I went upstairs and knocked on Kaylee’s door.
“Come in.”
She was lying on her bed with her shoes still on, which she knows I hate. Staring up at the ceiling fan.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” I said.
“Good,” she said. “Because I don’t want to.”
I sat down on the edge of her bed.
Her room smells like the vanilla body spray every girl in her class wears. And like the knee pads she keeps forgetting to air out.
I didn’t mention the knee pads.
After a while, she said, “He’s not wrong, you know. He’s not my real dad.”
She stared at the fan going around.
“I just thought, I don’t know. I thought it didn’t matter anymore.”
“It doesn’t,” I said.
“Apparently it does to him.”
I put my hand on her ankle.
She let me leave it there.
