“Because after the rumors died down, I didn’t think it mattered. People seemed to forget. Until your dad died, and they started talking again. But then, there was no way I was going to ask you if he’d been arrested. I wasn’t raised to speak ill of the dead, Beck.”

That’s fair. Jake didn’t do anything wrong. So why am I so mad at him?

This feels like the cosmic version of having spinach stuck in your teeth. Wherein spinach is a father who may or may not have been arrested for stealing a prescription pad and forging prescriptions. Or stealing actual drugs. But who was definitely in rehab at least once, and who definitely died of an overdose of alcohol and painkillers.

Why would no one tell me I had cosmic spinach in my teeth? Why would no one give me a chance to find out for myself whether or not my father was the man I believed him to be?

“It doesn’t matter, Beck.”

Jake’s voice is soft in my ear. So soft that he could be here with me. Curled up around me, with my back resting against his chest, while he leans against my headboard. And suddenly I want that so badly.

“It doesn’t matter whether any of the rest of that shit is true. Even if it is, that isn’t who he was to you. He was the man who taught you to tie your shoes and sing the alphabet song. The man who came back from Afghanistan with a tiny hourglass filled with sand on a silver chain, so that the next time he was in the desert, you would have a little bit of that same desert to keep near your heart.”

I’d forgotten I told him about that.

“He was your dad, even if he was someone else’s criminal. Don’t take that away from him when he isn’t here to defend himself.”

I don’t know where the sob comes from. One minute, I’m remembering that I had a very similar thought half an hour ago, in Amira’s car. The next, I’m crying. And I don’t know why.

God, I wish Jake were here right now. Almost as badly as I wish my father were here.

“Hey! You okay?” His bedsprings creak again, and I know he’s sitting up. “Beckett?”

I sniffle and wipe my eyes. “I’m fine. Sorry.”

When is this going to get easier? When will it not hurt to think about him?

“Can I come over?”

Yes. God, yes, come over and hold me.

“No.” The word burns my tongue, but I say it anyway.

“You’re upset. I just … I want to help you. I want to be there with you.” He sucks in a deep breath, and the rest comes out like a confession. “I miss you, Beck.”