets real touchy about people going into her studio or seeing any of her work before it’s done.”

“That makes sense.” And then after a moment, I say what I’m scared to even think. “But what if he felt like he couldn’t paint when we all lived together? Like, what if he’s just now painting because it’s like he’s free of me and Mom? He can finally be the person he’s always wanted to be.”

Kiera rolls over to face me. “I don’t know, Sweet Pea, but if that’s true, I think that’s his problem and not yours.”

I want to believe her and for that to be true, but I can’t help but think of the voice mail I deleted today and all the big plans it sounds like Dad has. Maybe that’s all he needed. Space from Mom. From us. And now he can do and be all the things he always dreamed of. Without us. Without me.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Common Ground

The next morning is wet and gray, and Mr. Bryant picks up Kiera after his bowling league. When Dad spots his truck from the kitchen, he turns to me and says, “Sweet Pea, why don’t you take the umbrella and walk Kiera out to her dad’s truck so he doesn’t have to get out in this weather?”

“Sure thing, Dad.” I slip on my sneakers and am careful not to open the umbrella inside (bad luck and all that). Kiera and I don’t have to say it out loud to know that Dad sending us out here by ourselves has nothing to do with not making Mr. Bryant trudge up the walkway in the rain.

“I had a good time,” Kiera tells me.

Her dad reaches across the truck to open her door. The rain is coming sideways now. Part of me wants to double-check that she really did have fun and that she’s sure she wants to be friends again. But my butt is already soaked from the rain, so I just say, “Me too.”

Mr. Bryant gives me a short wave and a nod, and in a gravelly voice says, “Nice to see you, Sweet Pea.”

I run back inside and splash through the big puddle before the front door, because even if Mr. Bryant is a royal jerk, I’m still in a great mood.

On Sunday night, after I finish up my homework, I sneak out while Dad is cooking dinner to package up Miss Flora Mae’s new letters.

As I skip through the living room around to the back to water the plants, I wave in the general direction of the mantel. “Hey there, Bette Davis!”